Chapter 10
My nervousness grows when I realize we’re heading back in the direction of the orchard.
“There’s not been another iron attack, has there? Did it start spreading again?”
“No,” Halima says. “But the court wants answers, and someone’s decided to start giving them.”
I have no idea what that means, which is odd, because it’s not like Halima to be cryptic. It becomes clear, however, when we descend into the courtyard beside the now ruined orchard. It seems much of the court relocated here after the attack. Many are still sitting around in rumpled clothes, scratched and bruised, waiting to be seen by the healers flitting about the square.
The rest, however, have their backs turned to us, looking up at a High Fae woman standing on a set of steps. Her eyes are large and such a pale shade of gray she almost looks like she doesn’t have irises. She rocks on her heels as she talks, making her long auburn hair sway around her ankles.
“The texts don’t lie,” she calls, her reedy voice echoing across the courtyard. “The Cleansing is upon us. We would be foolish to ignore the signs.”
She gesticulates wildly, pointing towards the orchard with one hand, clutching a worn book in the other.
“Oh, stars no…” Destan mutters and I shoot him a questioning look.
“You know her?”
“Jorna,” he answers. “We were taught together as children. Ephor Jorna, she’s called now.”
“Ephor?”
“It’s a title, an academic one. She studies the old histories of the kingdom, but she interprets them as well. She supposed to have a knack for soothsaying.”
“Supposed to?”
“She comes from a long line of diviners, but she’s also a bit of a hermit.” He frowns. “I’ve never seen her around so many people before?—”
He cuts himself off to hear what the woman says next.
“The prophecies of Serratta could not be clearer on this matter.”
“And what does he say, Ephor?” A familiar voice pipes up from the crowd, and I recognize Lord Glidma. “What will the cleansing bring?”
Jorna looks pleased to be asked and straightens up, opening the book to read from it.
“When poison runs in the vein of the Seelie Kingdom, the magic of the realm will bring the hand of metal to purge it.” She looks up, scanning the faces of her audience with a triumphant look. “What else could this sudden appearance of iron signify?”
“But then what is the poison?” asks the blue-haired woman I recognize from the banquet. “Why is the realm punishing us?”
Jorna rocks back on her heels again. “That is still to be seen. I shall consult the texts further, but until then, we must be wary.”
“Enjoying the show?” Ruskin’s quiet voice comes from behind us, and I turn to see him leaning against one of the pillars that line the courtyard. He has his Unseelie features on again. Evidently, he feels less relaxed than he did before the banquet, despite his casual body language.
“Your subjects certainly seem to be,” I note, nodding towards the gathered fae. Jorna is down from the steps now, mingling with the crowd. I see more than one face twisted with worry.
“Why did you let her prattle on like that?” Halima demands of Ruskin. She looks positively angry, and I find it disconcerting on her typically stoic features.
Ruskin waves his hand dismissively. “Silencing her would just give her credibility—make her into a martyr. Better to let her get it out of her system. Prophecies come and go and often shake out quite differently to the way the ephors think it will. Don’t you remember the line they came up with during I Great Divide?”
Halima scowls. “Of course I do.”
“I don’t,” I pipe up, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“They thought the Unseelie Court would win the war, because they found some old scroll describing how the ‘regal moon’ would ‘win its prize.’” Destan explains.
“And?” I ask, none the wiser.
“The moon is associated with the Unseelie Court, so they thought the prize was victory over Seelie. Then Her Majesty married Prince Lucan and ended the war. After that all the ephors would talk about was how they knew he was the regal moon all along.”
“But the prophecy was right, they just interpreted it wrong,” I say, unease dawning on me.
“Precisely. In the end, no one can say for sure what a prophecy truly means until it’s already come to pass. But until then, many fae—foolishly or not—put a lot of stock in the words of an ephor.” Halima’s tone is dripping with disapproval.
“What they need now is practical leadership,” Ruskin says. “Not a collection of vague theories.” He closes his eyes, inhaling. “You feel that?”
Destan and Halima nod. I cross my arms and clear my throat, out of the loop again.
Ruskin explains for me.
“The iron in the orchard is polluting the area. This courtyard was clear of its effect an hour ago, but now anyone in it will be starting to feel nauseous.”
“You think its effect is spreading?”
“I hope it’s just natural radiation from so much iron so close, but even so, no one should linger here for too long.”
Ruskin beckons over a High Fae lady with threads of gold woven into her hair.
“Lady Naniva, you live in the Ambrosia Quarter, correct?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“It will need to be evacuated. And this courtyard too. I’m concerned about the spread of iron sickness. Will you spread the word? It will be only temporary, until we can ensure the area is safe.”
Her eyes widen with concern. “Of course, my Lord. I didn’t think—are we really in such danger?”
“Not if you follow my instructions,” Ruskin says coolly, flashing his teeth at her.
