Chapter 5
W e double back on our route at Ruskin’s insistence. He doesn’t seem to remember specific people or events, but he knows the land. I can see it in the way he studies the horizon and the trees as we pass. Deeper, more instinctual knowledge has stuck with him, even without a memory of its source. I try not to feel stung that he knows the path ahead of us better than he knows my name.
Destan frowns when he realizes that the course Ruskin has plotted will take us through the Seelie borderlands and onto the mountain path. “But what about the Wild Hunt?” he asks, then elaborates when he sees Ruskin’s quirked eyebrow. “Half a dozen armed Seelie High Fae with a taste for blood. They’re rabidly loyal to Evanthe and were kind enough to give me this—” he points to his injured arm, “—before we spent considerable efforts losing them on that trail.”
“He’s right,” I say. “We don’t want to have gone through all that just to run into them again.”
But Ruskin just grins at us, exposing pointed teeth. I can’t deny that the sight of that smug expression does unreasonable things to me. I think he’s gotten into his stride since he came back with the horses. Certainly, he seems more relaxed, and he seems to be acclimatizing to this world he only recognizes parts of.
“We shouldn’t worry about this Hunt. We’re still in the borderlands and until we cross back over the Unseelie border, I have full access to my High King power. Surely you don’t think six measly lords and ladies present a real threat to their own monarch?”
I bite my lip. For all his arrogance, Ruskin’s probably right. He is far more powerful than Destan or me, and I can’t deny that I instantly feel safer with him around. With Destan injured, we were too vulnerable, but between us now we could probably face off against the Wild Hunt. Besides, once we’re across the Unseelie border once more, they won’t dare follow.
We trace our way back towards the mountains, the landscape around us turning rocky and steep. Our journey is spent giving Ruskin the context he needs and working out exactly what we’re going to say to Lisinder when we meet him. It’s exhausting, going over everything—Cebba, the curse, Evanthe, and the iron. Each explanation makes Ruskin’s memory loss cut that bit deeper. Especially when he receives them all with an expression of neutral concentration, like he’s hearing a story about someone else that he’ll be tested on later.
“That’s when she killed Halima,” I say, finishing the story of the fight by the founding stone. My voice catches on my friend’s name, and I look away, out across the cliffs rising up on one side of the path ahead of us.
“She sounds like she was a noble soldier and a good friend,” Ruskin says. The sincerity in his voice only makes it worse, because it’s clear that beyond his basic empathy for us, her death means nothing to him. Relaying it to him now just makes it all seem so small and pointless. I can’t find the words to do her—or her sacrifice—justice, and my helplessness to honor her as she deserves makes tears sting at the corners of my eyes, quickly dried by the wind picking up around us. A flash of movement catches my eye up ahead: a piece of fabric fluttering in the breeze. My heart jumps.
“What’s that?”
Destan and Ruskin turn to where I’m looking, squinting at the cliffside. At first I’d thought it was a bundle of flags or something—a string of fabric dancing in the air currents, but now I see they’re far too large for that and wrongly shaped. The bundles of fabric shift into a more recognizable form as we pick up speed and ride closer. Finally, I can see it’s a line of figures.
A deep nausea clutches at my stomach, twisting on my insides.
A trio of bodies have been arranged on the cliff face, hung from their necks with ropes stretched across the rock and secured to stones not far from the path. They sway gently in the wind, their faces blue and bloated from the strangulation, their eyes wide and unseeing.
“They’re human,” I say, my voice sounding dead to my own ears. “What are they doing here?”
“Look at their clothes,” says Destan. They’re wearing what looks to be servants’ garb, but the materials aren’t ones I’m used to seeing in Seelie—a mixture of wool and leather.
“Those uniforms look Unseelie,” I say, finding that talking helps hold back the urge to be sick. “I thought they didn’t have human servants?”
“The settlers near the border are laxer about taking humans from Styrland,” says Ruskin, as if reciting something. He looks surprised at himself. I don’t think he knows where this information comes from.
“But we’re not over the border,” Destan says. “This is still technically Seelie territory.”
“Here.” I search around, my eyes falling on a pile of crushed wicker lying sadly by the path. “It looks like they were here gathering plants. Their masters probably send them over the border to the good foraging spots because crossing territories is safer for non-fae. Or it should be,” I say bitterly. “It was the Hunt that did this; it has to be.”
“What makes you say that?” Ruskin asks.
“Because they left me a message.”
I point to the purple, swollen necks of the humans. Each one is strung with a piece of gold jewelry, looking completely out of place next to their plain servants’ clothes.
