22. Sabine
Chapter 22
Sabine
A s the days pass, I slowly get used to my new reality. I reread the tales in the Book of the Immortals to sort fact from fiction. I explore the fae artifact room with fresh eyes. Through it all, I’m as cautious as curious. It would be easy to lose myself in the allure of the fae world, in the intoxicating sense that I’m a part of something ancient and mythic.
But for every story I read, I wonder what’s been left unsaid.
For every artifact I touch, I feel the weight of promises broken.
Why doesn’t girlie smile? a voice chirps from the window.
I jolt upright as the silvery-blue cloudfox bounds up onto my bedroom windowsill. Her purple-blue tongue lolls from her open jaw. Her eyes are bright, alert. Her fur floats gently like she’s underwater.
It’s you! I breathe out a long exhale. I was afraid Iyre had caught you .
She prances along the windowsill, heedless of the plummeting drop. I have news that will make girlie smile.
I dig my nails into the windowsill eagerly. Did you get the bottle?
Patience, patience. I snuck in the tower window. Found the yellow bottle but could not reach it. Locked cabinet.
I sigh, biting back my disappointment. I’ll have to find another way in. Still, you upheld your end of the bargain as best you could, so I will, too.
The cloudfox bounds from one granite rainspout to the other, her long tongue lolling in excitement. My name?
Yes, little troublemaker. I’ve decided on it. I pause for dramatic effect. It’s Plume .
Her tail wags frantically, tossing off bits of cloud that dissipate in the air.
Plume? she repeats. What means this, Plume?
It can mean a feather, as you are feather-light. I reach out and scratch her under her downy chin. It can also mean a puff of cloud. Plus, the word’s sound reminds me of how you’re always bounding about.
Proving my point, she lands on the windowsill only to immediately spring back to the waterspout.
Plume , she tests out. Plume. I love it!
A smile breaks across my lips as I watch her turn a cartwheel in the air from the rainspout to a decorative ledge.
A knock comes at the door. “Highness?” the maid asks. “Everyone is gathered in the Hall of Vale.”
“Oh—one minute!” I shout.
I have to go , I tell Plume. When I need you again, I’ll call.
I pause in front of the mirror, tugging at the fit of my gown. I made a bold choice—the obsidian-studded one with batwing sleeves. For the first time, I fastened pewter ear caps to the tops of my ears—though they pinch. I touch my cheeks, worried I applied too much blush powder.
This is all…new.
I’m seventeen years old. Freshly bathed in a barrel of frigid water. Sister Rose attacks the tangles in my ankle-length hair with a vengeance. Matron White adjusts my dress’s neckline, stuffing rags into my corset to shove up my breasts. No girl ever lured a wealthy husband with a flat chest, according to them.
The sky darkens outside, rain clouds rolling in to block the sun.
“This weather! It came out of nowhere,” Sister Rose observes, closing the shutters. Then, she frowns at me. “She looks half dead.”
“Indeed—that won’t do.” Matron White pinches my cheeks hard enough that tears fill my eyes as my blood vessels widen. “There. A touch of lady-like pink. It’s amazing what a little blood can do.”
I realize I’m fiddling with Basten’s twine ring and, for a brief moment, consider taking it off. It’s frayed. Dirty. It looks shabby against my other jeweled rings.
But then I squeeze it tightly. You might have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you.
My pulse pounds as I stride into the Hall of Vale, hoping I look more confident than I feel. All eyes turn to me, taking in my fae regalia, and I tug at the uncomfortable right ear cap .
Is it supposed to pinch this hard?
The musicians begin a lively tempo, and to my relief, attention shifts away from me as dancers move to the floor. It’s a strangely beautiful melody that calls to mind the first stirrings of autumn chill. Laughter ripples across the room as partygoers play Basel on one of the dining tables, using fat green olives as gambling tokens.
“Highness!” Artain sweeps up and immediately shoves a heavy pewter mug in my hands. “Here. Ale. As much as you can drink, as fast as you can drink. That’s the game.”
“That’s the game?” I slide him a doubtful look. “I was told tonight would be a fae competition for showcasing your powers…not your drinking prowess.”
“What can I say? Drinking is one of my many powers.” He places a hand on the small of my back to herd me toward the head table, where my father’s chair is empty, but Samaur, Iyre, and Woudix fill theirs.
I come to an abrupt halt, gaping up at the still-broken ceiling.
