Chapter 60
A HUNDRED GASPS suck the air from the room.
I barely stop myself from looking at Drystan in question. Now more than ever, I’m on display. If I give away I don’t know what the hells that is, I’ll seem weak.
Instead I paint a vague, unconcerned smile upon my lips as she draws level with me and says beneath the chatter that’s broken out, “Your kindness might have beguiled the king, but it doesn’t fool me.
You are weak and not fit to be our queen.
Let’s see how your Fatework has progressed since the stables, shall we? ”
I bite back a groan. At least it isn’t trial by combat, I suppose.
At my side, Drystan has gone preternaturally still, eyes blazing as he takes in the chattering crowd. Their excitement is tangible. For them, things just got interesting.
Kishel comes forward and murmurs in my ear, “The Right of Challenge simply states the prospective consort must overcome a trial by scrying. Usually it’s predicting the outcome of something random.”
So I might be able to guess my way to victory. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I glance between him and Drystan.
Kishel winces. “It hasn’t been used in millennia. I wonder if—”
“WHAT CHALLENGE DO YOU LAY BEFORE MY QUEEN?”
The hanging crystals shatter under the onslaught of Drystan’s voice. Rainbows and quartz rain down, tinkling against the marble floor.
Then silence.
The delicate lines of Phaedra’s neck constrict as she swallows.
She’s a few shades paler than usual. But I will give it to her, she stands tall, composed.
“An important item is conspicuous in its absence today. Your Majesty wouldn’t have misplaced the Consort’s Seal, would he? And on such an auspicious occasion.”
A small muscle in Drystan’s jaw tics.
“No matter.” She cocks her head at me. “I’m sure Lady Rhiannon will find it. There is your challenge. After all, if you’re meant to be queen, surely you’ll be able to find what’s rightfully yours.”
I appear perfectly calm. At least, I pray I do. Inside, my stomach flip-flops and my heart thuds too heavily, counting down until I fail this test.
I exchange a meaningful look with Kishel. We both know my scrying is patchy at best.
From the Collector’s reaction, I understand using blood is considered taboo, dangerous. And Kishel has confessed to me that adding a substance to water is only a training tool. Some consider it cheating. But I’ve never managed a successful scrying with water alone.
My muscles hum as my mind races. I’m going to fail. And then I’ll lose my place in the Underworld—they don’t want or need a random human here, no matter what their king thinks of her.
Kishel inclines his head, though tension lines the skin around his eyes. “Perhaps Your Majesty—”
“Lady Rhiannon.” Phaedra looks down her nose at him. “The ceremony isn’t complete. She isn’t queen.”
“Yet.” Kishel’s smile could freeze the ocean. “Perhaps Your Majesty would like to carry out her scrying in the glasshouse pond.”
A lifeline. I think. It certainly feels like one as the entire court decamps to the glasshouse, buzzing with burgeoning gossip.
Drystan holds my hand all the way, thumb stroking my knuckles in a soothing, hypnotic rhythm that reminds me how to breathe steadily.
When we arrive, I understand Kishel’s plan.
Lily pads cluster at the pool’s edge where there were none days ago. It’s a long shot, but my magic might help me. Somehow.
Never mind that I haven’t managed to use it deliberately yet. Or that—
“Annon.” Drystan’s voice, commanding. “Stay with me. Stay here. Do this thing and show her you were made for me.”
The low urgency of his words cuts through me. I’m back in the labyrinth’s garden. Despite his illusion and trickery, I know there were truths spoken that day.
You were made for me.
It’s enough to break my spiraling thoughts.
Shoulders set, I approach the pool.
Other times when I’ve channeled my magic, I’ve felt the point of connection inside. So I place one hand on my chest, the paint crumbling.
Min. Asti. Drystan. Kishel. Lowen. The Collector. They all believe or believed in me. That the Collector is past tense is an exquisite pinprick of pain in my chest. But it’s warm. And there’s a thread of connection to their memory.
The lily pads stir. Something moves beneath the water. I settle my breathing and let it all unfold before me.
Buds rise from the depths and break the water’s surface.
Low murmurs surround me and I sense the crowding of fae bending in for a closer look.
At the center of the pool, a single bud, the largest, unfurls, revealing a snow-white bloom.
Moments later, a dozen more follow in rich pink and white with golden yellow at the center.
The fae’s awe is audible. Gasps. Soft sighs. Exclamations at the color.
But I watch the water. It ripples as stems and petals shift, as new leaves grow.
And in the light and shadow, I see a house I recognize.
My voice sounds like it comes from far away. “We’ll need to ride.”
An hour later, we arrive at the half-ruined cottage. Half the fae look intrigued, excited by this unexpected turn of events. The other half seem pissed off that they’ve had to throw thick cloaks over their rich attire and ride to this inauspicious little house in the middle of nowhere.
All the way here, people rode too close for me to warn Drystan where we were going, but he made a soft sound as we cut between scattered boulders and I guided us left. I think that was when he realized.
He lifts me from my horse, gaze seeking answers in mine.
All I can do is murmur, “This is what I saw.” I was wondering if he hid the seal here and staged this whole thing so I could find it and lay to rest any questions about my suitability as queen. But that look tells me he knows nothing.
Most of court hangs back, but Lord Mastelle, Asti, Min, the Apothic and the rest of the Withan follow us inside.
The floor is still strewn with debris.
“What happened here?” Min stares at the destruction.
Drystan says nothing, so I follow in kind.
Asti wrinkles her nose. “That smell…”
Kishel stands at my side. “What did you see in the water? Sometimes chaotic scenes like this can… confuse our vision.”
“Just this place.” Then I see the tall cupboard, door shut where we left it open, and there’s a pull in my chest like someone’s tied a string around my heart and is tugging on it.
The tug continues along my veins. Not pain, but the most hideous sensation I’ve endured in my life. My stomach rolls. I sway.
Drystan’s hand spreads over my back, a subtle support.
My lips dry as I gasp for breath. “There,” I croak and point.
Asti opens the cupboard.
There’s a scrape. A thud.
And at our feet lies a black-haired fae. Face gray and sunken, unmistakably dead, yet still recognizable.
Effan.