Chapter 11
SNOW RUSHES BY, thrown up by churning hooves. I’m too exhausted to lift my head to see where we’re going. Since the Wild Hunt have hold of me, I’m not sure it matters. They take the souls. I never thought to ask where.
A nagging reminder snakes through the aching cold and prods me. You can’t give up, Rhiannon. You can’t die here.
I groan because that bloody survival instinct is right. I swore to myself that when I die, it will be at home with the people I care about. Not alone. Not like this.
I try to wriggle off the saddle, but the rider’s bony hand presses into my back. After running, my body has no strength to resist.
There has to be a way to escape. Has to be. I haven’t struggled all this time, held on, searched for a cure, just to die alone in the Underworld.
Maybe, if I slump and pretend to be compliant, they’ll loosen their grip and the short rest will let me gather my energy.
But before I have a chance, they draw to a halt. With an iron grip, I’m pulled from the saddle and dropped to my feet. The sudden weight makes my knees crumple.
I’m not sure what I expected of the Wild Hunt, but it definitely wasn’t delivering me to the fortress’s towering main entrance.
And certainly not to the awaiting glower of the king.
Arms folded, flanked by Threnn and Astrid, he stands at the top of the stairs. The look he gives me could crack bone. The look Astrid gives me could crack my heart.
A harsh croak saws through the air, and I spot his three ravens perched on the high arches of the fortress windows.
I could swear they sound amused. That flash of something I saw out the corner of my eye—it was one of them, wasn’t it?
And they told the king. To think I was worried about the shadows—his ravens are the real spies.
From behind me, a rasping voice speaks in a language that makes my nerves itch.
I can’t make out a single word, and I don’t think I could replicate half the sounds they make.
I glance over my shoulder to confirm it, just in case someone else has appeared, but yes, the Wild Hunt can speak.
And apparently, they can deliver me to Drystan, too.
The stories make them sound like mindless hunters, only capable of chasing down their prey.
The king nods as the rider who carried me finishes and bows in the saddle.
“Your service is appreciated, as always.” He takes his time descending the steps, a cold curve to his lips. “I will handle things from here. I’m sure my future wife must be suffering from some sort of confusion.” That last word is gritted out as he stops before me.
“Why didn’t you—?”
He silences me with a look. “Leave us.”
The Twylth disappear inside and there’s the creak and crunch of snow as the Wild Hunt turn and ride away. The king holds out his hand. I consider rising without his help, but my thighs have started cramping and I’m struggling to take full breaths.
So I take his hand, let him jerk me to my feet without effort and hobble along at his side as he silently leads me into the fortress. His grip on my arm is like iron.
When we reach my room, the look he gives me is harder, colder than that forbidden metal. “What were you thinking? That you could run home?”
I’m so exhausted, I just want to crawl into bed, damp clothes and all.
Instead, I settle for flopping into an armchair, letting its sides cradle me upright.
“The dead have to get here somehow, don’t they?
I was going to follow their trail back and…
” I hate how weak it sounds now I say it out loud.
It makes me leave out the part where I was counting on whatever magic guards the door between worlds knowing that I’m not a banished unseelie and letting me pass.
“I belong on the surface. I’m still alive. ”
Just, my mind adds. But, no, I have years yet. As long as my heart holds out.
He strides closer, and I think he’s going to shout, but instead he looms over me, fingers pressed to his chest. “And you think I’m not?”
“You don’t act like it.” I don’t mean to blurt it, but I’m clearly too tired to be sensible.
It’s not like I’m wrong. He might as well be made of ice. His people are so lively, laughing and dancing, even if they’re cruel. Yet he has a life and doesn’t seem interested in living it.
He glares at me a long while before he finally works his jaw from side to side. “What was the first rule I told you?”
“Your word is law?”
“And you will obey it as such. You will not question me. I don’t give a damn if you agree or not, but you will not ever question me, especially in front of others.”
So he’s more concerned with appearances than the fact I don’t want to be here or, in his words, nearly got myself killed? Jaw tight, I glare back at him.
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Abundantly.”
Huffing, he shakes his head and turns away, muttering, “There are worse things in this world than the Wild Hunt.” He pauses at the door, holding the handle, and pierces me with a look over his shoulder. “They saved your damn life. Didn’t you wonder why we have such high walls?”
