Chapter 1 #2
Yes. Even when it is subtle. They are gravely worried about Faerie, which is probably why they are lowering themselves to acting as transport.
They’re doing their part. I think the wylds helping you was the same.
The heart of Faerie wants to right itself, but it needs help.
Our help, as I explained. He ran his thumb along the edge of her jaw.
Look over my shoulder and see if the stormbacks are nearly ready. They detest being rushed.
She couldn’t look over his shoulder without rising onto her tiptoes.
Instead, she angled him a bit, leaning against him and glancing at his Fallen.
They waited idly, chatting amongst themselves like they had all the time in the world.
She let her gaze swing toward the stormbacks, but she couldn’t help but think about the appearance of the hard chest against her.
Or the perfection of his back and the amazing design covering it.
Do your tattoos mean anything or are they for appearances? she asked as the breeze caught and flung her hair.
He grabbed a strand and curled it around his fingers. The stormbacks?
Oh. She leaned away so her hair would pull out of his fingers. They’re getting into a half-circle formation, facing the north.
He sighed, looking off at the trees. I really shouldn’t be impatient. They are saving us a lot of time. It’s just…
Tattoos?
He glanced down at her again. Something indecipherable lurked in his eyes, his true emotions hidden behind his carefully cultivated humor.
They mean something. He took a small step back.
His arms flexed as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing each delectable inch of skin as he went.
Since you enjoy looking at my nudity so much…
She pressed her lips together at the taunting tone but couldn’t deny it.
He pulled the shirt away and paused, giving her a chance to once again marvel at his incredible physique.
He reached for her hand and brought it up, using her finger to trace the design across his chest that looked like a thick necklace curving against the edge of his pecs and then wrapping around his neck.
Her nail scraped his flesh, raising goosebumps.
This was a necklace that was burned into my skin by Equilas when she helped trap me in the Obsidian kingdom. It’s a marker of station. Not with the Obsidian kingdom but—
As a High Sovereign. I haven’t forgotten. Or…I guess…the memory hasn’t been taken from me yet.
He stilled, his brows pinching together in confusion. She didn’t miss the flash of hope lighting his gorgeous green eyes.
Every time someone looks upon this necklace, he said, not commenting on her retained memory, they get a flash of recognition.
Every time, I wonder if they’ll know who I am.
If I’ll regain some piece of my former life within their knowledge of me.
And every time, their eyes dull after a moment.
Well, dull or turn to disdain. I’m not well loved within the Obsidian Court.
I’m feared, so I’m given a wide berth, but at best I’m tolerated. I do not fit in there.
Like she didn’t belong in the magical zone. She remembered his sentiment in the hotel room those many months ago. She remembered feeling connected with him. This was why.
She nodded, taking in his pain and bearing witness to his struggle. This time, she didn’t move away when he wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingertips.
These—he lifted an elbow to indicate the tattoos on his arm—are my rings of ascension. They denote the various trials I have mastered through training and perseverance.
What kind of trials?
Magic, weaponry, battle planning…various things.
The trials are open to all of Faerie—to anyone who wishes to ascend.
With each mastery, a title is granted and added to our name.
The title increases status. The marker on the arm is proof of ascension.
The royals of the Diamond Throne are pushed to collect as many as they can.
It looks good for the Sovereign if you have at least ten. Most are able to do this.
She frowned as she rubbed her thumb across one of the lines. How is this proof? Someone could just make the tattoo themselves.
He broke out in goosebumps again as her thumb traced his skin.
What you see is not…how they should look.
It’s further mockery of my situation. If Equilas sought to make me harder than any fae has a right to be, she chose the correct tortures.
If she sought to make me cruel, more cunning, more willing to destroy… she chose correctly there, too.
Her gaze flicked back and forth between his eyes, seeing the darkness lurking there. The wicked deviousness. This fae had suffered, and it had crushed him into something she could identify with. Something dark and twisted, maybe not magically, but certainly morally.
“Is he telling you he didn’t really earn all those rings yet?” Niall called over, the others all watching. A couple of them snickered.
Tarian shifted uncomfortably. “I…had an advantage.”
“Bullshit,” a female with bright red hair down to her waist said, a braid running down each side of her face.
A splash of freckles stretched across her nose.
“The amount of power a person possesses only helps in one of those trials. You mastered the others because of natural talent and staunch determination. We were with you—we saw the many hours you put into training.”
Daisy looked at their arms, not seeing the same lines. “Did they not want to participate?”
The Fallen looked between them, many flaring their elbows. “When Equilas stripped our wings,” the redhead said, “she also stripped away the proof of what we are. Except for the scars. Those you can still see if you look hard enough.”
“Or, in Gorlan’s case, if he constantly shoves his arm in your face so you can’t help but count all fifteen of his rings,” Niall said, pushing a darker-skinned male with thick black lashes.
“Well?” Gorlan replied. “Besides Tarian, I got more than all but one of the royal family, whom I tied. That’s kind of fucking awesome. You’d shove it in everyone’s face, too.”
“Besides the king, too,” said Darryn, Niall’s similar-looking brother. “He has sixteen.”
