Chapter 4
Inside, the goblin and the delegate stride down the hall toward the throne room, passing in and out of pools of torchlight. They don’t glance back at me, but I swear the goblin somehow marks my every move, because when my pace alters, his does, too.
If I walk faster, so does he.
If my steps lag, so do his.
Eventually, the throne room doors swim from the shadows, and I pause, expecting the goblin to throw them wide for me. But he only gives me a meaningful once-over before turning to his fellow fae. “I don’t want you looking at her too long. Do you understand?”
The delegate lets go of a long-suffering sigh, as if he’s never encountered such a boring question before. “Of course. It would be difficult not to.”
The goblin grunts. “Good.” Without any further discussion, he tugs apart the doors and slips through. Inside, the crowd reacts immediately—screams layer with gasps, the entire room erupting in shock. Then the doors snick shut again, muffling the rest.
I frown at the timeworn wood. Did the king’s Shadow just snub me after begging me to go with him? Then again… Don’t turn your back on me, not even for a second.
Right.
“What’s wrong, little one? Having doubts?”
My attention snaps to the delegate, who leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his unearthly pink eyes trained on me.
“No,” I say. “And didn’t you just agree not to look at me?”
He lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “No. I said I understood him. Not that I’d obey.”
I absorb that, but for all his frostiness out in the garden, I detect no hostility in him now. Only impatience, and maybe even a hint of…sympathy?
But no. The fae aren’t sympathetic. They’re selfish and warlike and cruel. “Well,” I say, “I’m not having doubts. Ishanna will watch over me.”
“Ah. Right. Ishanna.” He nods, but in a way that speaks of skepticism, not agreement. “The magical, invisible woman who lives in the sky and demands total obedience.”
My brows snap together. He has that all wrong. “She doesn’t demand anything. We honor her because we want to. Because we value her guidance. Not that I’d expect you to understand that.”
“Oh, good.” He buffs his fingernails against his spotless doublet and holds them up for inspection. “Because I don’t.”
I bury the scoff forming in my throat and face the doors, my shoulders pulled back.
Clearly, this fae reveres nothing beyond his own beauty, and I refuse to let him call my faith into question.
I won’t let Amriel do it, either, or his Shadow, or anyone else.
I might be the least respected princess in Aethrolia—the only one without magic—but I’ll walk into this throne room secure in my belief that Ishanna, at least, has a place for me.
I just…need a moment, first.
I’m still standing there, steeling myself, when the delegate sighs.
“Look,” he says. “Just be careful in there, all right? Ever since the war, Amriel’s been…different. Something inside him has gone cold, these past few years.”
I blink at that choice of phrasing. The past few years? As in the two hundred that have passed since the war? That sounds like an eternity to me, but then, this immortal’s sense of time must differ from mine.
“Although,” the delegate continues, almost to himself, “I’m hoping you’ll be the one to finally change that. Because I’m sick to death of this curse, of seeing him suffer. We all are.”
The bleakness in his tone pulls my mouth downward. The fae king hardly looked to be suffering in the receiving hall, earlier. He looked savage and soulless, like he might kill a man on impulse, then think back on it later and smile.
“Why would you think I could change that?”
The delegate gives me an appraising look. “Well, that’s what we’re here for. Whichever woman Amriel Claims…” He shrugs. “She’s meant to break his curse. Or try.”
Foreboding settles heavily on my shoulders.
The terms of the treaty give Amriel the right to choose a royal woman as his mate, which I’ve always understood to be the fae equivalent of a bride.
No one has ever said anything about curse-breaking, whatever that even consists of.
“Look,” I say. “Amriel’s curse has nothing to do with me.
Or with my sisters. Tonight is just a formality, anyway.
Your king will go home empty-handed, like always. ”
The delegate tilts his head, the beads in his hair clinking softly. “Maybe. But his Shadow seems to like you, which is…different. I’ve never seen him get territorial before.”
My stomach hollows, but I push down the ache. “The king’s Shadow thinks I smell good, that’s all.”
“He likes the way you smell?”
“According to him. Yes.”
The delegate gives me a long look, one that contains none of the sympathy I imagined moments ago. Only calculation—enough to make me shiver.
“In that case,” he says slowly, “don’t you wonder if you’re his mate?”
