Chapter 37
It isn’t Hylath who helps me bathe and dress. It’s a human woman, in her forties judging by the light lines of aging around her nose and lashes, who readies me while Ash works. I meant no offense to my new maid, but I nearly broke down at the reminder of what Hylath has just suffered. After Ash and I discussed the plans—which sounded alarmingly risky to me—I’d asked him to tell me what happened while I was sick. Now, as I step out of the tub into the towel held out by the new woman, my fingers and toes tingle.
Magic?
I don’t feel particularly different than I did before all this. Perhaps a little taller, a little stronger, a little bolder. But I’m still . . . me. I would have expected magic to feel like an electric buzz through my body. Something exploding from my hands into the ether. When the woman turns her back to me, I twist my wrist, flick my fingers, like I’ve seen Ash do. Nothing happens.
He’d looked so hopeful when he’d told me that since I’ve pulled out of the sickness, I should have magic now. My life expectancy should be much longer.
Should be.
The woman helps me dress without a word. She doesn’t call Ash to dry my hair but towels it until it’s dry enough to style and pulls it back into a bun. I understand now why Ash tries so hard not to love; I barely find it in myself to ask the new woman’s name for fear that as soon as I get attached to her, she’ll be gone, too. But I don’t want to live like that, so I force myself to ask. Her name is Dorthea Burton, called Dottie by most.
Apparently, while I was ill, the tailor stopped by with the rest of my dresses. All except the ballgown for the Lulythinar masquerade.
This dress is a light rose color, with long flowing sleeves and an off-the-shoulder neckline lined with what almost seems to be real roses. The skirts billow out from a tapered waist in the pattern of petals, with a sheer top layer lending shimmer to the ensemble.
It isn’t practical for spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in Ash’s quarters. It’s suitable for an evening banquet—and another visit to the throne room. I draw in a deep, shuddering breath, then level a look at my reflection.
I won’t be afraid of the High King. Not anymore.
Or, at least, I’ll be less afraid than I was before.
Dottie opens the door for me, and I’m so focused on dragging my skirts through the narrow space that I don’t realize until I look up that Ash is standing a few feet away.
His gaze runs over me, then glances at Dottie closing the door. Where I might have hoped for warmth or a brightening of admiration, his expression remains closed and grim. As though he’s reminded of his grief for Hylath, and perhaps dreading what we’re about to do.
He gives me a rueful smile anyway when his eyes lift from taking in my dress. “You are lovely, my darling.” He reaches out, catches my hand, and presses a kiss to the backs of my knuckles. With his mouth still against my skin, he lifts his gaze to mine, his vibrant eyes a stormy shade of dark ocean.
My breath catches, but not pleasantly. I don’t want to be afraid. So why can’t I keep the tiny tremble from raking down my arm?
His fingers tighten on mine. “You have nothing to fear at my side.”
A sharp, overwhelming tang fills my nostrils—cold and metallic and vastly unpleasant. Not knowing what else to do, I burst into a coughing fit, yanking away from Ash and pressing the sleeve of my gown over my nose and mouth.
“Stella? Are you alright?” he asks, suddenly at my back, hands on my bowed shoulders as I keep coughing, my eyes watering.
I nod vigorously, taking deep breaths through the fabric of my gown. “It’s nothing,” I choke. “I think it’s merely some residual cough from my illness.”
“Sanak! A glass of water, please!” he calls.
My mind reels as I pull myself back under composure. Ash . . . just lied to me. And I could smell it! Goodness gracious, how does anyone keep a straight face with that repugnant stench cloying in their nostrils? When the servant comes running with the glass of water, I drink it down greedily.
Ash just lied to me. He lied to me.
It was to comfort me, to ease my worry—but it was still a lie. Perhaps the most terrifying thing of all is not that I’m safe at his side, but that he would want me to believe that it is so.
Suddenly, I’m very glad I lied right back about the cause of my sudden coughing fit. A lie that didn’t have any taste to me and earned no reaction from him.
Does this mean I can smell fae lies, but my own have no stench, no flavor?
Perhaps this is from my blood sickness.
“Are you alright?” Ash asks, all gentle attention as he takes the glass from my hand and returns it to the awaiting servant. He doesn’t seem to suspect that I can smell his lies. “You can stay behind if you’re not feeling well.”
I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin. I’m not going to tell him. I want to see what other lies he tells me when he thinks I cannot detect them. “No, no, I’m quite fine. I might need to bring a handkerchief with me, however, just in case another fit overtakes me.”
“Take one of mine,” he says immediately, pulling it from inside his overtunic and handing it to me. It’s a rich scarlet, with gold embroidery, and much softer than any other kerchief I’ve held before.
