Chapter 15 Sabine #2
“Here,” Ferra says, lifting the lid off a wooden box. “I think you’ll find this more suitable attire for a future queen.”
With reverence, she lifts out a delicate mauve gown.
It has puffed sleeves at the shoulder, which cinch at the bicep and then tighten down to the wrist. The plunging neckline and side-lacing corset are embroidered with fae knots, and a long, golden, woven belt loops around the waist and plunges to the floor.
The style is from another era. Not at all the modern rage.
I stare because it feels somehow familiar. As though, a thousand years ago, I wore dresses like this.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, quickly hiding my shock with practiced awe. “Too beautiful for a simple Tuesday. I’ll save it for the coronation.”
Ferra preens, plucking off a small fleck of dust on the neckline. “Nonsense. Of course you should look god-like every day of the week.”
I flinch. Too close to the truth.
A bell chimes outside, and Ferra curses and gathers up the dress. “Quickly, now. We have something else to show you before they begin serving supper in the great hall, and everyone loses their minds. War breeds hunger, you know.”
Between Ferra and Suri, we manage to scrub away most of the travel grime, and Suri washes my hair and weaves it into an Immortal Crown with her deft fingers. Ferra spends the time buttoning the hundreds of buttons on the dress’s back.
“No wonder no one got anything done in ancient times,” she mutters. “All they did was push buttons through button holes. There. Finished. Now—look at yourself.”
She spins me toward the mirror with a proud tilt of her head, an artist admiring their work.
But as she stares into the mirror, her eyes narrow slightly.
“Gods, Sabine, it looks like you just emerged from a soak in milk and honey, not days on the road. You don’t have so much as a blemish.
In all my days of beautysculpting, I’ve never come across a woman who doesn’t need a single little tweak.
You were always beautiful, but now…well, what have they been feeding you in Volkany? ”
She lifts a teasing corner of her mouth, but her eyes don’t jest, and I quickly look away from her reflection.
She can tell I’m different.
I smooth my hands down the long sleeves; grateful the dress hides most of my fey lines.
Just in case I slip and drop my glamour.
I clear my throat. “What was it you were so anxious to show me?”
“Oh!” Suri says. “Come. Quietly. We have it trapped in the Castlekeep’s office.”
“It…” I repeat. “…trapped?”
Ferra throws open the door, peering down the hallway before signaling to us. We pass a few guards, but they seem too distracted by the dinner bell to pay us much attention.
Suri leads the way through locked servant passages, her official keyring jangling, and we climb a level and then come out on a higher floor. The word MERCY is inlaid in mosaic ceramic tiles in the floor.
“Like all the ancient fae castles,” she explains, motioning to the mosaic, “Hekkelveld Castle is shaped like a star. The towers at each of the five points are named after human values. This is Mercy Tower. The others are Charity, Wisdom, Honor, and Faith. Though you’d be hard-pressed to find much of those values in Old Coros right now.
At least, not beyond the castle gates, where the Sentinels are turning the streets to ruin. ”
“In Drahallen Hall…” I start, my throat tightening at the memory. “The five towers are named after ancient monoceroses, and they’re built like long, thin wings that stretch out to form the star’s points.”
Suri throws me a concerned look over her shoulder. “It must have been so terrible for you there.”
“Oh, actually—” I stop myself from contradicting her, from telling her about the beautiful gardens, the incredible fae wildlife, the sinfully decadent parties. Instead, I swallow back so much I want to say to them and nod.
We reach a stately wooden door that Suri unlocks with one of the jangling keys. She opens it into a small office, packed with boxes and overflowing stacks of papers. Books line one of the walls. Unruly stacks of papers and scrolls cover the desk.
“The previous Castlekeep kept terrible records.” Suri indicates the piles. “It’s been absolute chaos trying to sort it all out. But anyway, this is what we wanted to show you.”
She stops at a wooden trunk that’s secured with a heavy iron padlock. Suspicious air holes are drilled in the side.
My fey lines shiver beneath my skin, cold and insistent. I clamp a hand over one velvet sleeve, tugging the cuffs further down.
Suri unlocks the trunk, one lip nervously pinned between her lips. She glances at Ferra. “Ready?”
To my surprise, Ferra has produced a butterfly net from somewhere and now brandishes it like a weapon. “Ready.”
Everything is happening so fast that I can only sputter for them to wait, to explain everything to me first, but Suri’s already opening the lid.
I brace myself against whatever’s inside that trunk, thinking of Beneveto’s terrible, hungry corpse staggering out of Tòrr’s cage.
“Wait—” I start, too late, taking a step back as my heart shoots into my throat.
A puffy head pops out of the trunk.
Its fur is a glossy silver blue. Its purple tongue lolls to one side as it happily pants.
“Plume?” I cry in surprise. “Plume!”
Both Suri and Ferra whip around at my voice.
Yes it is Plume! Plume cries happily.
“Wait,” Ferra says, still holding the net at the ready should the cloudfox try to escape. “Do you know this creature?”
“Yes! Her name is Plume. She…” I trail off. Oof, where do I start with my history with the mischievous cloudfox? I settle for a half-truth. “She’s a friend I made in Volkany.”
