Chapter 6
“Stop right there.”
The voice echoes down the palace corridor. Despite myself, I smile. When I turn, Destan is striding towards us, his jade-green shirt billowing in the warm air, his curly hair bouncing with each step.
“You actually brought her back and you didn’t tell me?” He throws Ruskin a look like he’s committed a terrible crime, then takes my hand and offers an elegant bow.
“He didn’t bring me,” I correct. “I came of my own accord.”
Destan’s eyes widen and he looks between us.
“So that means?—”
“She’s not staying,” Ruskin interrupts gruffly.
“No, I’m not.” I drop my hand. “I’ve got a job to do, that’s all.”
Destan pouts. “How dull. And here I was thinking you’d actually missed me.”
I roll my eyes fondly, but before I can answer, a tall, armor-clad fae steps out behind Destan.
“You should’ve alerted me to your return,” Halima says, addressing Ruskin. I search around, not for the first time, trying to work out exactly where Halima came from.
“I had other things on my mind,” Ruskin says.
I don’t miss his glance in my direction. Destan just tuts.
“She’s been acting like his shadow ever since the Cebba incident,” my flamboyant friend tells me. “Anyone would think that witch wasn’t actually dead.”
“And anyone would think you want to give Dawnsong’s enemies another opportunity to finish what she set out to do,” Halima says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice sharp with concern. “Have there been other attacks?”
“No, because I won’t allow it,” Halima says firmly.
“She’s just paranoid,” Destan explains, “and annoyed she didn’t spot that lunatic hiding in plain sight. There’s nothing to worry about; all Cebba’s lackeys are locked up in the dungeons by now.”
I shake my head. “I agree with Halima. It would be reckless not to watch your back in this place.”
I might’ve missed Destan and Halima’s bickering, but I certainly have no love for the danger woven into this court. Yes, Cebba is dead, but that doesn’t change the nature of the Seelie High Fae—the way most of them always seem to be watching, waiting for you to expose the slightest vulnerability.
“Then you will be glad your visit is only temporary,” Ruskin interrupts coldly. “Speaking of which, shall we proceed?”
In spite of myself, I’m stung by his businesslike tone—and then I silently scold myself for feeling hurt. I should want him to be businesslike. It’s safer for me than the alternative.
“Fine, let’s get started.”
I’m certainly in no mood to linger. And anyway, it’s natural that Ruskin is eager to help his mother. I stare at his back as we proceed to his quarters, wondering if that’s what he’s really feeling, knowing better than to expect him to admit it.
Destan catches up to us and leans in to me, his voice low.
“I thought you might have changed your mind,” he says.
“About what?”
He nods towards Ruskin’s back.
“Why would I?” I ask under my breath. “He hasn’t changed. He only came to Styrland because he needed something from me.”
Destan gives me a look like I’m being deliberately obtuse.
“He went looking for you every day you were gone. He’s barely been here, Eleanor.”
I shake my head. If he truly wanted to find me sooner, I have no doubt he would have. No, he chose his moment—though I don’t know why he picked that one. Was he waiting for when he could come to my rescue to put me in his debt before asking for a favor? Maybe. Maybe not. There could be a whole other reason that hasn’t occurred to me yet.
I sigh. This all just proves how the man I’d thought I’d loved will never be knowable to me.
Destan knocks his shoulder against mine.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” he says, then peels off down a different hallway. I watch him go, sad this reunion can’t be in better, less complicated, circumstances. We approach the entrance to Ruskin’s quarters, and I’m aware of Halima at our backs. I turn towards her.
“Nice to see you too, Halima,” I say.
She gives me a nod, not realizing I’m making the point that she hasn’t yet spoken a word to me, and even that makes me want to laugh. Same old Hal.
She stops at the archway that leads to Ruskin’s rooms, stationing herself there. Destan was right—she really is on the alert. I catch her eye as we pass and she seems to want to say something, so I stop.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, searching her serious face.
Her expression takes on a strained look. “I’m sorry I didn’t detect Cebba before she attacked you. I failed in my duty.”
It’s clear this idea is truly devastating to her. I can imagine she’s been stewing over it ever since I left. I cautiously reach out and pat her arm, even though it’s shrouded in armor.
“Halima, I put myself in harm’s way when I trusted her so blindly. That’s not your fault.” She looks unconvinced, but says nothing as I follow Ruskin down the corridor.
