Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
ALLERIA
Silence greets his words, and then Vel breaks off from her pacing to look at Cairn.
“Is that because you agree with me, or because you don’t believe Alleria is safe here?”
He looks at her. “I don’t agree with either of you. Rushing into Sorynmar is reckless, and spending days collecting information is useless. If the past three centuries have reshaped Underhill, waiting here changes nothing.”
Vel’s lips compress into a thin line, and I hold my breath. I don’t understand why she’s unhappy with his decision. She was the one who wanted to leave today. But then she gives a single nod, and strides for the main staircase.
As if her departure is a sign, the rest of the Guard start moving. Kaelith and Sorel go left through an archway. Iorel, Caelum, and Vessara take the same stairs as Vel. Serath, Maerwyn, and Riahn move toward the archway that leads into the courtyard.
Brael remains propped against the wall, while Therin goes back to picking at his nails with his dagger. For a while, silence fills the hall. Then Brael pushes off the wall and pulls out a chair.
“Matters of debt.” He spits the words out, dropping onto the seat, which creaks beneath him.
“He chose that phrase on purpose.” Therin doesn’t look up. “Call a thing a debt, and then the person it’s targeted at will pick out a payment that’s worse than the original debt calls for.”
“After what they did, the debt is theirs.”
“They know that.” Cairn’s voice is calm. He hasn’t moved from his position at the head of the table. “It’s why they sent Mirisath. They wanted to see what three hundred years in the mortal world turned us into.”
“And he’s definitely the one to send for that,” Therin says. “He’d catch a flinch the rest of them would walk straight past.”
“What annoys me is that, out of everyone in Sorynmar, it was him.” Brael reaches for the flagon of ale in the center of the table, and pours it into the goblet that appears in front of him.
Therin snorts. “He’d swim a hundred leagues of brackish water for the chance to stand in our halls and insult us like that. Brine—”
“Veined bastard.” Cairn and Brael say it together, without a breath between them.
They look at each other, and laughter fills the air. Brael’s is a low rumble. Therin’s quick and bright. Cairn’s is softer, but no less filled with humor.
It’s that laugh that loosens my tongue.
“What was he?” Three heads turn toward me. “His eyes, the webbing between his fingers … he didn’t look like any of you.”
Therin’s smile sharpens into something gleeful and unkind, and I realize I’ve handed him a gift.
“A Fuath. A water-thing. Old, even by our reckoning. They breed in the cold deep places the Sea Court won’t lower themselves to visit. The Court fishes one out whenever it wants something done at arm’s length.” His lips curl. “Cowards. Every last one of them. Mirisath most of all.”
“He didn’t seem like a coward.”
“They never do.” The dagger lies forgotten in Therin’s hand.
“Let me tell you about that slippery piece of trench-rot. Three hundred years ago, when it was being argued whether the Guard should cross into the mortal world, no one argued harder for it than he did. It had to be done. It had to be us. He swore it until his voice gave out.” Any trace of humor leaches from his face and voice.
“And when the riders were chosen to accompany us and it was time to cross, he found himself needed, very suddenly, elsewhere.”
Therin slides the dagger into his belt and stands. “I have a sudden need to stab things.” He looks at Brael. “Do you want to spar for a while?”
Brael nods, and pushes back from the table. The two of them leave without another word. Their footsteps fade along the hallway, leaving only Cairn and me at the table.
He leans forward, fills a delicate glass with a sparkling pink liquid, and pushes it toward me. “Try this. I think you might like it.”
I lift the glass and take a sip. Sweetness explodes on my tongue. “What is it?”
“Juice from the Vashmari fruit.” He points toward a curved pink fruit in the bowl. “Squeezed fresh. Similar to the orange juice in the mortal realm.” He angles a look at me that I can't quite read. “It also helps settle nerves.”
“I’m fine.” My protest is immediate.
“You are strangely calm, yes.”
I take another sip of juice, and grab the first thing that comes to mind. Anything to change the subject. I don’t want to think about what happened this morning. The voice, the garden, or what it might mean.