I slip it into one of the hidden pockets of my gown and somehow manage to smile up at him. His lips purse into a tight line, and he holds out his arm for me to take.
We leave the safety of Ash’s quarters, entering the main hallways of the expansive palace. This path to the throne room is starting to look familiar, and I keep my eyes peeled as we walk, noting the corridors, the different directions we could turn down, the landmarks along the way. The winding outdoor staircase that leads to a bridge over the water below. The statue of a winged fae archer. All the varying greenery and flowering vines that distinguish otherwise nondescript columns and windows.
Perhaps on our way back I can ask Ash to show me where Rahk’s quarters are. I need to know where my allies reside.
Now that I can detect lies, I intend to find out exactly who my allies are.
Ash is one of them. Everything he said this afternoon, when he held me in his arms and kissed me, was true. But I cannot help how my hair rankles on the back of my neck. The first night we came here, he promised me he would be honest with me about what we would be facing together. This small, seemingly innocuous lie he just told me is a poignant reminder that even with Ash’s power and strength and cunning, I am not safe with him.
Perhaps I’m not even entirely safe from him.
That is fine with me. I’m done relying on him for everything. It’s time for me to learn the ways of the fae, this palace, the High King.
I’m nothing but a lowly human here, which means everyone expects me to be stupid, ignorant, and helpless. All things that I was when I first came, and to some extent, still am. But not forever.
It starts with learning my way around this place.
When we arrive at the throne room, those familiar double doors with the tall fae guards almost make me want to cower against Ash like I did the first time he brought me here.
No more.
I straighten my spine, and this time Ash doesn’t drag me in with a possessive hand around my waist as though I’m the new prize he’s collected. The doors open, and we march into the throne room, side by side. Ash wears that predatory grin, and I level my own half-smile straight at the High King, sitting there on his throne.
Faradir’s surprise shows only in the way his mouth—opened to speak—clicks shut. His gaze flickers to me, almost with disinterest, only to stop . . . and narrow. One of those eyebrows raises curiously, and he stares openly at me.
In my periphery, Ash glances down at me.
It occurs to me then that perhaps I ought not to lift my chin so haughtily. Perhaps I should play the timid little wife instead—to keep up the ruse. Oops. I lower my eyes to my toes.
“High King,” says Ash with a mock bow.
“Prince Trenian,” replies the king. And then, as a bored afterthought, “Princess Stella.” He returns his gaze to Ash. “Twice in one day, you bless me with your presence. Are we to celebrate the apparent recovery of your human?”
He says it like he might say animal.
I don’t flinch. Instead, I slip my hands from Ash’s arm and bow in a deep curtsy. “Thank you for your consideration, Your Majesty.”
Beside me, Ash blinks just a touch too fast. It’s the only slip in his mask. It’s too hard to tell if his surprise is positive or negative. He tucks an arm around my waist, pulling me back up just as I was standing. He leans toward my ear, growling into it, and it’s just loud enough that I know it’s not only intended for me to hear. “No wife of mine bends the knee. To anyone.”
I cannot help a little smirk at that. I straighten at his side, trying not to feel anything at all, as his hand moves possessively to my hip. He grins at the High King. “Are you still so surprised this human caught my attention?”
He’s flaunting me. A carrot on a string. I’m the bait, the temptation.
The High King waves a hand as though dismissing a fly. “Tell me why you’ve deigned to interrupt my proceedings, dear son. I have important matters to attend to.”
Ash stalks closer, bringing me with him. I try not to give into the impulse to stare down the High King with this newfound boldness. Letting go of fear is truly an electrifying sensation.
“I’m here to bargain with you, dear father.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
My gasp is entirely genuine when Ash grabs me, snatching my wrists behind me and holding them fast while he pulls me back against his chest.
And presses his curved knife against my throat.
My awareness narrows to the sharp edge of steel like ice ready to slice into my vulnerable flesh. The pounding of my blood through my veins.
This was not part of the plan.
“And if I was bargaining my wife’s life?” he purrs, and his voice is about as warm as the blade against my neck. “Would you listen then?”
Part of me insists I trust my husband, his wicked games and careful maneuvers. The other part of me burns with betrayal. He didn’t tell me this was going to be part of this negotiation. The plan was that he would bargain five more human kingdoms and his magic to extend the Faerie border, whereas Rahk could only ransack the kingdoms but not claim them as part of Faerieland. In exchange, Ash was going to ask for the slaughter to be delayed until after Lulythinar.
He hadn’t lied when he told me his plan. So either he’s making this up as he goes—a terrifying thought—or he deliberately crafted his words to conceal more information than they revealed without telling an outright lie. The fae are clever with their words, after all.
Ash’s grip on my wrists tightens and pulls down harder, so I’m forced to extend my vulnerable neck, giving his blade more room to tease against taut flesh. I gasp again, and it’s loud enough that there’s no way the High King misses it.