Dust and debris still cover the table, but that hasn’t stopped the revelry. Servants have simply placed new platters among the wreckage. Spilled raspberry jam still coats the back of Artain’s chair. Samaur fishes a hunk of bread out of the mess and dips it in spilled herbed oil. Woudix’s hound sniffs through the crumbs.
“You haven’t fixed the ceiling?” I exclaim. “It’s been days! You’re going to leave this mess?”
“No, Highness. We aren’t.” Artain’s eyes dance with mischief as he faces the crowd and announces loudly, “A toast to Lady Sabine, the fairest new member of our court!”
The courtiers cheer and lift their glasses. Since I’m empty-handed, Artain waves the ale tankard in my face until I snatch it.
Hesitantly, I sniff the bitter ale and grimace. What was it that Tati said? There’s no going back to life as it was before.
“Fine—but I want wine.” I shove the ale back at him.
Artain laughs as he signals to a servant, who brings me a glass. “To Lady Sabine!”
“To Lady Sabine!” the crowd answers.
Cheeks warming, I take a small sip, but then Artain tips the glass’s bottom until the sweet liquid fills my mouth. As wine spills down my chin, I cough and stagger backward, swiping a hand over my lips.
Artain pats me on the back with a grin. “Keep practicing, princess, and maybe I’ll get that night with you after all.”
“Not likely.” Samaur raises his own flagon.
Woudix circles the base of his wine glass with one long finger, his cloudy eyes fixed to the middle distance. “One night with you, brother, and she’d beg me for death.”
“Leave the poor girl alone, boys.” Iyre lounges back in her chair, waving a silver chalice in the air. “Have you forgotten that she’s taken? Look—she still wears that little string around her finger.”
I bristle, placing a protective hand around the loop of twine. “It’s an engagement ring. But of course, you know the full story about it, don’t you? You’ve seen it in Basten’s memories you stole.”
Iyre merely chuckles as she sips deeply from her chalice.
I turn sharply away.
As my nerves jangle, I grab another wine glass from a passing servant and down it in one chug. These damn ear caps hurt like thumbscrews. On impulse, I tug them off and drop them in my empty wine glass, trading it for a full one .
Relieved, I massage the top of my aching ear.
“Are you looking forward to tonight’s competition, Daughter?”
I jump to find Vale looming behind me. Like the others, he wears his human glamour, and without the dazzle of fey lines, I can clearly see myself in his features.
It steals my breath—it’s something I’ve never had.
Clearing my throat, I motion my wine glass toward the ceiling wreckage. “Shouldn’t we clean that up first?”
He winks. “You’re absolutely right.”
He claps his hands with a theatricality that makes my stomach feel giddy—apprehensive. He turns to address the head table. “Brothers. Sister. Come—Lady Sabine has rightly pointed out that this mess is unacceptable. Let us do something about it.”
The music stops, and the crowd drifts forward amid whispered speculation, their curiosity palpable. As the other fae make their way to the front of the hall, my father lightly touches his anatomical heart brooch, begins his transformation from King Rachillon to Immortal Vale.
His wiry, graying beard smooths out until it gleams like molten silver. Fey lines break across his temples and down the sinews of his neck. His ears lengthen to fine points, curved at the end like goat’s horns.
By the time the other fae come to stand beside him, they, too, shine in their full fae splendor.
“Lord Woudix.” Vale sweeps a hand toward the wreckage. “The first turn is yours.”
With Hawk pressed against his outer leg to lead the way, Woudix approaches the debris. He tilts his head as he lightly runs his hands over the table, feeling the dust and overturned silverware, his face as immobile as hardened clay .
He finds a full silver chalice, drinks deeply from it, and then tosses it to the floor.
A few drops of blood spill onto the stones.
My stomach tightens, dampening my mood. No one else, it seems, is bothered by the fact that he drank someone’s—or something’s—blood.
“Ah, now, we get to witness a true fae competition.”
I jump at a voice to my side and twitch to find Grand Cleric Beneveto leaning close.
He tips his own wine glass in Woudix’s direction as he quietly explains, “They’ll each take a turn, trying to outdo one another. It’s the best form of entertainment in one thousand years. Watch—Lord Woudix will use his fey.”
“Fey?”
“It’s what they gain from our sacrifices. What separates the fae from the god . It amplifies their powers, lets them achieve the impossible. Look.”