“There was a book left for me on the balcony yesterday. A history of Underhill. I guess the brownies thought I should read it. It said all the courts are ruled by queens.”
He inclines his head. “That’s correct, yes. Succession is always through the female line. But because we are long-lived, sometimes the Queen-in-Waiting become … impatient, and find ways to make their wait shorter.”
I gape at him. “They murder the existing Queen?”
He shrugs. “It’s been known. As long as it’s done within the rules of our kind, it’s acceptable.”
“That’s …” I pause, trying to make sense of it. “It said the Sea Court is ruled by Queen Lirael Thalor, and her seat of power is the Palace of the Ninth Tide. Is she the one who sent the Fuath?”
Cairn reaches for the flagon Brael left, fills a goblet, and drains it before he sets it back on the table.
“The book is wrong.” His voice is rough.
“But—”
“Lirael Thalor is the queen we crossed into the mortal world for.”
Oh.
Cairn’s face has turned to stone. I have no idea what to say, so I stay silent. He fills his goblet again, drains it, then turns to me.
“We have many hours before we need to ride.” His voice smooths out quickly. “What would you say if I suggested we return to my quarters for the day, and find ways to entertain ourselves?”
Heat immediately unfurls low in my stomach, and my mouth turns dry. “I’d like that very much.”
He gets to his feet and holds out a hand, then guides me toward the staircase which leads up to his rooms.
The wind coming off the sea bites through the leather riding clothes Cairn formed for me and carries the salt tang of the water. Around me, the Nightwild Guard is preparing to ride out, summoning steeds, and adjusting leathers.
I take a breath, push down my nerves, and reach inside me for Nytheros.
Come.
Warmth gathers against my side, and the steed steps out of the mist. He lowers his head, huffing a breath of hot air against my cheek. I run my hand down his neck, my fingers sinking into his mane, still marveling at the fact that he’s real, and he’s mine.
“It’s a shame the wings are missing. They were a nice touch.”
I jump at the sound of Therin’s voice, and twist around. He’s brought Kaethros up beside me so quietly I didn’t even hear him. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his saddle pommel, and studies Nytheros with a critical eye.
I stare at him. “Wings?”
Therin’s mouth curves into a grin. “Oh, didn’t he tell you about that?”
I glance at where Cairn is already mounted on Selveryn and talking to Vel in a low voice. His attention is on the road and the Guard in front of him.
“Let’s agree that he didn’t, and that you’re going to tell me now.”
“When you summoned this beast on the scaffold, he didn’t just appear. He erupted.” Therin gestures expansively with one hand. “Breathed fire. Scattered the guards. Then he sprouted wings, and flew straight up into the sky, taking you with him.”
My jaw drops. “He flew?”
“Like a dragon.” Therin’s voice is cheerful. “It was all incredibly dramatic. And terrifying … for the humans, anyway. Cairn nearly lost his mind. Not from terror, obviously. He’s gone up against dragons before. A flying horse isn’t going to—”
“Therin!”
“Oh, right. Anyway, we had to break out of the city, meet up with Vel and Serath, and then ride our steeds into the ground trying to race a flying nightmare across the countryside, in the rain.” His expression makes it clear how he feels about that.
“And then find you before the humans did … or you fell off your dragon-horse and plummeted to your death.”
I look at Nytheros. He blinks at me slowly, somehow able to give off the impression of innocence. “I don’t remember any of that.”
“You were unconscious. Which was probably for the best, really.” He pats Kaethros’s neck. “Still, it makes for a great story. One I plan to embellish significantly the next time we find a tavern.”
Before I can ask him anything else, Cairn lifts a hand. “Let’s ride.” He doesn’t shout, but the command reaches every corner of the courtyard.
Therin immediately moves up to take his place on Cairn’s left.
I swing up into Nytheros’s saddle. He shifts beneath me, eager to move. Cairn turns Selveryn toward the gates, which swing open silently at his approach, and the Guard falls into line behind him.
