Chapter 39
Ash is withdrawn when we leave for the banquet. I ask if he has any stunts planned for tonight; he sighs and tells me no, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any. It’s not a lie.
I take his arm when he offers it, and he guides me to the banquet hall. I follow the path, saying the directions in my head before each turn, quizzing myself to make sure I have it memorized. To my surprise, I get it all correct.
One step toward not being lost in a palace full of people who want to kill me.
Rahk’s doorway is two hallways down, three doors on the left. Shockingly close. Perhaps that was why he was there to rescue me the night Ash was poisoned. I tuck away Ash’s concern about Rahk, about what the High King might make him do.
I want to reach out to Ash, to comfort him, to encourage him, but I’m so deeply entrenched in my own worry. What if the High King doesn’t take the bargain? How then are we to stop tomorrow’s slaughter?
All of it seems impossible. These political machinations make me want to strangle everyone involved. Right now, it feels like my only friend and ally is lost to our own hopeless predicament. And I have no strength left to pull him out.
Plus, I haven’t forgiven him yet for the throne room.
The doors open, and I’m overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion. My limbs are weaker than normal. Am I still recovering from my illness? Probably. The stress of today has been too much on my healing body.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through this banquet when only a few minutes in the throne room zapped my strength. Especially because there will be stunts, maneuvers, games. It wouldn’t be Ash and the High King if there weren’t.
I’m half expecting another trick like before, but when Ash guides me into the banquet hall, it’s not full of women. It’s a diverse group of fae, male and female, with various complexions ranging from luminous gold to cobalt blue. Murmurs of our titles rise from the gathering, but Ash doesn’t answer. I try not to stare at the radiant wings attached to a female fae—Oleria—sitting beside one of the two empty chairs at the head of the table.
Two empty chairs.
My sudden burst of optimism is immediately quelled. The High King hasn’t arrived yet. So, of course, one chair belongs to him, and the other to Ash. I glance up at him, trying to read him for my cues.
A darkly sardonic smirk twists his face, responding to this new situation, like it is a fresh game to play. Then, just like last time, he takes me to his open seat. Unlike last time, he goes to the head seat, grabs the back of it, drags it out, and gestures at it. And looks expectantly at me.
The blood drains from my face.
The quiet murmur of conversation around the table goes quiet.
I can’t—I can’t sit in the High King’s chair! That is just asking to be murdered. I grip my skirts in both hands and shake my head.
Ash’s gaze darkens, his jaw flexing. “Princess Stella,” he says, not at all kindly. “Sit.”
I have two choices, it seems. Neither of them good. I can set my mouth in a stubborn line and refuse, thus causing a public scene that will no doubt have the fae talking about how Ash cannot control his pet. Or I can do what he says, choose to trust him—that he isn’t meaninglessly throwing me to my own death.
I don’t understand all these moves of his, but I understand enough. This is spite. Yet again.
So much spite. So much hatred.
If Ash isn’t careful, he will become just like his father. He isn’t there yet, but he is on the very same road. I’m not skilled in clever subterfuge or these tricky bargains, but my intuition tells me that sitting in that chair is the wrong move. It’ll enrage the High King, and I’m beginning to think that Ash doesn’t always have something he’s trying to accomplish by enraging him.
In this instance, we need him to accept Ash’s bargain.
The High King won’t accept that bargain if Ash pulls a stunt like this. He’ll punish him further. He’ll drag Hylath back in here, kill her off. Or maybe this time it’ll be Edvear. Or he’ll call Rahk in and make him do something terrible again.
My people will not be saved if I sit in that chair.
I can almost hear the echo of Ash’s voice that first evening we’d arrived here, and he had pinned me to the wall and told me that if I valued my life, I’d do exactly what he said. No questions, no hesitations.
I take a deep breath, relax my grip on my skirts, and level a hard look at Ash. My answer. A firm no.
Ash meets my gaze . . . and grins. A wicked grin that sends ice to my toes.
I refuse to bend.
He gives a dark chuckle, slams the chair back into its spot, and drags out his own. He drops into it heavily, flings one knee over an armrest, and grabs the full goblet before him. One swirl, two. Then he sniffs and takes a drink.
All while I stand beside his chair, heart pounding. Waiting.
I’m not about to throw myself into his lap. If he intends to leave me standing here this entire meal, then so be it. I won’t sit in the High King’s chair.
It’s still quiet around the table. Some two dozen eyes burn into me, scalding me like a brand. I don’t move. I may want to crawl into a hole and die, or pick up my skirts and run from the room for all I’m worth. But I intend to keep whatever scraps of dignity I still possess after defying Ash.
He lets out a long sigh, setting down his goblet on the table. His attention flicks to me. “Go stand with the other servants along the wall, will you, my dear?”
My own sigh escapes between my teeth. The other servants.
Anger burns in my gut. Anger and humiliation.
Our shared kisses this afternoon feel like a lifetime ago. Another world entirely. He was a different person, the one I deeply care about. This is the mask.
It is an ugly mask indeed.