Suri slumps into a chair and rubs her temples. “Oh. This changes everything. Ferra and I found her snooping around the Reliquary Garden the day before yesterday. We thought she must be a spy, sent by your father.”
“Hell of a hard time capturing her,” Ferra adds, wrinkling her nose at the cloudfox, who pauses to wrinkle her snout back.
I drop to my knees and pet Plume’s cloud-like fur, soft as cotton tuffs, with a dampness like fog. Something tightens in my chest. Not pain—just the pull of home.
Of Volkany.
“We didn’t want Lord Kendan or the generals to know about her yet,” Suri explains. “We were afraid they’d torture her, and we knew you were coming, so we thought we’d trap her and let you interrogate her instead.”
Plume pants happily as she rubs against my palm, begging for pets.
I laugh. A real laugh, as I bury my face in her soft fur.
These are my friends, I tell Plume. I’m sorry about the trunk. They thought you were a spy.
Yes! Plume yips excitedly. Yes, Plume is spy!
My grin falls. Wait—you were sent here to spy on me?
She yips again.
I run my hand over my Immortal Crown braid, needing the grounding drag of my nails against my scalp. To Ferra and Suri, I explain, “She says…well, I need to talk to her more. I’m confused.”
Ferra and Suri watch in rapture. Ferra passes Suri a bag of roasted nuts.
I ask Plume, Tell me exactly why my father sent you to—
The fae king did not send Plume! Plume chuckles as though I’m simple-minded. The fire horse told Plume to fly ahead to this castle and watch girlie.
I nearly lose my balance and have to grip the edge of the trunk to hold myself steady. You mean…Tòrr? Tòrr sent you?
She nods eagerly.
But why?
Plume leaps out of the trunk, spinning a restless corkscrew in the air, happy to stretch her furry legs.
Silly girlie. To spy, as Plume told you! To make sure girlie speaks for the quiet ones—the ones with fur and feathers. They can’t hold weapons or trot into castles. They can only watch big boots start marching and wonder if anyone will think of them.
I slowly sink back on my heels.
It hits me, what she means, and why Tòrr sent her.
Gods, what an ass I’ve been.
I’ve been so focused on the throne—the clash between Rian and the opposition, the game of politics, of human loyalties. So caught up in the rising tension between the fae in Volkany and the humans in Astagnon. I keep telling myself I’m doing this to save lives.
But until now, that’s only been certain lives.
Human lives.
In the fog of the Gloaming, I forgot who I’m meant to protect most of all.
The natural world stands to lose everything, and I’ve let it slip from my mind.
Me, Goddess of Nature, of creatures that creep and crawl.
I’ve been training so hard to use my power to help the river valley refugees.
The humans who are suffering. I’ve neglected the animals who call that same poisoned valley home.
Despite everything, I’ve still been looking at the world with human eyes.
Loving with a human heart.
Worrying about human problems.
I lift my head slowly and let out a deep exhale that stretches all the way to my belly.
Plume, I promise you, I won’t forget the animals, I vow. Fae and mortal ones alike. Not the spiders. Not the snapping turtles. Not the earthworms. Tòrr didn’t need to send a spy, but I’m glad he did. It reminded me of what’s most important.
Plume bounds from the gilded mirror to the windowsill, far more interested in exploring the furniture than my vow. Okay, whatever!
But the vow sits heavy with me.
My back bows over beneath the weight of it all. Everything that pulls me in opposite directions.
Fae.
Humanity.
Animals—the ones I never should have forgotten about, the ones who have always stood at my back when humans failed me.
“What did she say?” Suri sees the tears in my eyes and drops down, wrapping an arm around my back.
Ferra looks in distaste at the cold, bare floor, but drags over a stool next to where I’m slumped and sits.
I blink hard, fighting back tears I’m afraid will come out silver.
I can’t hold this in any longer.
“The rumors…about the risen fae…are true,” I manage to choke out between sobs.
Ferra clutches her silver locket, sucking in a breath. “You mean Immortal Iyre?”
“Iyre, yes.” I wipe at my eyes. “Basten wasn’t lying about seeing her. But there are others in Volkany. Other fae.”
Suri leans in, her lips trembling as she whispers, “You saw them?”
I nod, lips pressed tightly, afraid of the truth tumbling out. “Samaur. Woudix. Artain—gods, he’s an asshole. And Vale…” I sniffle, wiping my nose, and it comes away with a streak of silver. Luckily, I’m able to wipe it on a fold of my dress. “Vale is…King Rachillon.”
A heavy silence follows, broken only by Plume’s silly, rasping panting.
Ferra says slowly, “But King Rachillon is your father.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes—that’s right. You see, fae don’t sleep for thousands of years in underground tombs, like we were led to believe. They lie dormant in bloodlines, waiting for the right generation to reawaken from their human hosts. Rachillon is Vale. And I’m—”
Their eyes widen, horror blooming.
I don’t finish. I don’t need to.
Instead, I turn my hand over, and the silver tears spill from my palm—slow, shimmering, unmistakable.
Fae.