Chapter 58
I rise a little earlier than Stella, and after throwing on a few glamours, I’m ready to receive my guest.
Princess Oleria sits in my living room with one knee crossed over the other, a steaming teacup in one hand. Her silver hair is swept forward over one shoulder, likely to not disturb her shimmering wings. She sips daintily as I approach.
“Princess Oleria,” I say, sitting across from her and pouring my own cup of steamed, spiced mothweed milk from the set Edvear left.
“Prince Trenian,” she replies. Her expression isn’t smiling, but it’s still pleasant . . . even underscored with the concern and perhaps dread she likely experienced when I summoned her.
“I hope you are well,” I say, and I mean it. Part of me wishes Stella and I could have gotten to know her better. Perhaps even become friends.
She cocks one shapely eyebrow. “Please, Trenian. We can skip the formalities. What can I do for you?”
Very well. I take a deep breath, almost hating myself for the words that must come out of my mouth. “I . . . need you to kill the High King.”
Oleria doesn’t react at first. She takes another sip from her teacup, nods once, and says only, “I’m flattered by your faith in me.”
“I was going to have Stella do it.” Back when I had hope that she could be the one person to use glamours and get right up close to the High King without him noticing them. Instead, it’s almost worse that he cannot see through her glamours, because he can immediately register her as a threat. “But I no longer have a way for her to get close to him.”
“I see.” She’s quiet, contemplating.
“I know I’m asking for everything. I know I’m asking for your life,” I say quietly. “It’s not fair, and it’s not even right, but I have no other—”
Now her lips twist, almost ruefully. “Killing the High King wouldn’t kill me.”
I stop. Frown. A branch from the side table reaches out and accepts my teacup. “I beg your pardon?”
Instead of answering, she lets her glamours go. Like rain washing away paint, the glamoured Oleria is gone, replaced by the real girl. I take her in anew, my mouth opening in shock.
Before me is not the fae princess I’ve known at a distance for some ages. Her long, pointed ears are gone, leaving mostly rounded ears with slightly pointed tips. Her fae beauty melts into something still beautiful, but less ethereal. Something more grounded. Only her wings and silver hair remain unchanged.
It’s her scent, however, that hits me hardest. Her true scent.
“You’re human.” The words are out before I can restrain them.
“Half human,” she corrects. “My mother was human. She was, as my father liked to say, his secret vice. So, when I was born, I was named princess, despite my heritage. Despite being illegitimate. My fae blood gives me enough power to hide my human blood with glamours, which I have done my whole life.”
I cannot find a single word to speak. All this time, she was half human? And I never suspected it? It must put her at risk, to have that much of her magic occupied with maintaining glamours.
She gives a huff of dry amusement at my shock, shakes her head. Then she pulls each glamour back in place, and the Oleria I know sits before me once more. “Seeing as I am only part fae, the same laws don’t apply fully to me, and I could kill the High King without the same consequence.”
“You have enough fae blood to take a hard hit. You’d probably be incapacitated for weeks.”
She lifts one narrow shoulder in a shrug. “Better that than Faradir still being High King. I would only ask that when you are High King, you fight to protect humans. There are many fae who are sympathetic to the plight of humans, but few are vocal enough about it to overcome those who delight in their torment.”
My head sags in relief. I run a hand through my hair, overwhelmed in sudden gratitude. In a sudden flood of unworthiness that someone I barely know would sacrifice so much. Something told me she would be willing, but this was more than I could have hoped for. More than I could have asked for.
“Now, I must confess,” Oleria says, a delicate line appearing between her brows, “I do not know how I would accomplish such a feat. And I assume you need it done today.”
“Faradir loves to be served by humans—”
“I have no human servants.”
That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I nod. “We can still work with that. There are many human refugees in the Small Cities that can be hired for a single day. You do not have to explain everything to them, so long as they are aware of the danger. I’d offer one of my servants, but the High King keeps a catalog of who works for me. Once you have a servant, you’ll need to sneak them into the kitchens as a server. And—”
“How would I do that?”
“Simple. Poison one human who usually brings out the High King’s food. Poison several, if you have to. It doesn’t hurt to have more than one servant on our side. I have a few different ideas for how to get our servant—or servants—to replace the poisoned ones. And I don’t mean to poison to kill. Just something to make them fall asleep. Nampir perhaps. Then, when dinner is being served, you stay hidden—I’ll tell you where—and after the taster has tested for poison, have your servant bring you the platter of food. I’d recommend using yirop for its weakness-inducing properties.”
“Do I poison the High King to kill? And what do I poison of his food?”
“No, no, personally, I would recommend you poison to incapacitate. It’ll be harder for him to detect if it’s smaller amounts. Poison everything on his plate, in his goblet too. But just enough to weaken him, not enough to raise his alarm.”
“Then I sneak up and stab him?” Her face turns a little green.
I’m asking so much of her. So much. “How are you with a bow?”
“Better than with a knife,” she replies with a nervous laugh.
I’ll need to engage another layer or two of contingency plans. I’ve had several options brewing in my brain in case this doesn’t work. I prefer this option, though, because it involves less human blood.
Less full-out war.
“We’ll work through the plan,” I assure her. “We’ll make it foolproof.”
“You are betting a lot on my talents of subterfuge.”
She means it as a joke, but uncertainty flashes across her face. Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed it if not for being married to Stella.
“I trust you, Oleria. I know you can do this. The fact that you are a half human living in a fae’s world, and that you’ve gotten away with it your entire life, tells me everything I need to know.”
Her wings give a little shiver. She looks away, and for a moment, I am afraid she will tell me she cannot do this.
Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut and growls in a voice of such determination, “I will play my part to end Faradir’s reign.”
My mouth draws into a thin line. “Then let us bargain, Princess Oleria.”
The tattoo that imprints on the back of my hand is a pair of beautiful wings.