Chapter 8
“Please, Eleanor.”
“No.”
I fling one of the library cushions at Destan, who elegantly dodges it. I blame my bad aim on being groggy from my nap, which was rudely interrupted just a few minutes ago.
“Why not?” he demands, putting his hands on his hips. Somehow he manages to position them just right so he doesn’t rumple the fabric of his outfit.
“Why yes?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is when you’rethe one trying to persuade me to go this dinner.”
“Everything’s more boring when you’re not around.” Destan sighs, flopping down into a chair besides mine.
I eye him carefully. We haven’t spoken about the conversation we had right before I left Faerie, and I wonder if he feels it still standing between us like I do. I forced him to tell me something when he’d begged me to let it go—pushed him with magic into revealing secrets that he felt weren’t his to share. At the time, when I thought the answers I desperately wanted were within reach, the promise of them blinded me to how uncomfortable that would be for him. I’ve gotten more perspective in the time since then, and I’ve realized I owe him an apology. I don’t want it hanging over our friendship, so I decide to brave bringing it up.
“You know, there are other ways to emotionally blackmail me,” I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the jokiness of my words. “…Such as mentioning something about the unfair usage of life debts.”
I watch his face carefully for a reaction, but when it doesn’t immediately look angry, I forge ahead.
“That was a messed-up thing for me to do, Destan, and I’m sorry if it hurt you.”
His face twists into a frown. “Not my favorite exchange of ours, it has to be said. Being caught between you and Ruskin is like being trapped between a rock and a hard place sometimes. But fair is fair, Eleanor. The life debt was yours to call in whenever you wanted. I won’t begrudge you using it in a way that seemed important to you.”
I nod, grateful for his understanding, and he dips his chin in response, as if to say, “That’s the end of that.”
“Anyway, boredom can’t be the only reason you want me at this banquet,” I say, hoping to get us back to talking like normal again.
He examines his fingernails.
“Perhaps not. But I don’t understand the big rush to leave in any case. You only just got here.”
“Destan,” I say, growing serious, “you must see there’s nothing here for me anymore.”
“Isn’t there?” He gives me a meaningful look.
“You’re talking about Ruskin.”
“Naturally.”
I look away. I’d been hoping to avoid a conversation like this. Talking about this with someone who actually knows us both is unexpectedly painful. It makes it all feel fresh again.
“There’s nothing here for me anymore,” I repeat.
Destan swings his legs over one arm of his chair, propping himself up on his elbow on the other.
“Are you seriously asking me to believe that any feelings you had for him—those powerful, curse-breaking feelings, might I add—just disappeared the moment you stepped back into your realm?”
“Of course not, but that doesn’t change anything. He lied to me; he’s keeping things from me still, and every moment I find myself afraid he’s going to do something so terrible it will prove all over again what a fool I’ve been to lo?—”
My throat tightens as I speak, but I concentrate to keep the emotions from overwhelming me.
“To have feelings for him,” I say instead. “I can’t build anything on that, Destan. I can’t trust him, and he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t trust me.”
“It’s hard for him,” Destan says gently. “He’s had to protect himself from a lot, for a long time.”
“I don’t care,” I say first, but I don’t like lying to Destan, so I change it to “I can’t care. Not when it doesn’t change anything.” Going on the offensive seems like a good strategy, so I add, “Why do you care so much anyway? Why are you so intent on meddling?”
The questions come out more harshly than I intend, and Destan looks offended.
“I care because I don’t like seeing my friends miserable.”
“He’s got his mother back—he’s thrilled,” I throw back.
“Yes. He’s also miserable. There’s no number of family reunions that can change that. The signs are there, you just don’t want to see them.”
I think back to the destroyed bedroom, but say nothing. Destan rises from the armchair.
“Come to the banquet, Eleanor, as a leaving present to me, if nothing else.”
