Chapter Twelve
My day is free from lessons, but there’s little for me to do at Luthian’s home. Grand as it is, it offers little in the way of diversion. There are books, of course, but they’re written in fae languages I can’t understand. Even if I could read them, I would have to do so standing up; my backside is too sore for sitting. The ancient housekeeper offers to give me chores if it will prevent me from straying into her line of sight, so I opt instead to walk in the gardens.
I’m not certain where we are. I know I’m in Fablemere; the stars outside my windows at night are in their familiar constellations. Perhaps Luthian lives in the Springlands; the balmy weather and cheerful blooms on the hedges support that theory. I can rule out the Sorrowlands, where nothing grows and the sky is stained red. I suppose we could be near Lua, across The Divide. But we are far from my home in Grimm. Winter still held the land in its rainy grasp when I left there.
The garden is endless to my eye, tier after tier of fountains, hedges, and paths descending in slices toward an impossible horizon. I carefully note how far I walk, for I’ll have to return. There is no chance I’ll make it to the end, and even less that I would be able to make it all the way back.
So, I amuse myself by skipping stones in a basin of fish that leap with excitement at every ripple, their bodies painted in piebald spots of purple and green and creamy pearl. I smell the flowers, then pick some, winding stems and grass and blooms into a girlish crown for my hair. I’m lying on the grass, nearly napping in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, when a whisper of breeze and the tinkling of bells disturbs me.
Firo rides on a palanquin, his bandaged feet elevated before him. It appears his conveyance hovers in the air, but a shimmering, pale blue outlines the four sylphs that bear him; it’s their language I heard floating on the air.
“Here,” he commands them, and they sink to deposit the chair on the grass very near me before he waves his hand, dissipating them.
I’m unsure of what to do. I haven’t been forbidden to speak to him, but I don’t wish to. He’s Luthian’s student, as I am, but I feel no kinship toward him. It startles me to realize that I’m competitive; even when Cadwyn Thrace entered my mother’s life and stole her attention from me, I felt my place in her heart was secure. But this situation, my deal with Luthian, the esteem with which he holds me, seems not only threatened by Firo’s mere existence, but robbed of something I am innately entitled to.
Such emotions make humans ugly, I know. I try to banish them, but it’s difficult. Firo is a faery. He has powers that I do not, allure that I cannot match. I don’t want him to be Luthian’s pupil. I want to hold that position—and my Guardian’s attention—alone.
“I thought faeries could heal themselves,” I say with a sniff, covering my eyes with my forearm and lying back.
“We can. Luthian has forbidden it.” Maddeningly, Firo seems unafflicted by the sickness of envy; his voice is cheerful and friendly.
I do not wish to be friends. “Why?”
“He says I won’t learn obedience without consequence. That I should be more accepting of pain. Like you.”
I push myself up. “Why are you speaking about me outside of my presence? I won’t be the subject of gossip.”
“You were the subject of praise, gentle lady.” He smiles, and it is charming. Infuriatingly charming.
I sit up fully and arrange the skirts of my poofy white linen day dress around myself modestly. It’s ridiculous, I know, considering what I’ve done to him and what he’s seen me do with Luthian.
I chide myself for resorting to such posturing when it matters so little.
“You don’t like me,” Firo says, still smiling.
“I have no opinion of you. You’re simply a student of Luthian’s, as I am.” I brush a small beetle from my sleeve.
“A student. Nothing more,” Firo says pointedly. “There is nothing to fear from my presence.”
My jaw drops. “You’ve mistaken my intent here.”
“I beg ever so many pardons. I assumed you carried some romantic feeling for our teacher, and therefore disliked me out of a lover’s jealousy.” He fixes me with a teasing stare, challenging me to deny it.
And I can deny it because he’s wrong. “If I perceive you as a threat, it is only because my purpose here is so great. I stand to lose much if I’m not successful.”
“Do you believe I’m here out of curiosity, then? Nothing to gain from my presence?” he asks mildly.
“Your reason for being here is none of my concern.” And yet, I’m curious. Greatly so. I do so desperately want to know what kind of deal Firo has made with Luthian, and if it has anything in common with mine. Instead, I ask him, “Why this ridiculous palanquin? Why not simply fly?”
