Chapter 17
ON THIS OCCASION, I’m right to trust, because I wake before dusk and I haven’t been collected. The Collector shows me to the base of a long, straight staircase, with a stone arch at the top. I catch myself before I thank them, and instead say, “I appreciate your help.”
They clasp their hands and touch their chest. I suspect it’s been a long time since anyone appreciated them, let alone said it.
Then slowly, steadily, I make the climb and try not to think about the fact that if I fall, I’m falling a long fucking way. Down steps with shard-sharp edges.
Nearly at the top, I dare a glance over my shoulder. The Collector waves from the bottom.
I’m thankful for them giving me a safe place to rest. Without it, I wouldn’t stand a chance of making it up here.
At last, I crest the staircase, pass through the arch and glimpse the upper tiers as daylight seeps from them. Crystalline and dark, glinting and sharp, they stretch upward, onward, and just beyond is the top of the final gate—the only thing left in the sun.
A moment later, even that light is extinguished and I scatter into feathers and darkness.
After breakfast, I open a fresh page in my notebook and draw fourteen boxes, representing the days I have to beat the labyrinth. It looks like such a short period of time drawn out like that. And even less as I cross one out.
I might be foolish enough to make a deal with a fae king, but I’m not foolish enough to think I’m going to make it up a tier every day.
Quickly, I sketch out the tiers, label them one to six and tick off the first one.
If I’m to stand any chance of winning, I need to get to the fourth tier before the end of the first week.
No doubt the labyrinth will get harder the further I go, so I’ll need more time. I draw a thicker square for day seven.
Then I have time for some more sleep, which my muscles and joints are thankful for. I’m woken perhaps an hour later by Min, who smiles a bit too brightly and suggests we go for fresh air to wake me up before my lesson with the seer Drystan has arranged.
I bite back a groan. I’d forgotten about that.
So we dress warmly, and, trailed by a Twylth guard, Min leads me through the fortress.
I itch to talk about my experience in the labyrinth and the bargain I’ve foolishly—desperately—made with Drystan.
That smile she gave me before leaving my room stills my tongue.
Like she’s trying to seem nice rather than be nice.
Or is my judgment of her clouded by my thoughts of her king, His Royal Smuggesty?
Before I can decide, we reach a large courtyard.
The icy air is a slap in the face, pushing my tiredness into the distance, bringing the here and now into bitterly sharp focus.
The snow has been cleared and salt crunches underfoot.
Braziers light the space and the clash of steel fills it.
Alloying iron into steel renders it safe and legal on the surface—their weapons confirm the same applies here.
Fae traverse the edges of the courtyard, some wandering for the sake of wandering, like me and Min, others entering through one door and leaving through another, taking shortcuts through the fortress.
In the far corner, the rest of the Twylth spar and—
I blink.
I stop mid-step.
The breath stills in my lungs.
I’m not sure what order those things happen in or whether they occur all at once, but I know they align with the moment I spot Drystan among the redcaps.
He wields a long blade, thin and curved like the crescent moon. His hair is bound in a knot at the back of his head. But that isn’t what’s made me come over all unnecessary.
Either he’s a fool or can’t feel the cold, because he’s wearing trousers and boots, but no damn shirt.
His pale skin is perfect, and he doesn’t seem afraid of it getting nicked by Astrid’s ax, as he dodges one arcing blow, then another. He isn’t huge like Threnn, who’s sparring with another redcap off to one side, his face the picture of scowling focus.
No, Drystan is tall and lean, muscles taut and swift. There’s a particularly fascinating stretch of them running down his side, rippling as he twists out of Astrid’s reach.
I’ve read more anatomy books than I care to remember, but right now the exact name for that muscle group escapes me.
Yet I have a sudden, newfound appreciation for what they do.
They flare out, contrasting with his narrow hips and waist, leading to the broad expanse of his chest, which flexes as he sweeps his blade horizontally.
Astrid tries to dodge, but has to catch the blow on her ax.
The clang of metal upon metal wakes me from my stupor. I snap my mouth shut and draw a perfectly normal breath, fighting the urge to fan my suddenly hot face.
But my fascination isn’t done. Because as he moves, so do the two birds inked over his shoulders and chest. Their bodies stretch along the line of his collarbones, and their wings spread, one each over his chest, and one each disappearing behind his back.
And I’m still gaping.
Clearing my throat, I glance at Min to check if she’s spotted my entirely unnecessary and inexplicable staring.
I need not have worried. Her wide eyes are fixed on him. Her lips are slightly parted, and she’s leaning ever so slightly forward.
Is that what I looked like a few seconds ago? I fidget and cross my arms, faintly sick at the thought.
He left me at the mercy of the Collector. He forced me into his labyrinth, not to mention bringing me to the Underworld in the first place. I refuse to stare at him with that look on my face, no matter how nice the view.
But Min doesn’t seem so concerned.
In fact… her expression calls to something in me. Something I understand all too well. I feel it whenever I look out to sea with its wide-open promise. Whenever I watch the beach and the village in the bay below. Whenever I see the birds wheeling overhead, free and unfettered by gravity or illness.