I rise with him, annoyed but resigned. As much as I talked about Faerie having nothing for me, I count Destan as a friend, and I know I can’t refuse him.
“All right. I suppose it’ll at least be interesting to see everyone’s reactions when they get their High Queen back.”
“Thanks to you,” Destan reminds me.
“She’s not High Queen again yet,” comes a voice from the doorway.
I jump as Halima emerges through it.
“Kind of you to stop lurking and finally join us,” I say. It’s a joke, but Halima just offers me a curt nod.
“I waited until you’d finished your heart-to-heart before I announced myself,” she said.
For Halima, this is the height of consideration, and I can’t help but smile.
“Ruskin’s not telling the court about the power change,” I correct her.
Halima’s brows bunch in frustration. “He’s been hiding the fact he’s High King for two centuries. Now he’s going to put a new ruler on the throne and he’s not even going to tell them?”
“Well, she’s not exactly new, and he said it was simpler.” I shrug. “That telling them will cause more disruption than just reinstating Evanthe and putting everything back the way people think it’s been all along.”
Halima is hardly a cheerful person at any time, but now her face is fixed in an expression that seems dour even for her.
“It will certainly be more complicated when the truth gets out. If it’s stability he wants, how do you think the Seelie Court will feel to learn that their ruler has been deceiving them all these years?”
“About the same way I feel?” I offer. Halima ignores me, looking to Destan.
“Do you support this? The continuation of this farce? When I heard Eleanor had awoken Her Majesty, I thought we were done with all this nonsense.”
Destan waves a hand. “I can’t say I dwell much on politics. Ruskin will have critics whatever he decides to do.”
Rather than calming her down, this just seems to make Halima more annoyed. “It’s unwise,” she insists. “If he’s open about the situation now, he remains in control, but if this secrecy is exposed, his enemies will use it to undermine him with the court. A queen who isn’t really a queen. A king who pretends he’s less than he is. No one will understand it, and it will invite dissent.”
“Careful now, Halima,” Destan teases, wagging a finger. “That sounds dangerously like treason from a woman who’s sworn her sword to our king.”
If looks could kill, the one Halima gives Destan would spear him to the wall. The swordswoman turns abruptly, her armor clanking.
“It’s nearly time,” she grunts. “That’s why I came.”
Destan and I exchange bemused looks as we follow her out of the library, but before we pass through the door, Destan stops. He fingers the sleeve of my dress for a moment, tutting. It’s one of mine from home that I changed into before Ruskin and I left for Faerie. It’s plain and was always a bit too thin for the Styrland winters, but in the balmy Seelie Court, it’s just right. Not by Destan’s standards, however.
“I suppose it will have to do,” he says.
I don’t know what the Seelie Court has been told about my return, or my leaving, for that matter. I doubt either Ruskin or any of his close circle have divulged much, and I can sense the gossip furiously formulating on the High Fae’s tongues as I follow Destan and Halima into the orchard that doubles as the dining room of the Seelie Court.
“What’s the official story on Cebba?” I murmur to Destan as we move to the top of the hall, taking our seats in full view of everyone. I note that Ruskin isn’t here yet, and feel grateful for Halima’s intimidating presence by my side.
“She came back. Tried to kill Ruskin. He killed her first,” Destan summarizes with beautiful succinctness.
“Do they know about Fiona?” I whisper, aware that many fae ears are likely straining to hear our conversation.
Destan gives a little shake of his head, looking straight ahead at the gathered court as he replies under his breath. “Rivera and her Hunt friends have been imprisoned for colluding with Cebba. The specifics have been kept…vague.”
“That sounds like Ruskin,” I reply, mostly to myself.
