24. Sabine
Chapter 24
Sabine
S how the gods that they’re not the only ones with domain over this world.
As night gives way to the first light of dawn, I stand beneath the Hall of Vale’s newly repaired crystal chandelier with every eye on me.
My mind reels. My lungs seize. To be frank, I shouldn’t have had so much wine.
But here I am.
“They’re gods ,” I state, swaying slightly. “I can’t compete with them.”
Woudix’s acolyte, Arden, claps her hands in delight. “Oh, Highness, try! Just because a human hasn’t ever competed in fae trials doesn’t mean one can’t now!”
Samaur’s twins pound on a table in unison. “Here, here!”
Well—this is new. Being cheered on to win. The humans at Drahallen Hall may live in the shadow of five fae gods, but they clearly enjoy seeing their masters knocked down a peg.
Still, I’m not keen to humiliate myself .
I raise my glass to the gods in surrender. “Maybe next time.”
But the courtiers smell blood in the water. “Winged Lady! Winged Lady!”
“Where did they even hear that name?” I murmur aloud.
Artain rests his hand on my shoulder. “Word spreads, princess. We’ve all heard one version or another of the Winged Lady’s attack in Duren’s arena. Go ahead, give us a taste of that vicious godkissed power of yours.”
I shrug out from under his hand, rolling my eyes. “I don’t think so.”
He scoffs, “What’s the matter? Does our power intimidate you?” A wicked gleam sparks in his eyes. “Or are you not curious about the winner’s prize?”
I hesitate. “What prize?”
“A sip from the Meden Cup, of course!” Samaur punches his fist in the air to the chorus of raucous applause from the crowd.
My head spins at all the noise. Frankly, I have no idea what the Meden Cup is or what vile concoction it likely contains.
Human blood? Goat piss?
Still, the thrill of a challenge has worked its way under my skin. For so many years, I wasn’t allowed to have fun. To drink. To dance. To celebrate my godkiss.
“What the hell.” I grin, slightly uncertain. “I’ll play.”
My words are met with more enthusiasm from the human courtesans, who laugh and clap in anticipation.
Artain slaps me on the back. “That’s the spirit, princess!”
I cough, trying to hide how his inhuman strength nearly knocked me to my knees .
Someone—Arden, maybe? —thrusts another glass of wine in my hand, and before I second-guess myself, I down it in one long glug. That was…maybe a mistake. Wiping my lips, I scan the room tipsily, struggling to make calculations.
I rest my hands on my hips. “Open all the windows.”
Paz, Arden, and the twins jump into action, unlatching the Hall of Vale’s tall, arched windows. An unseasonably wintery breeze rolls in, ruffling my gown, tickling my ankles with a rush of excitement.
I roll back my shoulders, standing tall, feeling the adrenaline enter my system. This is what Rian taught me—the allure of a game, the intoxicating rush of outsmarting an opponent.
I catch snippets of conversations. Low murmurs of bets being placed. The room feels alive, and I can’t help but feed off that energy.
The game is on, and I’m ready to play.
I climb onto the banquet table, knocking over a goblet, but ignore its clatter as I lift my hands toward the open windows.
Come, friends! I call. Join our feast!
Everyone spins toward the windows as they seem to hold a collective breath. No one here can hear my godkissed voice—not even the fae—so to them, I am merely staring at the windows.
Time stretches. A musician drops his violin, the strings squealing in protest.
Then, a storm hits.
It’s a flurry of wings and feathers. First, the blackbirds come. They were closest to the castle, pecking in the kitchen garden outside. Next, a flock of tiny gold-winged finches swoop in and land on the cheese platter. One of the royal falcons, still wearing leather thongs, circles over the attendee’s heads before tearing into the roast turkey. A pair of swans who usually live in the Twilight Garden fly in and fight over a crusty loaf of bread.
As more birds pour through the windows, gusts from their beating wings ripple throughout the hall, blowing over cloth napkins and leaving women to clutch their curls.
“Exceptional!” a courtesan cries.
“Look—they’re still coming!” Paz’s face shines in awe as he points to the windows.