As Woudix raises his hands over the table, bolts of energy spark from his palms like small crackles of lightning, the same bruise-black color as the fey lines that run down his temples.
Goosebumps crop up along my bare arms.
“The ceiling joist was rotten,” Woudix announces to the crowd, holding his arms out over the table. “Weakened by pests.”
A clicking noise fills the air, something strangely familiar, yet I can’t place it. Suddenly, a woman shrieks as hundreds of tiny wood-bore beetles scurry out of the shattered ceiling boards, spreading down the table’s legs onto the floor.
Their faint voices barely reach my ears— hungry hungry hungry hungr —when Woudix brings down his hands .
Bolts of energy pulse over them, and the beetles fall dead instantly, their carapaces clattering onto the floor like an overturned jar of buttons.
My mind reels, the echo of their voices fresh between my ears. S o much death .
“That fey—it comes from us? Humans?” I try to keep my voice steady.
Beneveto signals toward a tall, raven-haired woman watching Woudix from the sidelines. “Arden is Woudix’s main acolyte. She’s dedicated her life to him. She fucks him, she worships him, she drains her blood for him to drink. In return, he kills the tumors that would put her in the grave.”
Arden watches Woudix with the same blind devotion as the dead hound at his side. As soon as he lowers his hands, she rushes up to fall to her knees, kissing his boots. Mildly annoyed, he begrudgingly lets her fawn all over him.
Vale nods toward the God of Day. “Samaur. Your turn.”
Samaur motions to the voluptuous twins in the audience. They saunter up, and the first one leans in as though for a kiss, but her lips and Samaur’s don’t meet. Instead, he breathes in her breath until she stumbles backward against a table, dizzy and giggling.
He repeats the act with the second one.
Then, he approaches the banquet table. Shaking his head dramatically, he tsks at the hundreds of dead beetles.
“You left an even worse mess, brother.”
His golden eyes begin to burn as bright as the sun. The crowd murmurs excitedly. Fancifully dressed ladies bounce on their toes, squealing with impatience.
Samaur winks at me. “Watch this, princess.”
The God of Day’s affinity is fire, and when he lifts his hands, a bolt of flame-orange fey crackles over the table. The flashes of light illuminate the attendees’ rapt faces. Faster than a blink, the fey burns the dead beetle husks—as well as the dust, debris, and spoiled food—while leaving tonight’s banquet offerings untouched.
One of his twin acolytes cheers. The other raises her glass.
“To the God of Day!” the first one says.
“May he always burn hot as fire !” cries the second one.
“I’m not finished!” Samaur announces, then loops his arm around my neck and breathes in my ear, “Watch.”
He shoots another burst of fey, which crackles over the broken glass shards from the fallen chandelier. The crystal pieces glow red, begin to liquify, and then form back into their original shape until they are as finely chiseled as when they first hung from the ceiling.
Samaur squeezes me hard enough to draw a squeak.
Servants hoist the repaired chandelier back into place. Bawdy cheering rings out, silenced only when my father lifts his hand. “Artain. It is your turn.”
With his usual arrogance, the God of the Hunt loops his thumbs through his belt as he swaggers up to the table. Shirtless beneath his leather vest, his bare muscles shine with freshly applied oil.
A woman murmurs to her friend behind me, “I wouldn’t mind if he hunted me down.”
“Oh, darling,” a man purrs, eyeing Artain’s bulging muscles. “I know exactly what you mean.” He fans his hand like a tiger’s claw.
I hide a snicker behind a loose fist. Artain is exceedingly pretty—that’s undeniable. A blonde-haired, chisel-jawed illustration stepped off the page with muscles on top of muscles on top of muscles, but I will never be able to take seriously a god who refuses to wear a shirt.
Artain takes his time collecting fallen nails from the wreckage, much to the crowd’s confused murmurs. He holds one up to the light, frowning, and then licks a drop of raspberry jam off its point.
Next, he selects four arrows from his quiver and swaps out the pointed tips with the nails.
“Lady Sabine.” He nocks one of the modified arrows. “Would you do me the honor of blindfolding me?”
I snort, rolling my eyes. He has to be joking.
However, the audience oohs and aahs in perfectly serious anticipation. “Oh—um.” Feeling wobbly, I pluck at my dress sleeve, wondering what to use as a blindfold.
“With your hands .” Despite Artain’s smile, impatience rings in his voice.