“Because my wings are also healing,” he says, spreading his hands. “And Luthian has told me that I lack in style. I thought he would approve of my choice of transport.”
I can’t help the smile that touches the corners of my mouth. “Style does seem to be a primary concern.”
“I’m learning. Where I’m from, there isn’t much use for it. Impractical, you see.”
“And where are you from?” I ask.
“The Court of Time and Destiny.” He holds up one hand and points to a signet I don’t recognize. “I’m to be an ambassador to the Court of Pleasure and Torment.”
“Ah. You need to learn the customs and ways.” I nod in understanding. “I confess, I’m not familiar with the faery courts. Only the Court of Seasons, and the one we’re training for.”
“And why are you training for it?” he asks.
My tongue pauses at the roof of my mouth. I would have revealed the entire plan, anyway, but I recognize how very careful I must be in speaking to a future ambassador to the court. “My mother was a faery.”
“Was?” he interjects with a frown.
Faeries, I know, often forget that immortality and invulnerability aren’t interchangeable. While the ravages of time never touch them—thanks in part to the magic of the very court from whence Firo hails—they can still die. Yet, free from the curse of age, the possibility of their own mortality slips their minds.
“She was poisoned. By Cadwyn Thrace.” I don’t realize that I hoped for a flicker of recognition at the name until none comes. “He’s a faery. He doesn’t live at a court, but perhaps—”
Firo shakes his head. “I’m terribly sorry for your mother’s death, but that name means nothing. Still, tell me why tragedy has brought you here.”
“Luthian is my faery guardian. He granted the wish that resulted in my birth.” That’s safe enough to tell, I think.
“So, you’re here out of obligation?” Firo is incredulous.
How much more can I reveal? “In a sense. I’m human but raised by faeries. I have no living family, having sprouted from a wish. I have none of the magical ability that made my mother an asset to the Court of Seasons, and no prospects among humans. But at the Court of Pleasure and Torment, I’ll have value. I’ll be desired and, hopefully, I’ll earn a place there.”
This answer seems to satisfy Firo. “Oh, they’ll desire you. You were magnificent yesterday.”
My face flushes hot and I look away. “I’m sorry. For the things I did to you. I know you didn’t want them.”
“I’m here of my free will,” he says with a shrug. “And I learned from you.”
It’s not praise or flattery, but a statement of fact. And it makes jealousy’s grip loosen a bit. I turn my face to the sky, relishing the sun, and ask, “Where are we? The Springlands?”
“Fellmoor,” he says. “The south. About a day’s ride from Siren’s Call.”
“I don’t know where that is. I’ve had no formal lessons. My mother attempted to teach me, but she abhorred books. If it couldn’t be learned from sinking my hands into the dirt, I didn’t need to know it.” I laugh fondly.
It’s the first time her memory hasn’t pricked at me like Luthian’s diabolical thorn vines. I’m shocked into silence.
“It is like a faery, isn’t it?” Firo muses to himself. “No matter. You won’t be asked to draw any maps at court.”
“No, I dare say my mind will not be what ensures my future.” I snort derisively, a cold feeling settling into the pit of my stomach. I don’t think of myself as particularly brilliant, and I’m certainly no conversationalist, having spent most of my life in the company of only my mother. It would be nice, though, to think that I could be valued for more than my beauty and Luthian’s teachings.
It would be nice, I think, for someone like Firo to believe I have such value.
“May I tell you a secret?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Secrets are currency among the courts. Are you so sure you wish to spend one of yours on me?”
I don’t see the harm, especially as he didn’t recognize the name of my enemy. “Cadwyn Thrace, the faery that killed my mother… I’m going to the court to seek my revenge.”
Firo tilts his head. “Go on.”
“My hope is to make powerful connections.” No need to tell him how powerful. “Then, when I have the means, I’ll destroy him.”
A smile widens Firo’s mouth. “You’re far more interesting now. Although, I wouldn’t mention your plan to anyone. Faeries don’t like to be manipulated. Especially by a human. And you never know what kind of allies a faery, even a solitary one, may have.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” And I’ll wonder endlessly if I should have told this to Firo.
“Humans can have allies, too, of course,” he says, lifting his face to the sun and blinking at the light.
“Are you suggesting that you might be mine?”
“That, lovely Cenere,” he says, looking to me with a lop-sided grin, “is not impossible.”