Chapter 13
13
I wait in my room until the dead of night.
With the numbers on my iPhone clock into the three-digits, I get very sleepy. Nobody who’s ever waited years for the next installment in their favorite epic fantasy series surrenders to sleepiness, however. Just like I knocked out the entire second half of The Risen Court in one night, I endure with the help of a can of espresso from the student store while rereading my favorite chapters. Whenever I need to use the bathroom, I diligently descend the stairs to avoid another run-in with Scott.
I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the evening. I ended up having fun at dinner—I focused on Laurel and Brit, and we wound up eating with a couple who flew out from California, Michael and Alec.
It helped to be around other people. I haven’t just felt hurt the past couple of days. I’ve felt unmoored. It’s hard not to—like I’ve just wasted six months of my life and have to start all over again. Like I’m returning home to harsh reality after half a year of…
Well, fantasy can hurt as well as help, I suppose. It’s perilously hard to know when fantasy is just another word for false hope.
Laughing with my group, I reminded myself that romance isn’t everything. It’s not the endgame of life, even if it’s something I desperately yearn for. I focused on what I do have—community, fandom, friendship—which I’ll have when I leave here, no matter whether I win the date with Val.
Still…I really want to win that date.
In my room, I rehearse the clue, wanting the exact wording on hand in case I need to remember its intricacies. The Lord of Night cherishes me. Mounted with Glory. Watching over all. I wait until I no longer hear any sounds echoing in my dorm’s hallways. In the summer night, I don’t need to pull my Elytheum cloak over my shoulders.
Jittery with excitement and caffeine, I exit my suite and steal quietly down the four full flights of stairs into the dining hall. It’s entirely empty, the chairs pushed into the tables. The high ceiling looms overhead.
In the nighttime quiet, it feels like another Elytheum. One of secrets and shadow. One Amelia and the organizers wanted us to uncover on our own, I suspect. The candelabras are unlit. The landscapes in the paintings wait, unmoving. Alone in the dark, I lose myself in the hall’s elegant, ominous grandeur.
With only moonlight coming in the Gothic stained-glass windows to guide me, I navigate to the front of the room, where Val’s sword is mounted on the wall.
I click on my phone’s flashlight. Yes, the harsh white emitted by Jennifer Worth’s iPhone does upset the room’s perfect moodiness. I’ll return to enjoying the courtly vibes once I’ve figured out the clue.
The sword is magnificently detailed. Real, Hollywood-quality craftsmanship. Intricately woven leather covers the hilt grip. The scabbard is engraved with rose vines. The metal pommel glints in my phone’s light.
It’s gorgeous…and it yields nothing. I look the weapon up and down, inspecting for inlaid words, symbols, other directions or unusual features. I wrack my memory for Elytheum details or innovative approaches, like I’ve seen Jordan do with video-game puzzles. Alas, no ingenious solutions come to me. I was never much help in Legend of Zelda , either.
No, staring at the sword won’t be enough.
I don’t love the idea of messing with Amelia’s impeccable decorations. However…
If the sword is a clue, the Elytheum organizers knew we were going to investigate it. Right?
Resolute, I return my Elytheum-inconsistent phone to my pocket. Gently I lift the sword from the hooks holding it on the wall. Mounted with Glory . It comes easily—I know instantly it’s much too light to be a real weapon. I rotate the sword slowly in my hands. Nothing on the other side…
I unsheathe the sword from the scabbard. Dismayingly, no secret scroll slips out. Nothing is written on the sword itself.
My heart starts pounding with nervous discouragement. The clue is unambiguous. The Lord of Night is Val, his honorific. Mounted with glory, watching over…No matter how I ponder, strategize, and reorganize the words in my head, reflecting on the prop in my hands, I find no indication of another clue.
It’s…a dead end. I was wrong.
“I let very few people handle my sword, you know.”
The droll voice echoing from within the room startles me. Val ’s voice.
I jump, managing not to drop the aforementioned weapon. Whirling, I find him—Val—here in the hall with me.
He’s leaning against one of the tables, the moonlight perfectly painting him in blue.
How did he do that? Why is he even here?
Without my sword clue, I only have the West College clue. It’s very likely another more intrepid, intuitive Experience participant will outpace me and win the date. Which means here, right now, might be my only one-on-one time with Lord Valance of the Elytheum Courts.
I have to make it count. I have to know if Jordan was right—if what we had was all I can expect in life and romance, or if there’s something more out there.
I compose myself. Heroine time .