As if speaking his name has summoned him, his tall frame appears in the arched entryway to the orchard. The hubbub of the gathered court dies down at his arrival, all eyes swiveling towards him. I take in the sight of him, the way he’s all muscle and power carefully contained. His broad shoulders taper down into a narrow waist, his stance casually unaffected, yet looking ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. The warm breeze catches his thick, dark hair, gently ruffling it, and I have the sudden urge to run my fingers through it, to cup my hands around his strong jaw…
I swallow and try to banish the thoughts that have caught me so off guard. Even with everything that’s passed between us, it seems I still can’t help but find Ruskin mesmerizing.
“Ladies and lords of the Seelie Court,” he says, his voice somehow carrying clear as crystal through the room, despite the softness of his velvety voice. “For two centuries we have been in a state of waiting, missing a crucial piece of ourselves, never quite whole or at peace without our rightful ruler.”
A hum of muttered questions circulates the room. I understand the High Fae’s confusion. I’ve seen Ruskin with his court—he’s usually the most menacing version of himself, playing an unpredictable creature full of threats and malice. He still emanates an intimidating power, holding the room’s attention captive, but for once the sly flash of his teeth makes it seem like he wants to be here. He looks like he’s actually enjoying himself.
“Today that era comes to an end. My mother has awoken from her sleep at last.”
He steps aside to allow Evanthe to enter and the room erupts into gasps. Even I, who expected it, am impressed by her appearance. She’s changed since I saw her, into a high-collared dress of golden brocade, the skirts sweeping wide around her hips and then scooping into a long train behind her. On her head she wears the crown I remember from the apparition in Cebba’s labyrinth—a delicate, tasteful thing that, like many of the items in the Seelie Court, looks grown rather than crafted. When she gets closer, I see that the raised floral designs on her dress are in fact real flowers themselves, pressed to the surface of the material and preserved by magic.
After the initial exclamations of shock, the room is silent as Evanthe proceeds through it. The entire court watches, stunned, as she takes the most central seat at the head of the table where, until now, Ruskin had sat. Once there, she surveys them all, an unexpected expression on her face. She looks pleased to be there, I think, more openly so than Ruskin, and yet mixed in with it is a cool kind of strength—a sense of resolve. It makes me wonder exactly how weakened Evanthe has been by her experience with the iron, and whether she had to gird herself to make her appearance here this evening as we see her now: majestic and utterly self-possessed.
“It is good to see my court again,” she says, meeting the gaze of as many of her subjects as possible. “I have been away too long.”
The court responds with a wave of noise as the High Fae all rush to express their joy at Evanthe’s return, offering up toasts and cheers. Ruskin comes and sits beside me, Destan silently moving along a seat so he can do so. I throw Destan a look, knowing he’s putting us together on purpose, but he just smiles blithely at me and raises his goblet.
I wait patiently for the court’s show to end, knowing that many of these pronouncements and speeches are likely to be less than sincere. Glancing at Ruskin and Evanthe, I imagine they are just as skeptical as I am. We’re all well aware that some of the Seelie present couldn’t care less if Evanthe was on the throne, though I’m sure others are just glad she’s replacing her controversial son. Evanthe doesn’t need to have been around for the last two hundred years to remember that the Seelie High Fae like to play games, and this is one where the queen is suddenly back in the most powerful position on the board. That’s the cue for the fawning and flattery to begin.
Servants begin to bring in the food and their arrival gives an opportunity for the chatter of the court to peter out. Despite its delicious smell and appearance, I steadfastly ignore the dishes laid out on the table in front of me. I’ve already learned the hard way the intoxicating consequence of eating fae food.
A curtain of what looks like seaweed drifts into the corner of my vision, and I turn to see Kaline, the maid who tended to me on my last stay here, sliding a bowl of soup in front of me.
“I had the cook make it special when I heard you were back,” she says with a smile, her teeth like pearls. “All human, I promise.” She gives me a wink, and I force myself to smile as I thank her, knowing it’s not even her job to serve the food.