More birds pour in—lapwings and jays, barred owls, a buzzard. Their wings throw shadows over the ceiling as they circle over the guest’s heads, diving down now and again to pluck a treat from the banquet table.
“Not too bad for a human—” Artain begrudgingly starts, but his praise falls on uncaring ears as I sharply pivot away from the birds to face the rear wall that flanks the kitchen.
Little scavengers , I call. Come, eat your fill!
Gasps ripple through the crowd as the floor begins to vibrate, causing the water glasses to tremble. From the open doors, hundreds of rodents stream into the hall. Plain brown mice who live in the walls. A few timid rats from the kitchen. A family of chittering red squirrels. A pair of rabbits from the kitchen garden, followed by a beaver who waddled all the way from the river valley.
Guests exchange incredulous glances as they spin in circles to take in our company. A few attendees press their hands over their mouths, unable to contain their marvel, while others point excitedly.
“That buzzard is eating Iyre’s slice of cake!” Arden exclaims with a laugh .
I stamp my heel against the table three times. Come, the rest of you! Join the party!
Honeybees buzz through the windows, waltzing aimlessly until they discover the honey-glazed tarts. A cloud of iridescent dragonflies takes wing around the chandeliers. Ants creep through tiny wall cracks by the thousands, parading in fanciful lines between the partygoers.
I climb down from the bench to revel in the presence of all my woodland friends. The chamber is filled from floor to ceiling with animals that coo and chirp and chitter, and my heart feels so overjoyed that I spin in a slow circle, weaving my hands among the cartwheeling dragonflies.
A nuthatch lands on my shoulder to chirp a pretty melody. Rabbits hop between my feet, chasing berries rolling across the floor. Tiny claws delicately climb up my gown, and I gasp in delight at her familiar face.
Little friend! I exclaim.
The forest mouse perches in my palm. What a feast! And to think, you tried to leave.
This place is not at all what I expected , I admit with a nuzzle of my nose to her soft fur.
The crowd gasps in awe as ladies dodge swooping owls. The Blades’ self-satisfied smirks have vanished, replaced by expressions of disbelief. Iyre gapes openly, dumbfounded, at the legion of animals.
Vale slowly rises from his place at the table, clearing his throat. At the scrape of his chair, all eyes turn to him. I hold my breath, clutching the mouse in my palm, waiting.
Slowly, Vale brings his hands together. "We have our winner—Lady Sabine!”
A brief pause blankets the air like the calm before a storm…and then the crowd erupts .
The force of their applause deafens me, raw energy crashing around me like a tidal wave. My cheeks burn in a sudden flood of pride. Back in Astagnon, such a spectacle would have incited screams. The crowd would have tripped all over each other to escape the swarm of creatures.
But Volkany—these people—revel in what I can do.
A grin cracks my face as I nod to the lords and ladies who press forward to congratulate me.
“Humanity scores a win!” Paz exclaims, draping an arm around my shoulders.
Arden laughs as she ducks beneath a swooping blackbird. “You’ve done the impossible, Lady Sabine!”
“Bested the fae?” I ask.
She shakes her head, grinning. “You’ve found a way to make a fae party even wilder !”
The musicians take up a spirited tune. Laughing, Paz and Arden pull me onto the dance floor, but just as my feet begin to catch up with my head, Iyre clamps her hand around my wrist.
“Your father wishes to speak to you,” she hisses low in my ear.
My good mood dims slightly as she drags me toward the head table, nudging the beaver out of our way with her boot. At the table, honeybees cover nearly every pastry, and the squirrel family has nibbled the turkey to the bone.
Iyre releases me, and I stumble, wine-drunk, before resting a hand on a chairback.
Pull it together, Sabine. “Father.”
Vale folds his arms, his face unreadable behind the wild beard. “There was the matter of a prize, Daughter.”
My heart begins to patter again in a tentative mixture of pride and apprehension. I dare to meet his eyes. In the fae stories I was told as a girl, “prizes” from the fae could be as much a curse as a blessing. But the spirited dance music hums through me, its jaunty chords stoking the hidden part of me that revels in this party.
“I would be honored,” I croak.
His massive hand cups the narrow point of my chin. “You did well. You proved yourself a credit to me and to your mother.”
