Chapter 7
The cadence of the princess’s voice echoes in my ear long after I leave the ballroom. Rahk was right—she is terrified. My gut twists. I want to talk to her, plainly and openly, without that wretched veil. It doesn’t matter if she’s disfigured or uncomely.
If I’m honest, however, the reason I want to talk to her is that I want her to somehow ease the guilt that slides down my spine at the memory of Calver’s slaughter. And all the others before him. But she cannot ease my regret. It is not for her to bear or soothe. It is my burden alone.
There’s still so little of her for me to base any opinion upon. She reminds me of a soft, downy gray dove that warbles and shudders when held. A thing of sweetness and innocence.
But just for a moment there, I saw a part of her—the true Isabelle Louise.
Do you intend to kill me, Your Highness?
Beneath the trembling and quiet, there’s something sharp and spirited. Something that she suppresses—something that spineless man she calls Father and those prattling wenches she calls sisters suppress in her. Will I ever see the real girl beneath the veil? Or will she be ripped from my grasp too soon?
This time tomorrow, she will be my wife.
And I know next to nothing about her.
It had never mattered, not in theory, not when I scribbled down my plans and watched those same plans burn in my furnace. I needed a human wife—and a royal, to abide by the terms of my bargain. She was merely an idea on a page, a figment of my imagination.
But now there is a young woman about to pledge her life to me. A woman I took into my arms and danced with, a woman whose cold little fingers I held.
“You’ve left us again,” says Rahk.
I look up. Edvear and Rahk joined me the moment I left the ballroom, but I forgot to acknowledge them. We’re at my quarters now. I force my mouth to twist. But suddenly, I don’t want to walk into that room with them. I don’t want to listen to them talk and speculate.
“You go on ahead. I’ll be in shortly,” I say, and stride on past them, ignoring Edvear’s protest.
I walk the length of the hallway, waiting until the door closes behind Edvear, and Rahk goes to his own room. Then I circle back, cast a quick spell to disguise my steps and smell, so Rahk’s stupid nose doesn’t detect me. Such a thing would normally be second nature to me, but here in the dull, lifeless human air, it’s very uncomfortable, like an ear popping at high altitudes.
The farther I move, the more I wonder how this kingdom hasn’t fallen already. Even the tiny bit of magic I manage is more than enough to slip the guards as I retrace my steps to the ballroom.
The hallway has grown darker. It gives me the impression of a dungeon, with how close the walls and ceiling are compared to the bright openness of the High King’s palace. My skin crawls from the underlying scent of dust and decay beneath even the most decadent whiff of perfume. The sound of chaos filters in through the closed ballroom doors ahead of me. Is she still in there? Would I scandalize her if I tried to speak to her alone? Rumor has it that humans are very strict about their decorum.
The door opens, and I slip into the shadow of a window curtain. A twist of my finger draws the shadows deeper around me. I wince. The negotiations tomorrow had better go well, because I do not want to stay in this stifling and stagnant world a moment longer than I must.
My efforts are rewarded. Two veiled princesses slip out of the door, arm in arm, and hurry down the hallway. The one on the right, closest to me, is her. Even if I couldn’t tell the color of dress she was wearing, her scent and posture are indicative enough of her identity.
“Are you alright?” asks the sister.
Isabelle Louise gives a nod, but her knuckles are white on her sister’s elbow. “Of course.”
The human ability to lie so boldly and without consequence never ceases to amaze me.
“You don’t have to do it. I can talk to Father. You can refuse. Oh! I know. I’ll tell the maids not to hem your gown, and then you’ll trip walking down the aisle—and then he’ll be so disgusted he’ll leave. It’ll solve all of our problems.”
A solid plan. Nothing disgusts me more than women who trip.
“I will marry him,” comes Isabelle’s quiet but firm response. “I have one duty. I will fulfill it. Our people need this.”
There’s resignation in her tone, as if she is walking to her own pyre.
I shouldn’t be listening to this, but I cannot help myself. I cannot tear myself away from the shadows as she walks past, cannot stop up my ears as the sister protests.
“There are other alliances—”
“Like Prince Brochfael?” Something about the way she says it suggests this Brochfael fellow—though I cannot help but pity a man with such a name—is even less desirable than a fae. The sister drops the point immediately.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to King Ilbert. He should have been your husband. I didn’t think he would like me—”
“I want you to be happy with him. I am glad he will be good to you,” Isabelle says, and there’s a subtle fierceness underlying her words. “Do not try to convince me not to marry Prince Trenian. He is fae, but that doesn’t make him a monster. I’m sure I will be quite content at his side.”
Her words slice right between my ribs. She has no idea how wrong she is.
“But—but—”
“But what?”
“What about . . .”
“What?”
“Tomorrow night? Aren’t you scared?”
My eyes widen, and if I had been intending on leaving, I certainly can’t leave now. Not until I hear her answer.
She’s quiet for some minutes, and when she finally speaks, I strain to hear.
“I will fulfill my duty.”
My chest rises and falls with a deep breath. Why does it suddenly feel so hot in this palace? Perhaps I ought to take refuge in the gardens. It’ll be cooler there.
But I stay rooted to the spot as Isabelle Louise and her sister turn the corner and vanish from my view. I blink once, twice, thrice. Then something hot coils around my heart. A fierce determination that shoots through my body, radiating out from my core to the tips of my toes and fingers.
I will be good to her.
I will swear it on any name. As long as she lives, my wife will want for nothing. I will repay her for her sacrifice. Anything that is within my power to grant, I will give—and then more.
She will have whatever she wants. I only hope she lives long enough to enjoy it.
Negotiations start early the next morning. I leave one of my warriors in charge of my entourage to ensure they do not leave their rooms unsupervised and wreak havoc on the human palace. Then I take Rahk and Edvear with me into the council room.