I level a hard look at him. He thinks he’s so clever? I can’t let this preening dolt have any more reason to admire himself.
I down the rest of my ale, then slam the flagon on a table. “ Sure .”
For as broad as his shoulders are, Artain isn’t especially tall. On my tiptoes, I can easily reach around from behind to cover his eyes. As he draws his bow, his loose hair brushes against my lips, and I grimace, trying not to make too much of a show as I spit it away.
“Lord Vale,” Artain announces. “If you would please lift the fallen beam.”
All eyes shift to my father, who leans back on his throne to evaluate the hole in the ceiling. My stomach tightens, unsure what to expect. Are my palms sweating? Gods, I hope not. I’d hate to give Artain the satisfaction of knowing I’m not as cold-blooded as them.
Vale brushes his hand over the broken ceiling joist. Blue bolts of fey crackle over it, slowly lifting the heavy beam into the air as surely as if hoisted by a rope.
Artain takes his time aiming, then lets loose the first arrow.
Even blindfolded, his aim strikes true. The nail-tipped arrow drills one corner of the suspended joist back into place. The spent arrow shaft rains down, and female courtesans scamper after it like a party favor.
Artain smirks at the cheers as he lets loose a second arrow. Perfect aim.
A third. Perfect again.
For the final arrow, he’s preening with confidence, and I smile to myself. Time to put him in his place.
I push higher on my toes and lick his pointed ear.
His bowstring falters, sending the arrow shooting into the evening’s honey-glazed roast turkey.
The crowd gags in surprise.
Artain whirls around to face me, knocking my hands away, an angry shade of red staining his cheeks. “You tricked me, princess.”
I give a thin smile. “Now you know how it feels.”
He stalks toward me, muscles coiled, hot energy rolling off him. His glowing eyes flash as he murmurs low, “If you want your tongue on me, just ask. One night together, and I’d?—”
“Enough.” My father’s booming voice cuts him off. “Your turn has concluded, Artain. Go nurse your loss with a bottle. Iyre is next. ”
Iyre delivers a sharp poke with her long nail to Artain’s exposed navel. “Step aside, brother. Enough with you males and your grandstanding. Your way of fixing still leaves a mess.”
She sweeps her hand over the overturned dishware. As her eyes burn with a glow that holds both the blue and red of a flame, sparks of fey crackle from her palms.
The sparks, however, sputter. Plates clatter listlessly. A fork moves an inch.
Samaur laughs. “Is that all you’ve got, sister?”
Frustrated, Iyre scowls down at her palms.
Woudix murmurs, “You require a renewal of your power. You shouldn’t have missed yesterday’s offering ceremony in the Garden of Ten Gods. When was the last time you went through your offerings? Or took a sacrifice from an acolyte?”
She snaps her fingers sharply at Paz. “Paz. Get over here.”
Paz, lounging to the side with Arden and Samaur’s twin acolytes, wags a teasing finger. “I adore you, Lady Iyre, but I think you’ll have to accept this loss.”
The other humans chuckle, winking at one another, satisfied to see their gods imperfect for once.
Iyre purses her lips in barely contained humiliation.
“Paz is right, Iyre,” Vale rasps. “Go find yourself a renewal source. Today, you’ve lost. The game is over.”
Paz exclaims, “Wait, wait! Not all the competitors have shown us their talents yet!”
Iyre shoots him a cold look. “What are you talking about?”
“The fae played. Now, let a human.” Mischievous mirth twinkles in his eyes. With one hand holding a sloshing bottle of wine, he points the other at me.
As all eyes turn to me, the blood drains out of my face .
I blurt out, “ Me ?”
It’s such a silly idea that I could laugh.
I do laugh, then, and it rolls from a chuckle into a full-on fit as I double over in giggles. Oh. Great—I’ve had way too much wine. I feel my tipsy thoughts slide into unstable territory. It’s preposterous, really. Not the competition. The fact that I’m here at all. That people are calling me “Highness” when months ago, I was shoveling goat manure. That my father is King of Fae. That half the gods are awake and prancing their pretty faces openly.
The fact that…I don’t hate it.
As my laughter dies, I realize that everyone else watches me in perfect seriousness.
Quickly, I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Wait—you’re serious?”
Paz grins. “You might not be fae, Highness, but you are godkissed. And it’s time a human shows these gods that they’re not the only ones with dominion over this world.”