He leans back further in his throne, his gaze back on me. On my neck. Something dark and hungry flashes in his irises. Something that wouldn’t have intimidated me if his son didn’t have me at knifepoint.
Ash is just like his father.
The thought momentarily stuns me. I don’t actually think that, do I? No, he’s not like his father—all of this is so he can save my people from the High King’s bloodthirst. Ash is different.
But . . .
Not that different.
My chest heaves with each breath. Panic flares, bright and sudden, and instinct makes me twist against Ash’s hold. He has my wrists pinned with three fingers—three fingers—and I cannot wrestle free.
Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe and stop struggling! I force my body to relax.
“We all know you want her dead,” says Ash, his dark, sardonic voice rumbling into my back. “We also know that I do not want her dead. In fact, I’m quite loath to part with her.” The pad of his thumb runs along my jaw, a possessive stroke. Then he bends down slightly and presses a kiss to my forehead. Just as he does so, he presses the knife harder against my throat. Still not enough to break the skin, but enough to rip a whimper from my lips.
The High King hasn’t said a word, feigning indifference. The sharpness of his gaze betrays his otherwise languid pose. He sighs, shrugging one shoulder. “What does her blood matter? You still have enough time to go kidnap yourself another human princess before Lulythinar. This one’s death hardly makes any difference.”
“Does it?” Ash’s grin is almost audible. “And if I bargained not to marry another human princess before Lulythinar?”
“What is it you want?” the High King snaps. “If you’re willing to give up your human, then it’s probably not something I’m willing to give in exchange.”
“I want you to promise not to have me killed—directly or indirectly—after I’ve sired an heir.”
The High King barks a laugh.
My body goes stiff, my eyes widening. The whole throne room goes quiet. Was this expectation always unspoken? Had some courtiers not even realized this was Ash’s predicament?
And for heaven’s sake, this wasn’t the bargain he told me he’d be asking for! Where is the agreement for my people? Where is the promise to protect my homelands?
Anger burns beneath the questions flooding my mind.
Then, behind it, another question. A darker, deeper fear.
What if this was his plan all along?
What if he doesn’t actually care as much about me as he made me believe? Or, perhaps more aptly, what if he is willing to sacrifice literally anything for this throne? For his own life? He’s been sacrificing for this plot of his for centuries.
What if his lie to me that I have nothing to fear wasn’t merely a gentle encouragement? What if it was a lie because he intended to slaughter me right here, right now, at the foot of his father’s throne in a bid to guarantee his own life?
Faradir rises to his feet, his golden skin luminescent, the white of his robes gleaming like rays of sunlight. He moves like a prowling tiger as he slowly takes one step after the other until he’s off his dais, approaching Ash—approaching me—with that black cunning shining in his pupils.
When I look into the High King’s eyes, my reflection stares back at me. That of a girl in a flowery gown, eyes wide as she stands pinned between two predators. He comes to a stop, not even a full pace from me. Perhaps I would flinch if I didn’t have my arms twisted behind my back.
As it stands, fury washes through my blood.
“Perhaps I’d consider such a bargain . . .” says the King, his eyes roving over me, over my soft and sweet gown. “If it wasn’t her life that you offered, but her leash.”
My heart stops beating. I barely keep my eyes from shutting. He wants me to be his pet. Not that long ago, I wouldn’t have flinched. Ash always promised to protect me, to be good to me.
But Ash apparently lies to me—and he’s good at hiding those lies, despite their foul taste and strong stench.
I don’t claim to know what the High King could do with me, but I know enough to be terrified at the prospect. I want to believe that Ash would never give me up to torment. I want to believe that he meant every good and tender thing he has said to me. But what can I be sure of at this point?
Nothing.
With a word, Ash could have what he’s been fighting for all these years: his life.
A horrible thought occurs to me. What if the true reason Ash has been fighting his father isn’t because of injustice, but because he merely wants his own life?
“Hand my wife over to you?” drawls Ash. “I think we both know I’m not that cruel. Or that desperate. If you won’t take her life in exchange for mine, then I suppose it’s settled. Though perhaps I ought to tell you about another bargaining chip I have.”
“Enough. I have no more patience for your trite plots. You are dismissed until this evening’s banqu—”
“The Neverseen King owes me a favor.”
Ash’s voice slices straight through the crowd of people and the High King’s statement like a knife through skin and bone. Silence falls as the High King half-turns back, his brow pinched.
“The Neverseen King owes you a favor?” he asks.
“Indeed.” Ash’s thumb on the side of my wrist, restraining me, gives a little caress. Reassurance? Or another lie? “And I have a mutually beneficial agreement for us.”