Chapter 8
“ N o, now I think about it, the lilac is better,” says Destan, walking around me with his brow furrowed, like he’s trying to solve a complex equation.
“I’m sure it really doesn’t matter to them what I wear, Des.” I sigh, rearranging the skirts of the tightly fitted dress Destan has managed to conjure up from nowhere. Apparently, he has developed a sudden and intense rapport with the servant who showed us to our rooms. Her polished skin positively glowed when I caught Destan muttering something in her ear. She’d giggled and whipped out of the room, then returned soon after with a pile of gowns in my size.
“Psssh,” Destan says dismissively. “The Unseelie might like to pretend they don’t care about aesthetics, but no one wears that much leather because it’s practical.”
“And you think this kind of thing will do the trick?” I ask doubtfully.
He considers this. “You’re right. The structure’s right, but the color…too soft. We need to go darker.”
He sifts through the dresses and wrenches free something with a stiff, corseted bodice in a deep plum. He tosses it at me.
“Try that.”
I sigh, thinking about how much I’d rather be with Ruskin and Maidar right now, digging through the tutor’s piles of scrolls and old books for research. Playing dress up would never be my activity of choice, but it’s even worse when I’m dressing up for the purpose of going to dine with the Unseelie Court, essentially to convince them to disagree with their king. Destan and I are both outsiders in this place, and my friend seems to think the right dress will do half the job for me.
I emerge from behind the screen and do a sarcastic twirl for Destan. He tilts his head to one side.
“On second thought?—”
“Destan,” I say sternly. “I’m not trying on any more. This is the dress I’m wearing.”
He must see I’m in no mood to argue because he pouts, but says nothing.
“All right, go get your shoes. Dreidana left them in your room.”
“Dreidana?” I say teasingly. “So you’re on first-name terms now?”
“Stop with your insinuations, if you please,” he says primly.
“So it’s all right when you stick your nose in my love life, but not the other way around?”
He throws me such a dirty look while tying his cravat that I start laughing.
I’m still chuckling to myself when I shuffle into my room, only to find Ruskin in there, bent over some papers scattered across the bed. He immediately looks up as I enter, and I feel the laughter fade from my face, to be replaced with…I don’t know what. I suppose I should feel awkward around him, but mostly when I look at Ruskin I can feel my longing pouring out of me, too forceful for me to mask.
His eyes rove over me in a manner that couldn’t be further from Destan’s technical eye. The heat of it is familiar to me even if the distance between us isn’t. I can feel his desire creeping along the bond, searing up everything in its path. I shouldn’t be afraid of that wildfire, because I’m already burning too, but I fear that if the flames meet, there’ll be an explosion neither of us can control.
“I thought you were working at Maidar’s,” I say.
“Not enough room,” he says, his voice rough. “He’s gone to get more scrolls.”
“Oh, right,” I say, similarly incoherent. “I just came for…” I tear myself away from his gaze, scanning around for the shoes in question. They’re over by the bed, and I have to close the gap between us, sitting on the edge of it to put them on. I try to focus on the task at hand, attempting to navigate around the meters of fabric making up my skirts so I can tie the ribbons that will keep my shoes on my feet.
“Let me,” he says, kneeling in front of me before I can protest.
My breath hitches as he pushes back the fabric, revealing my legs up to the knee. His hand doesn’t quite graze the skin of my thighs, but the whisper of his touch is there. I want more, for the air kissing my skin to be replaced with the heat of his hands and mouth, the weight of his muscled body, but I stay silent, watching him.
He takes my ankle, extending my leg outwards, and slips the first shoe on. I’m sure he’s lingering on purpose, his fingers brushing against my ankle bone in a light caress. I close my eyes for a brief moment, trying to compose myself. There was the brazen proposition of the night before and then there’s this. He’s undoing me by inches now, perhaps knowing that this drawn-out temptation is so much harder to resist. I open my eyes again to see him take the ribbon and slide it up, wrapping it around my calf and tying it in a neat bow.
Then he catches my gaze and very slowly and deliberately lowers his mouth to kiss the patch of skin just above it. My blood simmers and it takes all my self-control not to make a brazen noise that would reveal just how much I want him.
“Ruskin,” I say, my tone half-warning, half-request.
“Shhh,” he says, beginning to apply the same torturous technique with the other shoe. Somehow, in this moment, it doesn’t feel like there are any walls between us. But then hasn’t it always been like that? Our desire has a habit of washing everything else away, drawing us together, even with all the obstacles the world tries to throw at us.
This time, when he finishes tying the bow, he rises up from his knees, takes my face in his hand, and kisses me.
My resolve finally breaks.