It’s only now that I realize it’s not all for show. This is the ruthless side of Ash, the terrifying Prince of the Fae that Amelia begged me to run away from. This is the son of my kingdom’s enemy. This is a deadly, bitter, vengeful prince.
Rahk was wrong.
Ash never fully pulled out of that darkness after his mother was killed. He’s in it right now. It’s in the voice telling me to stand along the wall, as though I’m nothing but his pet. A dog. A slave for his pleasure.
Send for a white dress.
I incline my head toward Ash in a single nod, then turn, march toward the wall lined with humans every five paces, and situate myself as close as I dare to the door that opens in the direction of Rahk’s room.
This far away from Ash, he cannot protect me like before. I need an escape route.
Now is not the time to wallow in my embarrassment as the chatter resumes around the table, as I watch Ash turn and begin conversing with the woman on his left, taking sips from his goblet and kicking the leg he has flung over the side of his chair. He lazily addresses those seated at the table.
Now is the time to watch carefully for any threats.
The doors on the opposite side of the banquet hall open. My biggest threat saunters right in. Faradir wears robes of sapphire blue, making his eyes twice as spectacular. He moves with the confident ease of a panther through a jungle. His gaze shoots straight to Ash—and he pauses suddenly. He glances around the room until he finds me. Standing against the wall in my beautiful gown between human servants. Satisfaction twists his lips.
He takes a seat, leaning on the armrests as he smiles down the table at his gathered guests. “Welcome! Prince Trenian. Princess Oleria.” He continues down the line until he has addressed every guest, and they have addressed him. Then, with a sniff and not even a sideways glance: “Princess Stella.” He smiles at Ash. “I’m glad to see you’ve put your pet where it belongs.”
Ash merely inclines his goblet in reply, then returns to the conversation he’s having with Oleria. He says something to her and she laughs. Her retort earns her a smirk. There’s something different about her. Haughtiness doesn’t cloak her every movement, and the tilt of her head, the pretty smiles, strikes me as almost . . . genuine. Unpretentious. I don’t know why she helped me before, but I doubt staring at the back of her head will help me unravel the mystery of her motives.
I dare to release a sigh. I shift my weight between my legs, trying to ignore how exhausted I am, how much I long to sit down. If I lock my knees for too long, I’ll pass out, and that will only draw attention back to myself.
One of my biggest assets here is being beneath notice. Truly, I should be glad I’m here and not seated at that table. I’d be much too close to the High King for comfort, and it would be much more stressful than simply standing here.
Why am I lying to myself like this?
This stings. My pride, certainly, but an ache grows in my heart. I know Ash well enough to know this probably means nothing between us—he’s not actually trying to punish me. He’s not actually angry with me for refusing to obey him.
But it feels like he is.
Do I even know Ash like I think I do? It’s too much to worry about right now. Something changed earlier between us, and I’m not sure what it was. We’re still allies, and we’re still married, but can we trust each other?
I’m starting to believe we can’t.
There’s something deeply wounded about Ash, and if he doesn’t change, if he doesn’t stop making decisions out of pain and spite, I’m not safe with him. And if I’m not safe with my own husband in this foreign world, then the only prudent option is to escape.
The thought fills me with such deep sadness, I barely maintain my composure.
I’d truly believed I’d found something special with him. Something I hadn’t dared dream of. Someone who truly saw me, cared for me—loved me. Someone who would defy heaven and hell for me.
Was I just seeing what I wanted to see?
This is getting too far out of my control, too far from my father’s intentions for marrying me off, too far from protecting my people—too far. I need to get out of here.
I shift my weight again, loosen my shoulders as I exhale. My heart doesn’t stop aching—won’t stop aching. As expected.
They don’t call it heartbreak because it feels good.
My breath cuts off suddenly. I try to inhale—can’t. Panic flares, hot and heady. I can’t even choke. It’s like something has wrapped around my throat. Something that slowly squeezes the life out of me.
I can’t make a sound, even as I fall to my knees, grabbing at my throat. My vision tunnels.
And then, abruptly, it stops. Air floods my lungs. I drag in one heaving gasp after another, clutching my chest as I lift my eyes.
The High King clenches his hand into a fist. And Ash’s hand is extended, flat, toward me, blocking the High King’s fist. He isn’t looking at me, instead staring at his father.
“Don’t you dare touch my wife,” he snarls.
The High King merely smirks and lets his fist relax. Ash pulls back his own hand—and goes back to eating. I stay where I am, palm flat on the floor, my skirts billowing around me as I breathe heavily.
Shaking, I get to my feet. Ash hasn’t so much as glanced at me. Hasn’t looked to see if I’m alright. This charade is so important to him he cannot break character for the span of one glance.
He did save me.
Perhaps he’s more aware of me than he lets on. Or perhaps I’m just seeing what I want to see. Again.
He must protect me because if I die, his bid for the throne and his life will be over. There are many reasons to ensure I remain alive. None of them need to be about truly caring for me. I need to stop thinking that they do.
I need to talk to Rahk. He might kill me. Perhaps he’s nothing but glamour and falsehoods too. Somehow, I cannot believe either of those things. Rahk has been levelheaded and straightforward every time I’ve spoken with him. He was the one who explained Ash’s background to me when no one else had—including Ash.