His stern face breaks into a smile.
My heartbeat takes up a strange, feather-light pattern. In twenty-two years, I’ve never had a parent say they’re proud of me. Maybe it’s silly to care at my age, but standing before Vale in all his immortal splendor, I can’t help but feel like a thirteen-year-old girl again, writing a letter to my father in hopes of a scrap of affection.
I swallow, fumbling with the twine around my finger.
Vale holds out his hand, and my heartbeat stumbles before I take it. He lifts our joined hands high, showing me off to the audience.
He commands in a ribald cry, “Bring the Meden Cup—if you can find it under a beaver’s ass!”
Drunken laughter rips through the air until the chandeliers’ crystals tremble. Servants, their grinning faces and wine-sweet breath revealing they've indulged as much as the courtiers, clear the head table.
They nudge a mallard off the gravy tureen. Gently dump a half dozen mice out of the breadbasket. All the while, dragonflies pinwheel overhead to the music.
I’m swept deeper into the chaos by Samaur on one side and Artain on the other, who wrap their arms around my back as they usher me to the table’s opposite side. A dove alights from a half-finished plate, nearly crashing into my head, and I barely duck in time.
My head doesn’t seem to be entirely in sync with my body. I list to the left, leaning into Samaur’s shoulder to steady myself.
He laughs as he tweaks my cheek. “You hold your alcohol about as well as a suckling pig, Highness.”
My tongue feels thick as I fumble for a retort. The thing is, alcohol isn’t what’s making my head whirl like a top. Well—not alcohol alone . I’ve never felt such a heady intoxicant as this wonderous place. Fae gods. A symphony of wings overhead. A serenade of tails at my feet.
A father whose eyes shine with pride.
It’s a strange harmony that makes my chest ache for something I’ve never had.
Blinking, I realize servants have cleared the table in record time. It’s now covered with a fresh velvet tablecloth and, on that, a single piece of black silk.
Artain lifts the simple scrap of silk. “Before she sips from Meden’s prize…”
The crowd yells out the rest of the chant. “…a blindfold shall cover her eyes!”
Before I know which way is up, Woudix appears behind me, fastening the fabric around my eyes. His cold fingers brush my temple as he knots the blindfold in the back, making goosebumps lift along my skin. He’s the Ender, after all. Whose knees wouldn’t go weak?
I press my palms against the smooth black silk.
“Why do I need a blindfold?” I ask with a high note of worry.
Instead of an answer, I’m jostled from one god to another as Samaur leads me back to the dance floor among the crowd’s tipsy giggles.
Let’s be real—I’m not totally blindfolded. I could ask the animals to tell me what’s happening. Plus, I can peek out the bottom. Still, a part of me doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. I never had a chance to play games as a child. No Blindman’s Bluff with farm girls. No hopscotch with other lord’s daughters.
Samaur takes both my hands in his as he shouts to the musicians, “Play ‘In the Meadow of Dreamers’!”
A quick-paced tune springs to life as Samaur spins me in dizzying circles until I’m stumbling over my own feet.
“Before she sips, twelve times she’ll spin…” he recites, and the audience immediately responds in a chant, “…to lose her way before the win!”
My sense of balance tilts off-kilter as Samaur catches me, holding me steady as my head spins.
“ This is the prize?” I whisper. “Getting me dizzy enough to puke?”
He chuckles in my ear.
I peek out from the bottom of the blindfold as Samaur leads me back to the head table. The fabric is thin enough for me to make out vague outlines, and it looks like the servants have delivered a new, large platter.
Samaur guides me to my place, and then Woudix’s cool fingers brush my bare shoulders.
My ears perk up at the sound of someone uncorking a bottle. The audience is doing a poor job of containing their snorts and giggles. From the blindfold’s narrow bottom gap, I can peek at a suspiciously bare curve of tanned skin on the table.
Those muscles? Yeah, only one god has brawn like that .
Vale takes over the chant, reciting in his rasp, “Now comes the time for all to hush…”
The crowd laughingly answers, “…for the Meden Cup shall make one blush!”
My head feels as bubbly as champagne as my heart thumps faster, wondering what kind of fae trick I’ve gotten myself into.