I let his mouth claim mine, his hand circling round to the back of my head, cradling it. The heat of his lips feels as if they’re igniting mine, sending shockwaves across my skin, and I tilt my neck back to give him better access. I need him—this. To be devoured by him and taken over. Not so long ago, we were everything to each other, and even if it’s an illusion, I’m desperate to be reminded of that closeness, to feel that we belong to each other again. Before I know it, I’m falling backwards onto the bed, him leaning over me. Our mouths don’t part, but both his feet are still on the floor, his legs between mine, pressing against the inside of my thighs, one hand fisted in the sheets beside my head. He’s firm, unyielding, and yet somehow his lips are as soft as the pillows beneath me, brushing against mine one moment, then applying intoxicating pressure, urging me to submit to him. I bury a hand in his hair, feeling its silkiness between my fingers, stroking it as his tongue caresses the grooves of my mouth. The noise of unbridled enjoyment I make isn’t exactly ladylike, but it only seems to make him want to kiss me harder, swallowing me up completely. Yes , this is what I want. My mind blocking out all thoughts of consequences and focusing only on him, me, and the way our bodies touch.
It's still like kissing Ruskin, but a version of him that’s totally uninhibited. I realize what it reminds me of: the night of the Harvest Moon. He’d had the same lack of restraint then, but in the best way, like for the first time he wasn’t holding back.
I lift my hand to bury it in his shirt, thinking to pull him down on top of me. I want to feel his weight, the heat of him, touching all of me. The point where our lips connect isn’t enough anymore. Then there’s a knock at the door, and everything goes still. It’s enough to create a space in my mind for sense—a sliver of the control Ruskin swept away by kissing me. There’s a reason I’ve been denying myself this—why I’ve been holding back: to protect myself, and Ruskin. Now is not the time to throw that away.
Not to mention the fact that I’m about to go to a dinner that could win us vital support against Evanthe.
Great .
I let out a groan of annoyance and regret as Ruskin straightens, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. His mouth is slightly pink from kissing me, and I can only imagine how I must look. Hair in disarray, skin flushed. The thought has me smirking back, and Ruskin looks delighted, offering me a hand so I can stand and pull the wrinkles out of my dress.
“Eleanor? We need to get going,” Destan calls.
“Yes,” I say breathlessly. “Coming!”
“Enjoy your meal,” Ruskin says, in a way that sounds like he’d like to have me for dinner.
When I open the door it takes Destan all of two seconds to register Ruskin and guess what we’ve been doing.
He rolls his eyes. “Well, I suppose I should just be impressed you’ve got your shoes on.”
Destan and I sweep down the corridors of the Unseelie Court. I hope we look composed and ready for our political manipulations, despite my recent activities. I try not to dwell on whether I should’ve kissed Ruskin or not. He’s my soulmate, for star’s sake. It felt right because it is . At least, on some level. I’ll have time to decide whether I truly regret my actions later.
“Now, you need to be subtle at this meal,” Destan says. “Don’t go in and just start asking people what they think about Evanthe and things like that.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say, slightly insulted.
“I don’t know, you humans are always so literal.”
“We only seem that way to you because we don’t have to invent so many ways to get around not lying,” I say.
“If you need an opener, try asking about their lineage. High Fae always like that—it gives them an opportunity to boast about how they’re descended from such-and-such a lord or lady.”
I think about Lisinder introducing us to all his family last time we were here. It wasn’t exactly boastful, but he did seem to enjoy telling us who he was related to and how.
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
“Then we can start bringing it around to Ruskin. Lisinder is a popular king, and as I understand it, the court is full of his family. We need to emphasize their connection through Prince Lucan.”
I nod, struggling to keep all this advice straight in my head.
“I definitely have more of a brain for alchemy than these kinds of games,” I mutter.
“They’re not games,” Destan scolds. “Games are just for fun. These types of interactions serve a definite purpose.”
“To test me?” I ask. “Like when Lisinder tortured Hadeus?”
“Yes, something like that. It’s about revealing your true intentions and character.”
The difference is, when asked, Lisinder was much more open about his intentions than I think a member of the Seelie Court would’ve been. Plus, despite what Destan says, I’ve seen Seelie be cruel just for the fun of it. A question occurs to me that I’ve been meaning to ask for a while.
“Back at the border, when you questioned Hadeus…” I search for the right way to bring up how shocking it was to see someone who spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about whether two colors clash suddenly become a ruthless torturer before my eyes. “You seemed to know what you were doing,” I conclude.
Destan grimaces and examines his cuff.
“Yes, it’s a side of me I don’t like to dabble with very often. Just know I learned my ways out of necessity rather than any real desire for violence.”
“And where did you learn it?”
“Halima,” Destan says sadly. “Well, her and her contacts. After Evanthe was attacked, it was a difficult time. There were threats everywhere—an endless number of people looking to take advantage of the situation and remove Ruskin from the picture. Of course, being Ruskin’s best friend, Halima subjected me to the utmost scrutiny. When she realized I was a loyal fool, she became even more worried. If I was going to be Ruskin’s right-hand man I needed to develop certain skills.” He sighs. “Anyway, it turns out I have a knack for interrogation, which proved useful at that time. But nowadays I only really flex that muscle when the situation truly calls for it.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s just so messy.”