“He doesn’t count. It was easier back when he took the trials. He made them harder so no one could match him.”
“Joke was on him.” Niall smirked.
Daisy looked at Tarian’s arm, counting the rings. Ten down to his elbow on his right arm, ten on his left. “How many trials are there?”
“Twenty,” one of the Fallen said. “No one alive, save for Tarian, has mastered them all. Any others are recorded in ancient scrolls. They might as well be myth.”
The others puffed up in pride at Tarian’s achievements, except for Tarian himself. He ran his fingers through his unruly hair.
“What is your advantage?” she asked him.
His gaze hardened. “My advantage turned into a curse, and the trials helped solidify the Diamond Court’s wariness about the possibility of my taking the throne forcefully.”
“And your family’s wariness that when the king passed on the throne,” Lennox said in a slow, deep drawl, “he’d pass it to the most qualified of his heirs. They all knew it would be you—not because of your magic, but because of all you’d done within your few short years—”
“Enough!” Tarian barked, his command crisp and effective.
Everyone fell silent. “It doesn’t matter now.
My so-called advantages landed me—and all of you—in this position.
It ruined our lives. All of us, including this innocent human who has to suffer because of the gods’ ill humor.
Who has to fight a battle she has no part in.
There’s no point in discussing it further.
It won’t do any good. That advantage can’t help me now. Equilas made sure of that.”
Daisy wanted to ask again what the advantage was. She wanted to judge for herself if it helped or didn’t. The Fallen didn’t seem to think so, but it was clear they thought the sun shone out of his ass. She wondered if she’d be so generous.
His pain kept her from prying, though. The raw misery she could see before her tightened her chest in sympathy. She pushed aside the empathy threatening to overwhelm her and tucked away the gnawing curiosity. She’d delve another day when he might be more inclined to share.
We are ready. Stratow’s mental voice was like a boom of thunder.
“I thought you said he was too far away to hear,” she whispered as quietly as she could.
They are. They have the ability to push out their mental voices to be heard a long way away. It’s necessary as a flier.
So you can do it, too?
He took her hand and pulled her with him. Once. I’m not a flier anymore. That magic is lost to me.
Forever? She hadn’t meant for that question to sound so crestfallen. Before finding out what he was, she couldn’t imagine a way for him to be more attractive. Those beautiful wings, though, and that beautiful, well-cut outfit that Celestial had worn would really round him out.
He gave her a strange look. That remains to be seen. Come on, we’ve stalled long enough.
It wasn’t really an answer, but then, what did it matter? If he was to be believed, and she had a sinking feeling he was, she wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy it anyway.
“What’s a champion of the court?” she asked, tugged along to the great beasts.
Lennox shot her a guarded look as he also started forward. The others wouldn’t look at her at all.
“A great distraction for the court,” Tarian said gruffly, “and the way I will explain your presence. The way I will hide your importance.”
“I do love me a good riddle,” she replied. “But what is it?”
The stormbacks waited in a half-circle, now facing northeast. Stratow stood in the middle, at the top of the arc. His mane ruffled around his face as the wind picked up speed, blowing in the direction they were all facing.
Tarian stopped beside Stratow with her hand still in his.
“The royals call it games. The gentry call it entertainment. It’s actually a blood sport.
Each member of the court puts forth their champion of choice to participate in these bloody games.
The entrants might be servants, some are pets, and many are slaves bought or abducted specifically for the games.
In addition, the throne puts forward a collection of captured fae and prisoners to attempt to win their freedom. The goal is—”
“To survive. Yeah, I get it.” She looked up at the stormback, its wings pulled in, blocking any easy way of climbing onto its back. Not that getting up that high would be easy. It wasn’t a fence she was scaling. The odds of her looking graceful were slim to none.
“No. That would imply these games are set up for the contenders. They’re not.
The games are political, like everything else.
The contenders are just pawns. Some players set up their champions to fail, thereby sucking up to royalty or making another of the gentry look stronger, tightening their alliance.
You never know why a player chooses a champion and what their end game is.
There is a lot of maneuvering amid the show.
Maneuvering I won’t bother with. No one in their right mind would form an alliance with me.
I need only to buy time to get set up without the king becoming too impatient. ”
“I assume using a human in these games will further your image as the butt of the court’s joke?
Your champion doing well, therefore, will be a slap in the face of those same people.
If I don’t die immediately, I will be a target to dispose of gruesomely and for an audience, something like they did to your girlfriend? ”
He studied her for a long time as the other Fallen jumped and climbed and scrambled onto the backs of the other stormbacks, there being no stirrups to help, and no saddles or reins to hold once up there.
“I won’t have to do much schooling in the political side of things, I see,” he said. “I’m impressed. Essentially, yes. We’ll have an uphill battle from here on out.”
“I have next to zero magic except this mythical chalice situation that doesn’t help me in the least, and you’re going to pit me against powerful, bloodthirsty fae? Super. Sounds like a real fun time followed by a wonderfully peaceful grave.”
“As I said…an uphill battle.”
She shook her head. “My life has been filled with terrible luck, and you might be the worst of it.”