Something in me recoils. “That goblin’s? No. He wouldn’t choose me for that.”
He snorts. “It’s not a choice, little one. Mates are destined. Marked by fate.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. Every word that comes from fae lips seems to catch me back-footed, scrambling to keep up.
The delegate notes my confusion and snorts. “Shadows below. Do you even know the first thing about us?”
I swallow a protest, because I don’t. I’ve never wanted to.
The fae are godless heathens, which has always been knowledge enough for me.
“Look, I’m no one’s fated anything, least of all that goblin’s.
Even if I was, what would it matter? He has no claim here.
Only Amriel. So just let me go inside, all right? Let me get this over with.”
The delegate’s lips clamp down on a smile. “All right, then. Go ahead. Get it over with.” He flicks both hands at me in a shooing motion.
I draw a breath that seems to go on forever. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says without a trace of irony. “And good luck.”
I scan him with narrowed eyes, trying to read the intent behind that statement, but what difference does it make? Standing here arguing with him won’t make this any easier, so before my courage can desert me, I grab the doorhandles, haul them open, and propel myself through.
Inside the throne room, an unnatural hush descends, the crowd’s chatter abruptly ceasing. Dozens of torches blaze along the walls, and I fling up a hand to ward off the sudden sting.
When I’ve blinked enough times for my vision to adjust, I brave a glance. My father stands before me, his green eyes flat. A sea of faces surrounds us—fae and human alike—but I can’t wrench my gaze from my father’s.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as evenly as I can. “But I’m here now. I’m ready.”
His eyes flicker—a brief assessment as he scans my dress, my pendant, the hair I refused to cut.
I hold my breath, hope blossoming in my heart.
Maybe he’ll realize I kept my hair out of piousness.
See my dedication to Ishanna and approve of it the same way he approves of Brynne and Evelyn and Carina.
But his attention shifts, the spark in his eye cooling. “This is a disgrace,” he says. “We should’ve started twenty minutes ago.”
The hope in my chest withers and dies, my focus instinctively falling to the floor.
For all that I’m twenty-eight now, this feels no different than the summer I turned twelve, when Carina earned her Grace.
One day, she erupted in white light while sitting at the breakfast table, and that was it.
One moment, she was like me. The next, she could heal people’s wounds with a touch.
Until then, I hadn’t known Ishanna had passed me over, not with certainty. Yes, Brynne had been Graced at the age of six, and Evelyn at eight, but I’d hung on to the belief that I was simply late. We all had. We’d expected the goddess to bestow my blessing at any moment.
But when Carina earned her Grace at seven, my life turned upside-down. That day, my father looked at me like he is right now. Like I’d ceased to matter. Like I don’t even warrant the effort of getting angry.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. The words come out wooden, though no amount of stiffness can ease the ache in my soul. “I shouldn’t have been late.”
“Tardiness is a betrayal of duty,” my father says tonelessly, “for it steals from all who wait.”
I suppress a wince. The admonishment comes from the Book of Disciplines, and he’s right to invoke it now. I’m an affront to Ishanna, showing up late like this.
I study the hairline crack in the floor, wishing I could sink into it and disappear. I shouldn’t have lingered upstairs. I shouldn’t have cut through the garden, or let that goblin—
A shadow falls across the stone, silencing my ruminations. I glance up to find the king’s Shadow beside me, blotting out the torchlight as he stares my father down.
“Step aside. Let her pass.” He delivers the command without inflection, but his expression is stormy, his stance rigid.
My father blanches, his cheeks paling until they match his graying beard.
Strained murmurs arise from the crowd—phrases like monster and inhuman and Ishanna protect us.
But the king’s Shadow never blinks. He simply looms, a monstrous imposition of indigo skin and cold eyes, of leather armor and corded muscle.
The promise of violence pours off him, staining the very air.
And somehow, inexplicably, my fear chooses this moment to recede. Questions shoulder aside my dread—what would it feel like to stand so certain like that? How different would life be if I had no one to answer to but myself?
Then reality returns, and I shake my head to wipe the traitorous thoughts from existence. How sinful to let myself feel even an ounce of curiosity toward this brute.
“The Claiming always starts at sunset.” My father meets the Shadow’s eyes. “Sariah’s late, so it’s only proper she be chastised.”