“Books lie,” he snaps.
I stiffen. “No, they don’t. Especially not the Book of Disciplines.” Which predates Alanna’s reign by untold centuries, yes, but Aethrolian historians wouldn’t lead me astray any more than Ishanna would. What would be the point?
“Ah, yes.” Sarcasm saturates his tone. “Your precious Book of Disciplines. No liesthere, of course.”
Myprecious Book? A retort springs to my tongue, but I grind my jaw to keep it locked behind my teeth. The topic of religion will only make me hate this surly fae even more, so I steer the conversation back into surer waters. “You’re responsible for the war, and you can’t convince me otherwise. If Alanna cursed you beforehand, it was because you deserved it.”
His dead stare drills a hole into me. “Did I.” Not a question, but a flat accusation.
“Yes. She came through the Wildwood in friendship, and you brutalized her. You brutalized anentire people. I don’t know how you can live with yourself, knowing how many humans you must’ve killed during the war.”
“Oh, many.” His teeth flash. “More than you can count.”
A wave of revulsion batters at my throat. I know the war played out long before I was born, that I’ll never know any of Amriel’s victims. But their descendants are people I live with every day, people I respect. This man’s violence shaped Aethrolian history, and its implications echo across generations.
“Then you’re a monster,” I spit. “A murderer.”
“Yes,” he tosses back. “And I’m also your mate. Fate has seen fit to tie us together, or maybe it was that goddess of yours, so what does that say about her? Aboutyou?”
The words cut deep, like hot blades dragged through my stomach. Iglare, but now that his scent is no longer drugging me, I can think. Enough to formulate a response, at least. “What itsaysis that Aethrolia has been under your thumb for long enough. That it’s time to end the Claiming, and I should be the one to do it. Because Ishanna knows I’ll never like you. I’ll never want you. My goddess can rely on me to resist your…pull, or whatever you call it. To go into the Wildwood and break your stupid hourglass and go home and never think about you again, not even once.”
I hurl the last few words on the tail end of a breath, my chest heaving. Amriel stares at me in silence while something kindles in his eyes. A glimmer of interest, maybe, or respect, but…no. It’s already gone.
Slowly, he sets aside his wine and leans across the desk, his elbows taking his weight. “You have some fire in you, then.”
“Sure. I guess. If that’s what you want to call it.”
His scrutiny trails over me. Only this time, I don’t have the sense that he’s seeing me as a woman. More as a possibility. As someone who might deliver his freedom.
“You might actually have a chance out there,” he muses.
My chest constricts, as if trying to gather his words and hold them within. Iwillhave a chance. Not because of any internal fire, but because of Ishanna. Because, as Amriel has just reminded me, the goddesschoseme for this. She brought me here for a reason.
“I might,” I say.
He surveys me again before sitting back. “Then let’s discuss how the Wildwood works. The curse.”
I chew on that for a beat, then nod. There’s no sense in fighting about Alanna, or events that transpired centuries ago. Amriel will never admit to his wrongdoing, and the sooner he tells me about the forest, the sooner I can go home. The sooner I can return to Aethrolia, where I’ll never have to deal with the fae again. “All right.”
“Come here, then. Eat your lunch, and I’ll tell you everything.”
I hesitate. Drawing close to him will inevitably obliterate some fragment of my senses. But I don’t want him to see my reticence, so I drag the chair from the windows to his desk, setting it across from him and sinking into it. That done, I open the sack Rhialla gave me andwithdraw the first thing my fingers touch—some kind of flaky pastry wrapped around a strip of meat, then baked to perfection.
Amriel reclines in his seat, his fingers laced across his stomach. “So. You’ve seen the hourglass in my courtyard. And my Shadow has already told you its sands will only fall once you enter the Wildwood.”
I frown, the meat pastry halfway to my mouth. How does he know aboutthatconversation? Does the Shadow report back every time we speak?
“Those are the basics,” Amriel continues, “but there’s more. Alanna crafted her curse with care, because she wanted you to fail. She hoped to punish me twice—not only with a curse that would become permanent, but with the eventual loss of my mate. Meaning the task she’s set for you is nearly impossible. But lucky for you, I’ve had two hundred years to prepare for this. Two hundred years to eke out any advantage I can.”
“Okay.” I stuff the pastry into my mouth, then pause, because…my goddess, it’s delicious. Buttery flavors explode on my tongue, balanced by a masterful blend of herbs. I chew and swallow hurriedly, trying to rid myself of the distraction. “What kinds of advantages?”
Amriel sucks at his teeth, then twists in his chair. He selects a few objects from the cupboard behind him and places them before me.
I lean in for a better look. First is a crystal orb, circled by woven netting. Its mesh narrows into two straps, both capped by delicate buckles, as if I’m meant to fasten the thing to my wrist. Next is a wayfarer’s gyre, or some version of it, only this one is smaller, with six rings surrounding the gears at its center. And lastly, a glass vial, filled with some kind of honeyed liquid that swirls in the light.
I study each item but can’t hazard a guess as to their purposes. “What do these do?”
Amriel sniffs. “Different things. But they share one thing in common. They all run on a minimum of magic.”