I am grateful for the kindness, but it’s hard to trust these simple, friendly gestures after Cebba. I’d been so convinced that the servant girl she pretended to be was my friend, only to discover that every welcoming gesture and intimate conversation was a ruse to draw me deeper into her web. But Kaline has never tried to push the boundaries set between us. Only once have I seen her gentle demeanor shift, when she was dealing with the aftermath of Ruskin’s angry execution of some guards. An anger stoked by an attack on me…
I let my eyes move sideways to consider the man on my right. To my surprise, I note he’s not wearing his Unseelie features. His eyes remain the same bright, yellowy-green, but the pupils are round, plus there’s no horns or claws in sight. He usually wears them like a disguise whenever he appears before court. No, not a disguise, like armor. Perhaps for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel the need to protect himself against his own court. And perhaps that’s because they aren’t going to be his court for much longer.
“My Lord,” a more mature High Fae addresses Ruskin. “May I ask how any of this is possible?” He then turns to Evanthe. “Of course, Your Majesty, I’m overjoyed at your return, but…we were given to believe your sickness was nearly impossible to overcome.”
Evanthe looks to Ruskin, her eyes then falling on me where I sit beside him. Her son takes her cue.
“A worthwhile question, Lord Glidma.” He looks at me. “We have Eleanor Thorn to thank for my mother’s recovery.”
I feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on me and try to take a leaf out of Evanthe’s book, staring back at them all with my best pretense of indifference.
“May I ask how?” Lord Glidma replies, a slight tilt of his head the only sign of his confusion.
This time Evanthe answers.
“Miss Thorn is quite talented when it comes to metal,” Evanthe says. “She, unlike our kind, is unaffected by the bite of cold iron and so was capable of removing it from me.”
“Just with human tools?” Lord Glidma asks, sounding more perplexed.
“With magic,” Ruskin says bluntly. There a smile playing about his lips, and I think he’s actually having fun playing with his subject’s confusion like this.
The ensuing rumble from the Seelie Court isn’t quite as loud as when Evanthe appeared, but it’s close to it.
“I knew Eleanor was gifted in this area, so I brought her here to help my mother.” I watch him, understanding how he’s rewriting the narrative, erasing Cebba’s curse and my part in lifting it. How easily the lie falls from his lips. Of course, it’s a technical truth—this time it is why he’s brought me here—but it simultaneously obscures the reality.
“A human, with magic?”someone mutters to my left.
“Some ancient fae ancestry, perhaps?” another High Fae suggests, more loudly, though they can’t conceal their distaste at the thought.
“Perhaps,” Ruskin replies.
I hate being talked about like I’m not here, but I also have nothing to add. I don’t care what these people think about me—whether they’re grateful to me for saving their queen or not. Soon all this will be a distant memory.
A blue-haired woman whom I remember as being a notorious talker joins in, a mischievous smile on her lips.
“It’s rather ironic, don’t you think, Your Majesty, that your cure should come from the same quarter as your attack?”
Evanthe seems to think about this before responding. “It’s an interesting observation. It would suggest that fate favors balance, I think. Even the worst crimes will find a fitting resolution eventually.” She gives me an appreciative look, and I’m thankful she doesn’t hold my species against me—especially when the blue-haired lady had to go and remind everyone that it was humans who attacked her in the first place.
“Might I propose a toast?” Lord Zastel says. I barely recognize him as the fae who was brutally attacked by a rabid creature before Ruskin’s curse was broken. He looks well now, and is lifting his goblet with a genuine smile on his face.
“I would think that very fitting, Lord Zastel,” Ruskin replies, reaching for his own cup.
But before anyone speaks another word, a wave of chills grips my body, like a fever striking out of nowhere. I look around the court, searching for the source of this sudden sensation, the feeling of something big and unstoppable hurtling towards me—towards us. For a few seconds more, the faces of the Seelie Court seem unchanged, then Destan shifts next to Ruskin, his hand going to grip the table. Halima’s fist goes to her sword, and all around me fae fidget like they, too, feel something isn’t quite right.
Then the floor of the orchard explodes.