The brief conversation distracts me, and I’m not prepared for my emotions when Ruskin and I walk alone through his rooms. I’d not anticipated what it would be like being back here with him. My insides feel like they’re being pulled in opposite directions, twisting with the memories of what we shared here, yearning for them and pulling away from them at the same time.
The door to his bedroom is ajar and as we walk by it. I can’t resist glancing inside and I inhale sharply. Just a sliver of the room beyond is visible, but I can see that’s it’s been wrecked. Furniture is overturned, the bedding ripped from the mattress and torn into shreds, while one of its four posters displays deep gouges. Initially, my mind assumes there’d been some kind of attack—but no, Destan confirmed nothing like that had happened in my absence. Which means that…
I whip my head round to stare at Ruskin.
He’s looking ahead, his back still to me, and I wonder at the wild force of emotion that would drive him to destroy his room like that. Certainly, there’s no sign of that emotion now as we approach the wall I know conceals the entrance to the rose garden. His sculpted face is impassive as ever when he touches the bricks to open up the archway, then stands back for me to enter.
The rose garden is still beautiful, the scent of it enveloping me, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out to brush my fingers against a bloom as we walk towards Evanthe’s resting place. But the texture of the petals reminds me of running my hands across Ruskin’s jacket and I retract my fingers, bunching them into a fist.
When we’re at the far end of the garden, the bank of flowers there begins to shift. Their thick, thorny vines retract, sinking into the earth and revealing the still form of Evanthe Dawnsong. She looks like Cebba, but like Ruskin too, the exact shade of her dark brown hair sitting somewhere between the two. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch a finger to the hands folded across her chest. Her skin is warm.
The reality of what I’ve come here to do hits me—to undo the torture that nearly killed the most powerful of the Seelie fae, to heal a centuries-old wound.
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit.
“I know. I’ll help you.” Ruskin’s voice is as soft as it was when he was imploring me to help back at the cottage. “I had to learn my magic once too, you know.”
The idea of Ruskin as anything other than utterly powerful and competent feels absurd to me, but I suppose everyone had to start somewhere. And the fact that he believes I can do this helps shore up my confidence, at least a little. I want to do this, not just for him, but also for myself. He wasn’t entirely wrong when he tried to tempt me with learning more about my magic. Now that I’m here, I want to push myself, but I’m afraid of failing.
“What if it goes wrong? What if I hurt her?” I ask, the questions bursting out in spite of myself.
“There’s still magic in her that will protect her. It has been protecting her all this time, that’s why she’s still here and hasn’t succumbed to her injuries. You cannot hurt her more than she already has been.”
My heart aches at that last line, considering the cruelty of my world. I nod and look to him for instruction. It’s striking that he knows what I’m asking without me saying a word.
“You’ve only manipulated gold, but you’ve sensed other metals, haven’t you? Felt an awareness of them when you concentrate?”
I tense my jaw but nod.
His eyes glitter with satisfaction. I narrow my own.
“So?”
“So sensing is the best place to start with something like this.” He looks down at Evanthe. “You’ll have to find the iron first, and that will lead you to the damage. Once you have a clear picture of that, you can think about removing it.”
“A clear picture? I’ve never gotten an image. I just…know if it’s telling me something.”
“That gut feeling is the beginning. Your magic is like a pool of water, but the surface is constantly moving, covered in ripples, so you can never see your reflection.”
He must see the doubt on my face, because he takes a step closer.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?” I step back, and he doesn’t stop me, but when he speaks again, there’s a touch of impatience in his voice, likely brought on by my wariness.
“Just close your eyes and try to visualize what I’m describing.”
When he speaks next, his voice is closer to my ear, and I suppress a shiver. Knowing he’s nearby makes it harder to focus my thoughts, but I do my best to marshal them into the rippling pool Ruskin’s describing.
“Now, holding that picture in your mind, what happens to it when you wait? What happens to any pool of water?”
“The surface will eventually still, and then I’ll see my reflection clearly?” I guess.
“Exactly. Your magic is a naturally frenetic thing, you are the one who stills it. When you do, it becomes possible to see more clearly what it’s telling you, and to tell it what you need.”
I open my eyes and see his face is just inches from mine. I don’t flinch in surprise—I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I stare back at him, challenging him to look away first.