I hesitate, my hands tightening on the reins as I watch the Guard ride past me, armor flowing over both them and their steeds as they move. My mind fills with a painting of the Wild Hunt I saw once.
I know the Nightwild Guard isn’t the Wild Hunt, but gods …
What am I doing here? I don’t belong. I’m not fully fae. I don’t understand magic. How did I become the twelfth rider of a legend?
I’m nothing here. A twenty-one-year-old princess who, until a week ago, thought she was human. I can’t even protect myself from strange voices calling me out of crowded rooms. How am I supposed to stand as one of the Nightwild Guard?
I hang back, watching as Vessara and Kaelith move past me.
Maybe if I wait here, they’ll go on without me. Cairn is distracted, the bond between us a faint hum that means he’s focused on something else.
I know that’s a foolish idea before it even finishes forming. Cairn would absolutely notice, and would not be impressed.
Still, I hesitate, tempted to stay at the back. Movement shifts on my left, and Brael takes his steed ahead of me, then twists in his saddle.
“We were all the newest member once, Alleria.” He smiles, then turns back around.
Caelum falls back to take a place behind me. They both adjust their pace to match mine, silently boxing me in, placing me in the middle—the safest, most protected position in the formation—and making it impossible for me to do anything but move forward, through the gates and onto the bridge.
The last time I crossed this bridge, I did everything I could to avoid looking down. Nytheros moves forward confidently, and I find myself relaxing into the saddle, fingers loose on the reins as he follows Trasviel.
“The bridge is narrow to make it harder to attack Nightward,” Caelum says from behind me. “It’s hard to invade somewhere when your soldiers can only move single-file across a bridge that’s quite capable of sending you into the sea.”
“Has anyone ever tried to attack Nightward?”
A snort comes from Brael. “Fae sometimes do stupid things, but they’re not usually suicidal.”
We reach the end of the bridge. As soon as Selveryn’s hooves touch the ground, he surges forward, and the rest of the steeds follow.
For a few strides, Nightward Keep remains behind me—the black rise of its walls, the open gates, the bridge stretched over the water. Then Nytheros’s gait lengthens beneath me, and the keep vanishes.
I brace my legs against his flanks, anticipating the jarring impact of a gallop, but it never comes. The Nightwild steeds do not run. They glide. Nytheros moves beneath me with fluid, effortless grace, his strides eating the miles as magic pulls the horizon toward us.
A jagged ridge of stone far in the distance becomes the ground beneath our hooves in a handful of paces. A river weaving to the left is there and gone in the span of a heartbeat. A stand of trees is ahead and then behind.
Brael stays a length ahead of me, Caelum holds the same distance behind. Whenever the ground breaks or tilts, one of them drifts closer, then eases back, ensuring I don’t fall behind.
Although, I don’t think Nytheros would allow that to happen.
At the head of the column, I can see Cairn, and through our blood bond I get a vague sense of his focus on the road ahead.
Somewhere during the ride, the doubts I carried out of the courtyard go quiet. They’re hard to hold onto with Nytheros beneath me and the Guard riding around me.
I smile into the dark. I might lack fae strength. I might barely understand the magic tied to me. But I have this. And it’s more than I had in the palace I was raised in.
I lose track of how long we ride. A dull ache creeps into my thighs from gripping the saddle. We travel for what feels like hours, the distance collapsing beneath the steeds’ hooves as the country changes around us.
The hills sink and flatten to pale rock, the grass thins and disappears. The air turns cold and wet against my face, and threads of mist lift off the ground and curl past us, silver where the moonlight finds them.
Then I hear it. A vast, slow roar somewhere ahead, so deep I feel it in my chest. Cairn pulls Selveryn to a stop, and the Guard forms in a row either side of him. I move Nytheros into place beside Vessara, and gasp.
The ground falls away before us. Below us, the sea is glowing—a vast turquoise expanse, lit from somewhere beneath the surface. The light washes up the cliff through the mist and over the Guard, bathing us in a soft, unearthly blue.
Vessara turns to me. “Welcome to the Sea Court.”