“I guess I’m one of the few, then,” I reply airily. “Lucky me.”
Val smirks. He actually smirks!
I can’t help noticing how ridiculously good he looks. No fae magic or demon incantation could match how captivated I am. Val is made of muscle, his impeccable costume emphasizing every contour. His hair falls rakishly loose, framing features like cut obsidian. His intense eyes watch me expectantly.
While I’m dying on the inside, he pushes up from the table. He walks over to me, his unhurried footsteps falling heavily in the darkness. Crossing his arms, he nods at the sword in my hands. “You must think little of me if you imagine there could be a clue on my own sword,” he chastens me.
I shrug, perfectly nonchalant. “I’m merely of the opinion,” I say, “that everything should be…thoroughly inspected.” I rake my eyes over Val, hardly recognizing myself.
He grins. “You’re good at this,” he remarks.
Stepping closer, he comes right up in front of me. It’s overwhelming, and validating. Deep down, I feel like I’m proving something to Jordan. And maybe to Scott, too. I am entitled to my romantic dreams, damnit.
“You are not, however,” Val continues, “finding a clue tonight.” He plucks the sword gently from my hands. Honestly, he could’ve lifted my phone or wallet and I would have handed them over to the dark power of his eyes. “I recommend sleep,” he comments.
I forget to be disappointed by his verdict on my scavenger hunting efforts. How could I, with my very favorite bookish dreams unfolding right in front of me?
His eyes don’t leave mine while he sheathes the saber. Did he see me shiver? How could he not? Does he know the warm weather could not possibly have induced the reaction? How could he not?
Gaze remaining on mine, he reaches behind me. The mass of him comes even closer to me, perilously close, while he gently hooks the sword where it rested on the wall with one hand. I exhale, then inhale. Just normal respiration. Like people do. Definitely not intentionally smelling the black-leather violet musk of him.
When he’s returned the sword, he eyes me one moment longer, and then turns and walks away.
I of course disintegrate into espresso-flavored mush. What my interaction with Val has reaffirmed is exactly why I’m here. Fantasy never disappoints. It was exactly everything I ever imagined it would feel like. It was amazing. I can’t even speak as Val strides away, heading for the shadows.
I know it’s not real—I know it’s not Lord Valance of Elytheum, fae warrior and smoldering, swaggering consort to the Queen. I know the man portraying Val probably has nothing in common with his persona, either. He’s an actor. He’s playing precisely the part designed for readers like me, and he won’t cross lines of professionalism.
Nevertheless—the feelings I have are real. Why not? What’s wrong with a real crush on a fictional personage? How is it different from a crush on a celebrity or a stranger?
It isn’t. And it feels wonderful. I’m not embarrassed to flirt or daydream. I’m not afraid of what he’s going to say, how he’s going to reject me, or find me quiet or uninteresting or annoying or obsessive or everything I worry about in ordinary life. I feel accepted, and acceptance gives me the courage to be my truest self—who, I’m finding, is bold and sharp-witted.
I like her. I like me .
Inspired, I call out to Val, who’s nearly reached the doorway to the dining hall. “I know you can’t respond,” I start. Val pauses in the archway, facing the shadowy corridor. “I just wanted to say…whoever you really are, you’re doing an incredible job,” I say, speaking from the heart. “I really appreciate it.”
He sends me a quick smile when he looks up. Not a smirk—a smile.
The next moment, the familiar curtain of my favorite character falls over him. Val watches me from the darkened hallway.
“You have a kind heart as well as a courageous one,” he comments. “Like another woman I know. Which is why I’m going to offer you a word of advice.”
My excitement flags. Insecurity rushes over me. It’s never far from even my fantasy version of myself, I guess. Advice? Remember, none of this is real . I know. I know, Scott.
Instead, Val eyes me with his usual gravitas. “If you’re intent on hunting for secrets, I’ve learned the Queen may have something planned in commemoration of my birthday,” he confesses, with character-consistent reluctance. “I would recommend you participate in her efforts,” he concludes indicatively, peering out from the shadows and holding my gaze.
I need a moment to understand what he’s really saying. If you’re intent on hunting for secrets …Clues.
Val’s not criticizing me. He’s…helping me!
I straighten up, flush with delight. “I thank you for your valuable information,” I say.
Val nods once in perfectly cool acknowledgment. He starts to leave.
“Oh, and”—I grin—“happy birthday, my lord.”
Val rolls his eyes in the impatient, pleased way he’s described as doing with Kethryn, and then disappears into the shadows.
It is perfection.