“I may be the Gold Weaver, but I’m also just another human who will be strung up by the time they’re done with me. That’s what they’re saying,” I explain, trying to keep my voice from shaking with fear and disgust. I stare into their faces, as hard as it is to look at their empty eyes and distorted features. I want to remember them, to hold on to exactly the kind of violence Evanthe has unleashed onto this world by freeing the Hunt.
“They’d have to get to you first, and they won’t,” says Ruskin firmly. He meets my gaze, his confidence so solid, so familiar, that my uneven breath slows at last. I run my eyes over the powerful lines of his body and the strong set of his jaw, reminding myself that he will protect me—even if he doesn’t truly understand why it matters so much to him. Then he flicks his heels and urges his horse onwards. I drag my eyes from the bodies, but the image of them stays in my mind long after we’ve left the cliffs behind.
We cross the border, the temperature dropping as we crest the highest point of the mountain path. I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a sense of relief, knowing we’re finally where the Hunt won’t follow. But that won’t bring back the humans they left hanging like ornaments on the cliffside.
I hate this. Ruskin and I have had walls up between us before, but never ones so tall, so utterly unscalable. I still feel a pit in my stomach from the scene the Wild Hunt left for us, and normally, he’s the one I would lean on to chase that feeling away, to remind me that there’s something we can do about this horror. But if I reached out to him now, would he just push me away? The thought of his rejection scares me so much that I’m afraid to even try.
So, what can I do?
As we ride on I find myself studying the lines of his face, searching for answers. At last it occurs to me that rather than seeking comfort from him, maybe I should be the one giving him something. Between us, I’m the only one who carries the memories of us, like a pile of precious jewels locked up inside me. I’m hoarding them when I should be sharing them.
The bond. I know we can send emotions along it—consciously feel out the well-being of the other. Why not try to send memories too?
I rifle through the collection of times we spent together, looking for the most powerful, trying to guess what would matter most to this version of Ruskin. The moment he told me his true name, perhaps, and the time we spent together afterwards, exploring each other’s bodies, holding each other close. The feel of him against me, inside me, is still so vivid in my mind that my desire reawakens at the memory.
The fabric of the blankets is gloriously soft against my skin, and I’m fully naked and splayed out before him as he pulls me closer and spreads my legs.
A high-pitched gasp rips from my throat as he lowers his mouth to me.
I close my eyes, letting the heat of that moment curl deep within me. After so much horror and heartbreak, I want to live in those perfect few hours, would give anything to have them again. I release an uneven breath.
“Are you well?” A sharp voice pulls my eyes open, and I feel my face flood with color. I look over to see Ruskin’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t look concerned. Instead, his eyes flash dangerously, and I realize there was an edge of suggestion to his voice, like he can guess the direction of my thoughts. I don’t think he can read the bond as well as I can yet, but Ruskin has always been able to tell when I’ve been turned on.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I shoot back coldly. But then I stop to consider. If the memory of us together can be so strong for me, is there a chance it might rattle something loose in his mind too?
I try to bundle up every sensation and detail, then push it across the bond, like shoving a boat out from the shore. It reaches the golden bridge of our true name bond, but I watch as it crumbles into nothing halfway across.
I try not to let the failure deter me, quickly seizing upon something else—when I first told him I loved him, and broke his curse while he lay dying in my arms. I push it out, but just as quickly, the memory fizzles and dies before it can even reach Ruskin’s side of the bond, like it’s being swallowed up by some unseen force.
I huff in frustration.
“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding suspicious.
I’m still blushing. This version of Ruskin makes me feel so self-conscious, like some lovestruck teenager trailing after a boy who doesn’t know she exists.
“I’m trying to help you. I thought maybe I could send some of my memories for you and?—”
“Save your efforts. It’s my memories I need back, not yours.”
My mouth gapes at his curt response. “But?—”
“You shouldn’t be wasting your energy or focus. Save it up in case we meet any more obstacles on the road. A human like you needs what little strength they have and can’t afford to be distracted .” He raises an eyebrow at me on the last word, his voice deepening in a way that makes my skin come alive, but it doesn’t quench my annoyance at his words.
“I might not have the power of a High King,” I say, bristling, “but I can assure you I’m not as weak as you seem to think.”
“Whatever you say. It’s just best you don’t go playing around with magic that is beyond you.”
“Now wait a minute,” I say, truly indignant at this point. “The whole reason I have this magic—and why I’m so good at wielding it—is because of you. You made a deal that put fae magic in my veins, and you were the one who insisted I train so I could fully realize the potential of what I could do. You didn’t seem to think it was so beyond me when I was busy saving your life and your court with it.”
Ruskin says nothing. I assume he’s digesting everything I’ve told him.
We pull off the road for a little while to eat and drink, climbing up into a shallow cave to shelter from the Unseelie wind. The view is a good one, putting us right in line with some tall pine trees, and I sit flanked by Ruskin and Destan, taking it in.