“No need to hover. This will go faster if you give me some space so I can concentrate,” I tell him, my voice clipped.
His grin reveals his sharp white teeth. I know that smile. The bitter edge to it is very far from real humor.
“My apologies.” He takes a few steps back and gestures to his mother. “Have a try.”
I swallow and then hover my hand over Evanthe’s.
“May I?” I ask Ruskin.
“Please.”
I take one of her hands in mine, closing my eyes and reaching for my magic. Ruskin is right that it feels like it’s always moving, to the point that in the past it’s reached for me in return without me even asking. Usually when I’m in trouble. But here, without any immediate threat, it’s harder to get it to listen and respond. That is, until I employ Ruskin’s suggestion and simply stay with that rippling surface until its frantic energy dies down, waiting for guidance and instruction.
I focus on the warm hand in mine, on the body attached to it. It’s easy, in a way, because the body is itself just a system of channels, a map full of routes waiting to be followed. In my mind I remember Mom’s lessons on anatomy and trace my focus up the veins in her arm, into her arteries…
The picture Ruskin promised comes to me then.
Iron. It’s broken down so fine it’s almost a powder, but I can see it floating in hazy gray clouds, choking Evanthe’s body, suffocating it. Remembering Destan when he was speared by the same substance, I ache at the thought of the kind of agony Evanthe must have been in when she was attacked by humans all those years ago. It’s no wonder her magic immediately put her into a sleep—it would’ve been the only way to preserve her sanity, I’m sure.
I pull away from the image, laying down her hand and opening my eyes.
“I see it. The iron has broken down so much over the years…it’s like it’s polluting her body.” I think of the rivers in Styrland, contaminated thanks to King Albrecht’s negligence, and how hard life has to fight to exist in such waters. “It must’ve been so hard for her to hold on for all this time.”
“Nearly impossible,” Ruskin says to me with a layer of knowing I don’t bother trying to dissect. “Are you ready to try drawing it out?”
“What?” His eagerness startles me. “No, Ruskin. This isn’t like pulling iron out with a magnet or manipulating gold. There’s barely anything physical to hold on to.”
“It’s a good thing your magic isn’t a physical object either, then. At least, not in the way you can hold it in your hands.”
I reach out for the mental picture again, this time discovering I don’t need to touch Evanthe or close my eyes to find it. I examine the dark fogginess before me, shaking my head.
“It’s much easier with gold. I don’t even need to try. It’s just sort of drawn to me.”
“That doesn’t mean this iron won’t respond to you.”
I can hear the strain of him holding back what he really wants to say. I think it surprises him, this reluctance on my part. After all, the Eleanor he knew didn’t need to be prompted to experiment and try new things. He changed that, though, when he taught me to doubt myself and my instincts. If I could be so wrong about him, then how can I trust my judgment about other things—about myself?
“Why are you so certain?” I demand. “How can you be sure I can do this?”
He doesn’t hesitate, making his answer sound as inevitable as the rising sun.
“Because, Eleanor, you’re you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He emits a little huff, like I’m being deliberately obtuse.
“You’ve already achieved far beyond anything you should have been able to. Before I could even see the obstacles you might come up against, you’d met them head on and found ways to overcome them. I’m not blind to the dangers of this world for someone like you, but what I couldn’t have anticipated is how much of a force you’d be in return.”
I already knew Ruskin sees me in a way others don’t, but he’s never been so candid before. I open my eyes, trying to keep my face blank, but inside his words touch me, reminding me of the depths that hide beneath his mask: a man who understands the part of me that needs this acknowledgement.
“You’re sure this isn’t just flattery to soften me up because you want your mother back?” I ask, trying to minimize his sincerity even as it warms me.
“I do want her back. But I also want you to see that Faerie might be a better fit for you than you realize.”
I stiffen.
“After all, it brings out a side of you even you didn’t know was there.”
I gape at him. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
My head shakes back and forth so violently it almost makes me dizzy.
“No. We agreed. I’m here for this, and then I’m going home.”
Rather than get tangled up in another discussion with him, I step back up to Evanthe.
“What am I doing?” I say, demanding instructions.
He comes up beside me, his arm brushing mine. Instantly, my shoulders lock with tension, as if they can help me hold firm against the challenge of being close to him.