It’s larger than I expect, with the same low ceiling as much of the rest of the place. So dark and depressing. If there’s a window anywhere, it’s hidden behind the carpets hanging on the wall. A large oak table fills the center of the room, covered in candles with rows of fresh parchment, a trimmed quill, inkpot, and wax for a seal.
There are some dozen men beside the king, hiding behind the table like it’s a buttress, and I lift a brow.
“King can’t make a decision on his own?” Edvear mutters under his breath. His long ear twitches like a horse’s when a fly buzzes too close.
I agree, but don’t respond.
The king comes to greet me and reaches out his hand. “Welcome. We are honored.”
Something about the way he says it strikes me as humorously ridiculous. I manage to contain my reaction to a grin as I say, “The honor is all mine, King Roland.”
A few of the humans have the decency to look uneasy. Good. Last night, I might have been the fawning suitor, but today, I am the future High King of Faerieland. My grin slides into something colder and calculating.
“Would you have a seat?” Roland asks, and gestures for one of the servants standing on the wall to bring me a drink.
I lift my hand to stay him. “Why don’t we skip the pleasantries?”
Roland glances at me, hesitancy written in every line of his face.
“I wish to marry your daughter, Princess Isabelle Louise. In exchange for her hand, I offer my promise of safety for your lands once I am High King. I will not only cease the encroachment of our borders on your land, but I will restore that which has already been taken.”
Stillness washes over the crowd. They didn’t think I’d make such a handsome offer, did they? My lips twist.
“How long until you are High King?” asks one of the presumed advisors. One with a beard like a goat’s. “How do we know you won’t honor your promise hundreds of years from now, when our lands are completely swallowed up?”
Part of me is relieved they’re not entirely idiots. Another part wants to groan inwardly. I have no desire to be here all day, and I’m starting to get a sense from the room that the king doesn’t intend to hand over his daughter easily.
He must show some reluctance, or else he has no power.
“I will be crowned within the year,” I say, and the lie rolls off my tongue and fills the room with iron-stink. Rahk struggles to keep his face from wrinkling, but his nose wriggle gives him away. Edvear fares better, but his face has a line of sourness about it.
The humans don’t react. They don’t even notice.
It’s a lie because, as much as I intend to be on the throne within the year, it is no guarantee yet. But I cannot show any hesitancy, and since there are no fae in this room besides my trusted two, it is worth it for me to taste sourness on my tongue for the next few minutes.
I retract my refusal and accept the servant’s goblet of wine, but never once do my eyes leave the king’s. “Once I have taken the princess as my wife, you will relinquish all ties and claims to her as your daughter.” This is the part I do not want to say, but I must make it part of the terms. Otherwise, I might have another fae-human disaster war on my hands. “Faerie is a dangerous place for humans. You will promise not to retaliate should harm befall your daughter.”
“Not retaliate?” Roland bursts out suddenly. “What plans have you for my daughter? Will she not be protected?”
“She will be under my protection.”
“You guarantee her safety, then.”
I draw in a breath through my teeth, then say the words levelly. “I do not.”
The room goes still. Only Rahk doesn’t flinch, standing solidly at my back.
I stare evenly at the king. This is the one part of my plan that I detest with all my soul. The simple fact that Faerie is not only a dangerous place for humans—it is not a place for humans at all.
Humans die there. Many at the High King’s hand.
Isabelle Louise is a human. There is no telling how long she will last, but when her time doubtlessly comes to an end, I will watch her die.
And I will hate myself for bringing her there.
The tattoo on my wrist burns as if freshly seared. An ever-present reminder that there is no going back now. There is no retreat. There is only forward. I set my jaw in a determined line and face the father of the girl whose death I will solidify.
“Then you may not have her,” says Roland.
I’m actually surprised. This human is improving on me. I’m glad he will put up at least some semblance of a fight for his daughter’s safety. But they need this marriage as much as I do. In the end, he will cave.
“Then you will not have my promise of safety and peace for your lands,” I say coolly. “My father is greedy to expand his borders. He moves slowly now, testing the waters, but he thirsts for blood. Who will protect your daughter when he declares war? Will she be safe then?”
Roland says nothing, and his advisors glance uneasily among themselves.
I retract my improved opinion of the king. He’s as spineless as I first thought.
When the silence continues, I press onward. “This is what I will give your daughter. I will take her as my wife, and so long as she lives, I will take no other. I will protect her, so that if anyone raises a hand against her, I will sever that hand and affix it to my wall, and should anyone make an attempt on her life, I will remove their head and give it as a toy to the fauns.”
The uneasiness turns to blankness. Confusion.
Maybe I’m not getting as far as I thought. I’ve always heard stories of humans being greedy, but I’ve never seen it quite to this extent. It’s time to pull out my trump card.
I lower my voice. “I will even give her a strand of my hair.”
“No one wants your hair!” bursts the king. “I want the assurance that my daughter will be cared for, respected, and protected as your bride. I want you to honor her.”
I frown. It occurs to me that he might not understand my hair offer. The things people in Faerieland will do for a strand of my hair! And it’s just blown off here with a sweep of the hand!
“Of course I will do those things,” I say, still frowning. Is he afraid I will go to all this trouble to get a human bride and then just toss her aside for the unseelie to eat? I think I’m offended.
“Then in that case . . .” Roland glances back at his advisors, then returns his gaze to me. “I accept your terms. We will have an official treaty written up for you to sign before the wedding.”
I cannot contain the small curl of smug satisfaction that escapes my composure. I didn’t think it would take much to make him capitulate. I’m mainly glad I didn’t have to sit here all day, arguing against his pretense of caring for his daughter, when clearly he views her as little more than bargaining material.
“Thank heavens,” I say. “I was about to pack up and go find a different bride.”