His room isn’t far from here.
And if Ash isn’t going to ensure my people aren’t slaughtered tomorrow, then maybe I can talk to Rahk and see if he has any ideas. If there’s information I need to know that Ash wouldn’t tell me. Perhaps he can help me get word of the attack to my father, so an effort at preparation and evacuation can be made.
I’ve stayed as a decoration long enough in this hall. With one last glance at Ash, at the High King and the merriment happening at the banquet, I turn and slip out of the doors, unimpeded. They close behind me without a sound, swallowing up the noise and laughter and clinking crystal, the painted ceiling of human footstools. The guards pay me no heed as I level my shoulders and march down the hallway.
It’s strange, being in these empty hallways mostly alone.
The ache in my heart eases, my mind sharpening. Keeping my eyes and ears open, I walk down the next hallway, reciting in my head the directions Ash gave me. To my relief, I encounter no one.
Night is falling, throwing shadows over the white marble of the palace. Statues are cast in sharp relief against walls and floors. All is strangely quiet. The only sounds come from the swishing of my gown and my breathing.
I approach a corner warily. With the way the light and darkness play together, my shadow is cast ahead of me. Anyone around the bend can see me coming, but I cannot see them.
Despite my erratic heartbeat, I keep my back and shoulders straight, not flinching as I turn the corner.
No one. Not even a guard standing at alert.
I breathe a quiet sigh of relief and quicken my pace. Finally, I reach Rahk’s door. Glancing behind me once more to ensure I’m alone, I draw in a deep breath and lift my hand to knock.
“Are you looking for me, Princess Stella?”
The low voice nearly startles me out of my slippers. I whirl to find a tall, densely muscled Rahk leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, apparently coming toward his room.
“Prince Rahk!” I gasp. “I was coming to find you!”
He frowns, his brow creasing. “You look troubled. What is it?”
I glance around, nerves crawling up my spine, raising gooseflesh on my arms. “Where can we talk?”
His jaw flexes. He motions for me to follow him. “This way.”
I pause, glancing back at his room. “Not . . . in your chambers?”
A slight smirk. “Ash would probably kill me.” He motions for me to follow him back into the hallway I just came from. Biting my lip, I hesitate, then hurry to follow him. Hadn’t he told me I was welcome in his chambers? Perhaps that was before the High King took an interest in him?
“Are you hungry?” he asks suddenly as we walk, pulling something out of his tunic pocket. Without waiting for an answer, he carves a slice out of what looks like fruit and hands it to me.
I take it, blinking down at the pink flesh, the glossy red sheen of the soft skin. A trail of juice runs over my fingers, dripping onto the floor. My gut plunges.
It’s faerie fruit.
“Thank you,” I mumble, my hands shaking as I lift the fruit to my lips. Can I fool him by pretending to eat it? Perhaps I can delay long enough that I can . . . go back to the banquet hall? Whatever the case, I cannot let on that I know what he is doing. “Th-this is so kind of you, Rahk. Ash didn’t give me anything to eat at the banquet.”
He watches me through the tail of his eye as he leads me . . . somewhere. Not toward the banquet hall, and heading in the complete opposite direction from Ash’s quarters.
My pulse thrums. I’m still holding this fruit. Still haven’t taken a bite.
Is he trying to kill me?
Surely, if he intended to outright kill me, he would have done so already. It’s not as though I have any defense against him. What did Ash say about faerie fruit, anyway? That fae gave it to humans to make sport of them.
Rahk just betrayed me.
Not sure what else to do, I let my knees buckle. Rahk spins toward me as I let the piece of fruit fall from my hands, and collapse in a pile of skirts as though I’ve fainted. I hit the ground hard, but not as hard as I could have without all this fabric cushioning me. I roll my eyes shut and lie limp.
My heart pounds as though I’m sprinting for my life.
This probably won’t work. I didn’t really think through this carefully. He’s just going to plunge a dagger through my throat or lift me over his shoulder and carry me straight to the High King.
I’m not expecting my mouth to be suddenly pried open. White hot terror floods me, and I send my elbows flying toward my assailant. They connect with a neck, but the sudden burst of surprised sound isn’t a masculine grunt. It’s a feminine yelp.
My eyes fly open.
It’s not Rahk trying to pin my flailing limbs and pry open my mouth. It’s not his hand that squeezes the slice of fruit so its juices drip down my throat.
It’s Princess Listhra.
I kick, rolling to spit out the juice. A shockingly strong grip yanks me back, smothering my mouth and nose with my skirt, cutting off my airways. Forcing me to swallow.
It’s sweet. Much too sweet. So sweet my mouth puckers as Princess Listhra pulls back, letting me breathe.
Suddenly, I don’t want to struggle anymore. A smile breaks across my face as golden warmth floods every limb, every follicle of hair, every inch of skin. A giggle follows the smile, and I stare up at the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She smiles back at me. “I have a lot of questions for you, little human.”
I clap my hands, joy flooding my veins. “Please! Let me answer them!”