“Still the surface,” he says. “Then focus on the reflection—that image. Have you visualized what you wanted to happen before?”
I think about when I used a golden cup to transmute my chains when I was being held by Cebba.
“More or less.”
“Good. It should be easier for you going forward. You’ll be able to ask more complex things of your magic. Now, I’m going to touch you.”
“What?” I ask, the word coming out a touch panicked.
But he ignores my question, moving in front of me.
“Close your eyes.”
I’m glad for the instruction this time, because it’s too difficult to look him in the eye when he’s this close. He lays a hand over my chest. My heart flutters against my rib cage, but I can also feel his pulse in his wrist, beating a steady rhythm. The tension I’d been holding on to starts to release, unable to withstand the warmth of his touch and the steady, soothing thud of his heart.
“Now breathe,” he says. I inhale, inflating my lungs so that my chest presses against the palm of his hand, then exhale.
“Again.” His voice is so close, I imagine that if I open my eyes, his lips would be just an inch from mine. But as I keep breathing, I find even that distracting notion falls into the background. My thoughts flatten out, drawing down onto my power, calming it.
“Okay,” I say, indicating that I’m ready to try again. I don’t even know if I fully understand what he’s been talking about, but my gut has guided me before. His fingers stroke my bare skin—a single, deliberate caress—and then he sighs, removing his hand. He hasn’t asked for more, and I wonder if it’s because he knows that I wouldn’t accept more tender touches. I can’t, regardless of what my body might want.
I visualize the poison inside the queen once more.
The nebulous clouds of iron drift before me and I imagine scooping them up, drawing them out of Evanthe like filings attracted to the magnet of my power. It’s not like gold, however, so ready to bend to my will. Instead, for every handful of iron I seize, some of it billows away from me, like kicked-up dust.
I make a noise of frustration, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. I want to shrug it off, but the weight of it is comforting.
“It’s difficult,” I admit. “Tricky. It keeps getting away from me.”
“That’s to be expected. It’s been there a long time.”
I know what his answer is telling me to do: just keep going.
The effort is unexpectedly tiring, but I grab at the iron again. I take hold of it and pull, pull, catching up as much of it as I can. Just as I’m reaching the edge of my awareness—the place where Evanthe ends and the rest of the world begins, I meet resistance. The iron’s being held back, tugged in another direction. I pull harder, and under the force of my will, I sense the cloud of iron contract.
Then it blinks out of existence.
“It’s gone!” I blurt, surprised but pleased. “I actually removed some.”
“Excellent.” I can hear the excitement in Ruskin’s voice.
I dive back in, working more quickly now, encouraged by my progress. The thick gray fog polluting Evanthe starts to clear. Each time I pull at the iron, bringing it to the edge of Evanthe’s body, it swirls out of being. There one moment, gone the next.
“I think I’ve gotten most of it,” I say, the majority of my awareness still deep in the landscape of magic I see in my mind’s eye. “I just need to check deeper. Maybe around her heart?”
I scrunch my face into a frown, looking for the center of Evanthe’s being, her core. I don’t think it was simply a matter of symbolism that caused Cebba to curse Ruskin’s heart when she cast her dark magic on him. Even we humans know the importance of the heart to everything else in your body, magical or not. It’s worth checking that no iron damage has reached there.
“You may already have done enough,” Ruskin says, and I can’t help but notice the lightness of hope in his voice, something I’m unused to hearing. “All that’s needed is for you to remove enough iron for her magic to start healing her on its own.”
“We’ll see,” I murmur, still searching the elusive heart I know is here somewhere. Knowing where the heart is located in the body does me no good when I’m looking with my magic, not my eyes. I explore further and there—just out of the corner of my awareness—I see something large, beating to an even rhythm. I turn my focus towards it, only to find something pushing me backwards, away from the sight and out of Evanthe’s body.
“Eleanor. Ella.” Ruskin’s fingers dig into my shoulder, gently shaking me.
I come back to the rose garden, startled by the abrupt eviction from the deep magic I was exploring. That, and the use of the nickname I never expected to hear again. Immediately, however, I see why Ruskin was calling me.
Where she lies in front of us, Evanthe is no longer still as a statue. Instead, her chest is rising and falling in regular motion.
“She’s breathing,” I say, as if it isn’t obvious what this sudden change means.
Then Evanthe opens her eyes.