She hurries away and Halima dismisses herself, still looking unhappy. Destan glances down at his clothes and tuts. I guess he’s noticed the creased state of his attire.
“If I’m not needed…?” he asks Ruskin. His friend nods and Destan peels away.
Without another word to me, Ruskin turns towards the courtyard exit, making me trip after him. I really hate when he does that—taking advantage of his long legs and my relatively short ones. In this instance, it gives me the distinct impression that he’s trying to avoid the conversation that we both know is meant to be coming next.
But I don’t ask about going home—not yet. The scene in the courtyard has left me with too many thoughts.
“How can you be certain that the prophecy isn’t something we need to worry about? The iron attack could be some curse of Cebba’s, but what if what Jorna is saying is true? What if it really is the magic of the realm trying to push back on something that’s not right? Like an imbalance? I’ve seen the body do the same thing in Mom’s patients.”
“I’m not worried because that prophecy is just as likely to have been about me and you and the curse that you broke rather than whatever happened in the orchard.”
He doesn’t look at me, striding on ahead. We’re alone now, close enough to his quarters that we only pass the occasional servant, and yet his eyes are still slitted like a cat’s, and the tips of horns poke from his hair.
“What do you mean?”
“‘When poison runs in the veins of the Seelie Kingdom’?I’m the High King, Eleanor, I am the Seelie Kingdom, and when poison ran in my veins from Cebba’s curse, it polluted the land too.”
“So you’re saying I’m the ‘hand of metal’?”
“Yes. You cured me, didn’t you? You cleansed me of the curse and…I feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh yes, it just so happens you have a unique gift for manipulating metal.”
I roll my eyes. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” I say. “Besides, the prophecy mentions the magic of the realm. What’s that got to do with me?”
“That lord at the banquet was right. Your magic isn’t human in origin, which means it must have come from a fae source.”
His matter-of-fact tone, his refusal to meet my eye, sparks a familiar anger in me. The changeling mentioned that my magic was fae, but since she also confirmed that my parents were human, I’m still not sure what that means. Ruskin, on the other hand, looks considerably less confused.
“From the way you say it, I’m guessing this is something you kind of already knew,” I say.
“Yes.”
My frustration increases a notch.
“But you weren’t going to mention it,” I snap.
He looks down at me at last and his eyes darken. “I thought it was obvious.”
“Don’t make excuses. Though I suppose by now I should be used to you knowing things about me you don’t think I deserve to be told.”
“Make whatever assumptions you like,” he says.
I want so badly to shout at his calm, smug face, but that would be admitting defeat.
“I want to go home now,” I say instead, as if commenting on the weather. “I think it’s about time.”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“That wasn’t our deal. After the banquet. That’s what you promised.”
He rounds on me, forcing me to take a step back.
“I don’t remember framing it as a promise. Besides, it’s too late now. You’d arrive in Styrland in the middle of the night.”
I say nothing, knowing that realistically it makes no sense to leave at this moment but still feeling irrationally annoyed at Ruskin. At least I know that I’m being irrational—and that knowledge is enough to keep me from snapping at him. He couldn’t have known about the iron attack, and yet part of me wants to accuse him of engineering it just so I would stay a day more.
And to what end? It’s not like he’s prepared to apologize—or to try to fix things between us.
“I’ll have your old room made up for you,” he says.
“Don’t bother. I’ll sleep in the library.”
I don’t tell him that I’d rather not stay a night in the room where I was attacked by that snake. The memory of it still gives me the creeps. Whereas the library…that place has decidedly more pleasant memories, ones that creep silkily into my mind now.
I can’t forget the way Ruskin took me against the library table—the heat of his mouth on my lips, my shoulders, my breasts—and then the intensity of him inside me for the first time. He’d made me beg for it then, but his desire had been just as strong as mine. We’d both been desperate to cross that threshold of trust and give in to our desires.
That trust might be long gone, but I know I’m not imagining the spark of that same desire in his eyes now as they lock on mine. My mention of that room has his mind going exactly where mine has, and I watch with hungry fascination as he swallows, the muscles of his throat tightening for a moment.
“Don’t be absurd. I have more than one room in my quarters you can sleep in,” he says smoothly.
But I shake my head. Even if those memories are now tinged with the bitterness of regret, I still prefer to stay in the library. It should be comfortable, anyway, given the size and softness of the library armchairs. I take a deliberate step back, trying to dispel the heat between us, needing to get away from it.
“Once upon a time, Ruskin, you got a say in things like this.” I head down the south corridor towards his rooms. “Not anymore,” I call over my shoulder, and am satisfied that this time he’s the one who has no reply.