“Prove it,” Ruskin says out of nowhere.
“What?” I ask, feeling Destan turn towards him too, looking as confused as I am.
“Prove your proficiency with your magic. I want to see exactly what kind of tricks I taught you.”
“And I suppose taking her word for it would be out of the question?” Destan says. Ruskin just keeps looking at us, expression unchanged, full of expectation.
“All right, how?” I ask.
“Those trees over there. Take some of the pine cones down.”
“That’s it?”
“Specific pine cones. How about on that left branch, three from the top, the one by that bunch of needles. And use your blade to do it.”
It’s a tiny target at this distance, but Maidar had me practicing expanding my range, and I’m confident I can make it.
“Fine by me,” I say. I mean to meet his gaze with a kind of defiance, but instead as our eyes lock, a familiar heat passes between us. He smirks and the muscles in my thighs tighten. I’m forced to drag my gaze away, clearing my throat to try to compose myself. I ignore what I think might be a low chuckle of amusement beside me.
I slip the knife from my boot and balance it on my palm, concentrating until it’s risen from my hand and is hovering in the air. I focus hard, aware that I want to impress Ruskin. But it’s not just about showing off. If I can prove to him that I’m right about this, this aggravating, beautiful prince might start being less resistant to my other ideas.
The knife slowly inches upwards, moving into position, then I fling it.
It cuts through the air like an arrow, piercing the center of the cone he identified so fast it rips it from the branch. I let the knife’s momentum carry its handle over its blade, spinning it round, then bringing it home. I push more force into it as it travels, until it’s almost a blur.
“Um…Eleanor…” Destan says, as the blade flies towards us, tip glinting in the gray light.
I scrunch up my brows, holding my attention solely on the blade, until it’s feet from us. Then I hold up my hand, palm open, and slow its momentum, snatching it from the air inches from where we sit, with the pine cone still impaled securely on it.
I look over at Ruskin, not bothering to hide my smugness.
For a moment, I think I catch a glimpse of approval. Then he just nods. “I taught you well. But I wonder how you’d do with a battle raging around you and more distractions than just him,” he says, nodding at Destan.
My smugness drains away and I sigh. What did I expect? Praise, from this man who’s been so closed off and wary since I brought him back from Interra?
“I’ve had to conjure with plenty of distractions in the past. You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, dislodging the cone and tucking the knife back into my boot.
“I hope not,” he says, and the way he says it makes me look up. For once, I think there’s no double meaning there. It gives me hope that he actually seems worried about my welfare. Could it be the bond has him retaining some of his feelings for me? Maybe he cares for me more than he’s letting on, even if he doesn’t understand the reason for it.
I smile at him, the idea a single flame in the darkness. Ruskin blinks at my grin, and his eyes grow slightly unfocused, like I’ve dazzled him. It lasts for just a second, though, before his eyebrows bunch and he reaches forward. It’s like I can feel his fingers on me before he even touches me, and that spark is back, dancing between our skin. I stiffen, unprepared for such close contact, but with a light shiver, the tension gives way to confusion as he traces a finger along the tip of my ear. I’m about to ask what he’s doing when Destan coughs loudly.
“We should get going. Whether Eleanor’s a master knife thrower or not, let’s not linger out here in the wilds longer than we have to.”
Ruskin drops his hand and abruptly stands to start walking back down to the horses.
“Lionsvale is right. We have an Unseelie king to win over.”
We ride through the night, until the morning comes, and I start to recognize the shape of the mountains in front of us, spotting the balconies and cloisters of the Unseelie Court embedded into them.
I take a deep breath, wondering if we’ll manage to get from here to an audience with Lisinder without incident. Ruskin and I weren’t very popular when we left.
I hear a sad sigh from Destan behind me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, turning to see him staring miserably up at the Unseelie architecture.
“It just looks so cold and damp,” he complains.
“It’s better inside,” I promise, for once more in the know about this aspect of Faerie than him. But I can’t promise him we’ll receive a warm welcome. Especially not when Pyromey, Lisinder’s niece, meets us at the gates to the court, her usual cadre of scarred warriors behind her.
“I have to say, I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon.” Her viper eyes dance over us. “And you brought a friend too.” She smiles at Destan, who looks far from comforted at the gesture.
“We need to speak with His Majesty, King Lisinder,” Ruskin says, taking the fact that he’s supposed to know this woman in stride.
Pyromey tuts. “So formal,” she says. “Your uncle is already waiting for you. We spotted you several miles back. Follow me.” She turns and starts walking through the arch that marks the entrance to the Court.
“Oh, and if you could avoid murdering anyone on the way, that would be great,” Pyromey adds, and I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu as we’re led deeper into the mountain.