It’s longing.
I glance back over at the king, surprised I’ve never noticed her looking at him like that before. And that’s when I realize.
It’s not him she’s watching.
Sweat gleams off Astrid’s back, highlighting the ripple of muscles and the subtle ways her shoulder blades shift as she feints and parries Drystan’s blows.
Her thick braids are knotted at the nape of her neck, but one threatens to fall free, loosening with each move.
She wears a vicious grin, like she’d happily cut her own king’s throat (an impulse I understand).
And that is who Min is staring at with such exquisite longing, it makes my heart sore.
With a gesture from Drystan, the fight breaks off, and Astrid steps back, inclining her head. As though feeling the attention, she turns our way.
Min chokes on a small sound, and I laugh and swat her arm as though we were deep in conversation and she just said something hilarious and a little naughty.
Cheeks pink, she drags her attention away from Astrid and takes a deep breath. “Do you think she saw me?”
Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent Astrid saw her staring.
But I can’t bring myself to add to Min’s mortification. “I’m sure it’s—”
“STOP.” The word isn’t spoken loudly, but its presence crackles around the courtyard, coming from Drystan.
My ears hurt, and along with everyone else, I stop.
“Singer of songs. Teller of tales.” His voice is soft now, a purr that carries a warning that should be heeded.
Unhurried, he saunters over to a steel-haired fae who’s a little taller than him. The closer the king gets, the rounder the gray-haired fae’s eyes become, until I fear they’re about to drop out of his head.
“Y-Your Majesty.” The fae tilts as though he wants to back off but his feet are frozen to the spot. At his sides, his arms go stiff.
“I heard a fascinating story about you.” Drystan’s lips curl, but his eyes pierce the taller fae, not even slightly warmed by the smile. Somehow he looks at him without seeming any shorter. “You’ve been singing songs again, haven’t you?”
“I-I-I didn’t mean—”
“HAVEN’T you?”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty.”
“And one of those songs was about me.” Drystan places a hand over his chest as though touched by the gesture.
No one else speaks, but there’s this tangible sense of expectation. It’s there in the glances swapped, the wide eyes, the way many of the unseelie lean in, pink tongues flashing as they lick their lips like there’s something delicious on the air.
Despite the warm layers I’m wearing, goosebumps creep over my arms.
Without sparing a glance for anyone else, Drystan gives the fae an encouraging nod. “Kindly share.”
“But I-I—”
“You mean you don’t want to share the brand-new song you wrote? Not with your king?”
Mouth clamped shut, the fae shakes his head.
“Then at least tell me what it’s about.”
“It was just a s-silly song, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
With a thoughtful nod, Drystan examines the length of his blade, turning it over to check its edge. “So you didn’t mean it when you said I was so desperate, my mother had to find me a bride?” His eyes flick from the blade to the fae.
“Oh no,” Min breathes.
“It was just a song. It was meant to be funny.”
“Oh. Funny.” Drystan makes a sound that on paper might be a laugh, but it makes my blood run cold. “I see. And does this strike you as funny?” He gestures to the silent, staring courtyard.
The fae shakes his head.
“Just like it wasn’t funny when I warned you last time you wrote one of your little ditties that mocked me. What was that one called? ‘The Unsmiling King?’”
“Please, Your Majesty. Give me one more chance. I’ll stop writing funny songs. I’ll—”
“Oh, my dear songsmith.” Drystan sighs and shakes his head, hand cupping around the back of the fae’s neck.
I let out a breath, relief creeping in to see Drystan drawing him closer.
“You’ve had ‘one more chance.’ The only mercy I have left is that I’ll let you live.”
It all happens too quickly for me to see exactly, but Drystan’s blade flashes, the fae lurches, screeches, then blood sprays his clothes and the king’s naked chest and a moment later there’s something pink and floppy in his hand.
My stomach rolls like some part of me saw and understood every moment.
The fae holds his mouth, making a low moaning sound, but otherwise he doesn’t move.
“There.” The king tosses the pink thing—the fae’s tongue—aside.
“Now you won’t be singing any more songs, will you?
” He stands back as though waiting for a response, then gives a cruel chuckle.
“Oh, of course, you can’t reply, can you?
” He waves over one of the redcaps. “Get him to the Physic. Order them not to reattach it.”
With that, he turns and strides in this direction.
I’m frozen. Horrified. Breakfast is a seething mass in my stomach.
Crimson streaks the broad expanse of his chest, running in rivulets over the muscles of his stomach, channeling into the V-shaped dips over his hips before soaking into his trousers.
“Ah, look, it’s Nothing,” he says with a smile and a nod, like this is merely a pleasant greeting.
Before I can gather myself to speak, he disappears into the fortress and the spell upon the courtyard breaks.
Several fae hurry over to the puddle of blood with the singer’s tongue at its center. They stand over it, as a dozen hissed discussions break out. They seem… excited.
My heart beats so quickly, I’m sure it’s going to burst.
All this over a song. I can’t marry that monster.