The exhaustion hits me as soon as I curl up in one of library’s palatial chairs. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a bed, that I’m not in my house—or even in my realm. Sleep finds me, deep and solid, though it’s only when the sun warming my face wakes me that I realize my night was plagued with dreams. Images of dead bodies, impaled on iron spikes, coming thick and fast.
I blink my eyes open, wondering when exactly I’d become so used to death that I could sleep through the night with it still so fresh in my mind. The answer is all around me. Faerie is when I became used to it, when I was brought to this violent world by the person now seated opposite, examining me over a cup of tea.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”
It seems like a long time since I’ve seen Ruskin’s Seelie eyes, even though it was just yesterday at the banquet. The round pupils somehow make him look more open—sincere. Which is probably why he’s chosen to wear them now, I remind myself.
“What did I say?” I ask as I stretch my arms upwards. I’m aware of him watching me and my skin prickling in response. Now, in the light of day, my anger isn’t as sharp, but that doesn’t stop me from proceeding with caution.
“I think you’re right that there might be something to the ephor’s theory.”
I lower my arms.
“Is that so?”
He doesn’t look apologetic, but he does extend me a nod.
“You spoke about imbalance. It’s quite possible the remedy is something right in front of us: my mother. Maybe the realm senses that the rightful monarch is awake and not yet on the throne. But once we put her name on the founding stone, the realm will recognize the restoration of order.”
He takes a sip of his tea.
“You really think that will fix it?” I ask.
“If Jorna’s correct. It would make sense. My mother ruled for much longer than I did. She was built for this. The stone doesn’t just allow anyone to inscribe their name on it. You have to earn your place first by passing its tests. I managed to scrape by, but the stone—the magic of the Seelie Court—will know that High Queen Evanthe is the better pick.”
He says all this so blithely that I see the extent of the faith that he has in his mother, and how little he has in himself. It seems contradictory that someone so confident would also have such doubts about their position in life. Ruskin told me a while ago that he never saw himself as cut out to rule the Seelie Court. Yet Ruskin was always a walking contradiction. Wasn’t that part of what my curious, probing mind had liked about him?
“If you want to see Her Majesty reinstated, you should do it sooner rather than later.” Halima’s voice precedes her, not preparing me for her expression as she enters the library. She’s still annoyed about yesterday, I think, but there’s an anxious edge to it that disturbs me more than I expect. Halima is meant to be the most stoic and stable among us. If she’s worried, what does that mean for the rest of us?
“Halima thinks I’m not taking the situation seriously enough,” Ruskin says to me with a tight smile.
“I think you’ve become too comfortable deceiving the court about her status,” she corrects.
“You know, some kings have swordswomen who actually show them a little respect every now and then.”
He’s teasing Halima like usual, but something tells me this time is different. Halima glances at me, perhaps wondering where I stand in all this, then back to Ruskin.
“My respect is shown in my attempts to get you to do the right thing. If Her Majesty does not truly sit on the Seelie throne, and if she will not for some time yet, then the court should know the truth from you—before it is too late.”
Ruskin’s face changes, sharpened by a flash of annoyance.
“Don’t lecture me about the right thing, Halima. We cannot all be righteous warriors who see the world in black and white. Some of us have a different role to play.”
Halima shifts, making the plates of her armor gently clank against each other.
“I only meant?—”
“I want this deception over and my mother returned to her position as much as you do. More so, in fact, seeing as receiving the powers of the High Monarch will do no end of good in her recovery. But I will not risk stirring up the court with needless revelations before then. The process of putting your name on the founding stone is no easy one, and she must be stronger before she can face such an arduous task. Considering what she will have to endure, we’ll just all have to be prepared to wait.” He stands, bringing himself to the same level as Halima. “I will not put my mother at risk, from the stone or this court.”
Halima looks like she wants to say more. It’s rare enough that it casts a tension over the room as she lets the silence hang.
“Very well, my Lord,” she says. “I came to report that the Ambrosia Quarter and the courtyard have been successfully evacuated, and the healers have seen the last of the injured.” She dips her head and then is gone.
It’s like I can physically see the weight on Ruskin’s shoulders as he watches her leave. I might’ve cured his curse, but I haven’t banished the other problems of the Seelie Court. It still remains a dark and dangerous place where a person is constantly drawn into playing games to survive, concealing who they really are, hiding their true position.
Was that why Ruskin always seemed to be playing games with me? Is it so hard for him to shake the habits his own court has ingrained in him?
The answer shouldn’t matter. I’m going home precisely because I refuse to engage with the manipulation and maneuvering anymore. I’ll leave that to the experts. Already I can feel it, the way he’s pulled me into the undertow of his world, putting me at the center of issues that require solutions. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, but it’s still managing to ensnare me, and if I don’t cut this feeling off at the root, it’ll be too easy to consider myself needed again—which will lead to feeling wanted. Then the door will be wide open for him to hurt me again.
“When are we leaving, then?” I ask.