Woudix guides me forward with one cold hand resting on the back of my neck, gently pressing my head toward the table. I hold out my hands to pat the air, making up for my lack of sight, and discover that where a plate should be, my fingers graze a taut male bicep instead.
I cheat by peeking through the blindfold gap.
Yep. As I suspected. Fantastic .
Artain is laid flat on the table, shirtless as usual, only this time, he’s also shed his leather vest and belt. His trousers are shoved an inch beneath his navel. Someone—Iyre, judging by the flash of a long white sleeve I make out—pours a dram of whiskey into Artain’s navel.
“Drink deeply from the cup, Highness,” Woudix’s coarse voice murmurs in my ear, and I shiver as he bends me forward.
What the hell am I doing? My lips hover a few inches above Artain’s ripped abs. The blindfold hardly hides the “surprise” in store—that the “Meden Cup” means slurping a dram of whiskey out of a god’s navel. It’s beyond ridiculous. Childish. Perhaps the silliest thing I’ve heard of in my entire life.
Artain snickers, doing a poor job of playing an inanimate object.
I groan inwardly. It’s just a game.
The crowd eggs me on as I brace my hands on the table, feigning ignorance that the God of the Hunt is currently serving as my drinking glass.
“As a daughter of Volkany and winner of tonight’s competition,” I announce, feeling equally absurd and amused, “I accept my prize!”
Among the crowd’s laughter, there’s a ripple of commotion at the back of the hall. Raised voices tickle my ears. Guards’ footsteps clomp on the floor, but the echo of their steps is muffled by all the flapping wings from my invited guests.
“To the gods!” I laugh as I make a mock cheer, then lean forward and slurp whiskey from the dip in Artain’s abdomen.
The alcohol is spicy and warm, and burns pleasantly over my tongue. I straighten, grinning triumphantly, and reach to untie my blindfold?—
But the room has gone strangely silent.
I pause.
Why isn’t the crowd falling over themselves with laughter? Why aren’t the musicians playing again? Why hasn’t Artain made some asinine joke about my lips on his bodily fluids?
My fingers freeze on the blindfold’s knot, suddenly uncertain that I want to see what has rendered everyone so speechless.
Mouse-talker , the forest mouse whispers urgently in my head. Take off your blindfold. Captain Tatarin has returned…
My stomach flips. As though moving through a sluggish dream, I tug the knot loose, and the black silk flutters away from my face.
Most of the birds have found roosts on the chandelier or disappeared back into the night. The rest of the animals have followed the servants to the kitchen to finish off the scraps.
Guards now flank a wide aisle through the crowd, and Tati stands at their head in a mud-splattered indigo cloak, her hair mussed from her journey.
And my heart stops .
Because she isn’t alone.
Basten stands at her side, wrists shackled in iron chains, as travel-worn and filthy as the rest of the soldiers. A vicious bruise marks his temple. He’s hunched forward so that his loose, dirty hair falls in his face. He looks as though he’s just fought in the arena for his life. Like he might collapse on his feet—and yet his brown eyes shine with alertness.
Until this moment, I realize, he didn’t know that my father was Immortal Vale.
Or that Artain, Samaur, and Woudix were awake.
His eyes scan over Vale briefly, taking in his fey lines and pointed ears with a hunter’s calm attention to detail, and then shift to Immortal Artain, splayed out on the table with a line of whiskey running down his rock-hard obliques.
The air in my lungs evaporates as I swipe the back of my hand across my lips.
A ghost—that’s what I must be looking at. Someone back from the dead.
I take a shaky step forward but stop, hemmed in by the table.
Why is he chained? Is he here against his will? Did he come to save me? Strangle me? Does he remember me at all?
I inhale raggedly, the thoughts like daggers.
Oh, no, the Meden Cup! This…can’t look good.
Here I am, dripping with obsidian jewels like the perfect Volkish princess, teasing the God of the Hunt. I’m clearly no prisoner.
For all that is holy, I just sipped booze from a god’s navel…
The blindfold falls from my slackened hand.
“Basten,” I murmur breathlessly.
Basten is silent, staring ahead with dark, unreadable eyes—not at the dazzlingly bright gods, but at me .