“Perhaps if you’d explained—”
But he’s gone before I can even finish my sentence. It’s all I can do to stagger to bed, crawl under the covers and groan into the mattress as my head rings hollowly.
Following my escape attempt, I’m kept locked in my room with one of the Twylth stationed at the door—never Astrid. It’s clearly meant to be a punishment, but it’s a relief. I’m fucking exhausted. Bone deep. Bone heavy. Bone weary in a way I haven’t experienced for years.
I sleep most of the next day and night, and use what little energy I have to pore over my notebook, which has mercifully remained hidden. I’ll come up with another plan—something that plays to my strengths, unlike running away.
For some reason, even though her services as the royal sartor aren’t required, Min comes to my room the next two evenings.
The king must’ve sent her to keep an eye on me.
Perhaps he hopes I’ll believe she’s a friend and confide any future plans for escape.
Between the ravens, the shadows and Min, he has spies everywhere, while I only have a notebook.
On the second night, she runs me a bath and helps me into it before setting a plate of those thin ginger biscuits down on a table next to me, followed by an object that makes my breath catch.
My medicine bottle.
There’s a crease between her eyebrows as she tilts her head. “This exhaustion isn’t just down to your escape attempt or missing your family, is it? Something’s wrong.”
I curl around my knees, staring at the bubbles like they might pop and reveal a convincing lie. I’m not sure there is one, but I have to try. “I’m fine. I just tired myself out running, and I’m not exactly thrilled about being locked up. And they’re just to stop me getting pregnant.”
She barks a laugh. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Who are you fucking to need to worry about pregnancy? No one comes here but me and the king, and you don’t smell of him.”
“Back home. I—”
“They’re nothing to do with pregnancy. No, I’ve seen how you look beneath the makeup and clothes. I saw how you nearly cried when you saw yourself in the mirror. You’re ill.”
Shit.
No lie is going to work here. I press my lips together.
Long moments pass.
“Tell me the truth,” she says so gently, my gaze darts to her, “and no one will hear it from me.” There’s a softness in her eyes I haven’t seen before. It tugs on me.
Fae can’t lie. Deceit yes, but no direct lies. “You promise?”
“By ash and blood, I promise I won’t breathe a word.”
I exhale, blowing a little frothy cloud off the bubbly top of the bath.
“I am ill,” I murmur. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to tell anyone that. Annem, Pa, Lowen, everyone in the village—they’ve known for years. Saying it feels strange, like explaining to someone that the sky is blue. “It can’t be fixed, but the tablets help.”
“Shit.” That’s all she says and the quiet that follows is maddening. It might last an hour or only seconds.
Or maybe it’s the question in my mind that’s truly maddening. “That’s the kind of weakness that’s dangerous here, isn’t it?”
She makes a soft sound, thoughtful, confirming.
Squeezing my knees until my fingers leave white marks, I finally look up.
Her lips twist, and I hang on that tension. She exhales, and it’s like an apology. “Annon. What you need to understand is that this place is not just dangerous physically, but socially. If you’re weak, you can’t protect yourself in the games of court, in the bids for power. It is despised.”
How she must despise me.
“And imperfection is an outer marker of weakness. Just as despised.” She traces the crescent scar on her cheek.
“Through the king and those in favor who are allowed to use my services, I dictate what is in fashion, what the highest of his court wear. My taste determines what is considered beautiful. I’ve even had other kingdoms try to tempt me to join them.
But I am… outside. Thanks to this.” She taps the scar now, and I understand—part of it, at least.
“An imperfection.”
“A weakness.” Her mouth curves slowly into a smile that only makes her look sadder. The skin around her scar crinkles.
Such a small thing. A silvery-pink arc of smooth skin. That’s all it is.
“So you see”—she inclines her head—“I have all the reason in the world to keep your secret.”
The relief breaks over me, and I lie back. Finally, the bath’s warmth seeps into me.
I may not have a friend here, but she’s an ally in this, at least.
The bright thought stays with me as I spend the night pondering another escape. Something smarter that doesn’t involve running.
The king isn’t going to send me back. He may not like the idea of a human wife, but he seems set on going through with it—living by the word of the bargain that was made, following the rules set out by his mother.
The rules…
And that’s how a new plan begins to form.