I examine my friend, looking at him in a new light. I don’t believe messiness is the only reason he dislikes using his talents, but I also never really thought of him as being a threat to anyone before. I suppose that’s part of Destan’s skill set—people underestimate him because he doesn’t seem tough. It’s something he and I share.
Now we’re heading into a room with the toughest of individuals and planning to make friends.
The servants show us the way to a grand dining room, large enough to house the whole court. The long tables seem hewn from the rock itself, decorated with shining platters of silver and gold.
I look around for Lisinder, but it seems that like Ruskin, the High King of Unseelie doesn’t dine with his court every night. Instead, rows of animal eyes, horns and pointy teeth—most of them unfamiliar—await us. I can feel Destan shift beside me, but I lift my chin, remembering to look strong.
Pyromey stands and beckons to us with pointed nails.
“Come sit by me, Lady Thorn,” she says. “I can make sure all your food is bland and human before you eat it.”
The joke might be at my expense, but it doesn’t seem mean-spirited, and despite her fierce looks, she was one of the cousins Ruskin identified as sympathetic to our cause. This invitation now would seem to confirm that, so I gratefully accept.
The Unseelie make space for us beside her, and as we sit I notice Jasand—another distant relative of Lisinder’s—seated opposite us. Beside him are two of the biggest fae I’ve ever seen, male and female, both with hair hanging in hundreds of braids down to their elbows, and bovine horns protruding from their temples.
“ Magna Lunis , Lord Jasand,” I say, nodding at him. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And may its light bless you,” he says, making it sound so perfunctory he might as well not have responded. I glance at Destan to see if he noticed the dismissiveness. He gives me a confident nod, as if to say, ‘A llow me . ’
“So, Lord Jasand. That’s an unusual name. I don’t know much about Unseelie ancestry, but could that be a derivation of Jasandir, after the famed diviner of the Xavien age?”
“Doubt it,” Jasand grunts, taking a deep swig of his wine. “It’s old tongue. Montish dialect.” Jasand takes a big bite of the lamb leg he’s eating. “It means ‘slaughterer of cowards.’” The words are slightly muffled by the meat being pulverized between his teeth, but I think Destan gets the gist.
“My, how interesting,” my friend says, the light in his eyes dimming.
I notice other familiar faces down the table. To my distaste Climent, the fae who accused me of being a cheat when I first came to court, is here, with his friend Turis. They are both ignoring us so far, but I suspect they’re fully aware of the presence of a human and Seelie fae at the table.
I cast about to try to restart the conversation, remembering what Destan said about bringing the conversation around to Ruskin. Maybe if I can remind some of them how they’re related, we can get there.
“What about your parents, Lady Pyromey?” I say airily while cutting into a potato. “Are they still living at court?”
She laughs, a hissing sound to match her viper eyes.
“They’re dead,” she says. “Killed in the Great Divide. I’m older than I look.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Great. Reminding everyone how awful the war was probably isn’t the best approach if I want to get them onside.
“You’re being silly,” says the large female to Pyromey. “You’re practically a child.”
“Only to old goats like you, Vaccia.” Pyromey winks and Vaccia laughs deeply.
I next hear Destan half-heartedly trying to strike up a similar conversation with someone on his right, and get shut down just as quickly. I miserably eat some more of my food, wondering why we’re so bad at this, and hating that we’re letting Ruskin down right now with our clumsy attempts. It occurs to me Destan’s advice probably only applies to Seelie fae. The Unseelie here don’t seem much interested in talking about their lineage. Instead, Jasand is deep in conversation with the large male beside Vaccia about some sort of battle maneuver.
“No, you’ve got this all wrong. Side attacks might take more manpower than forward strikes, but the momentum is always there.”
“You’re delusional,” the large fae rumbles. “With the elevation on Gordmoor you’ll never get the speed, even on the best ursinian you can find.”
I swallow, reminding myself that Unseelie supposedly favor the bold, and interrupt.
“What’s an ursinian?” I ask.
Both fae turn to look at me, confusion flashing across their faces. Then Jasand grins.
“You’ve never seen one before? I suppose it’s all fluffy rabbits in Seelie.”
I can feel Destan giving me side-eye. I’m not staying on topic. But his topic of choice was not getting us anywhere, so I forge ahead.
“More like rabid gryphons, actually,” I say casually. “So it’s an animal, then?”
“It’s a steed,” the large fae clarifies. “We ride them when playing bastet matches.”
I blink at the word. “Right. And bastet is…?”
The Unseelie look like I’ve slapped them.
“You mean you’ve never heard of bastet either?” Pyromey says, making it sound sacrilegious.
Jasand turns to Destan. “You don’t have bastet in Seelie?” he demands.
“I can’t say I’m familiar,” Destan replies, looking slightly alarmed.
“But it’s the greatest game to ever exist!” The large male slams his hand down on the table with a bang that makes the plates rattle.
Destan gives me a look that can clearly be translated to ‘ What did you do?’
But I don’t think the fae are angry at us , just the state of a world where this bastet thing isn’t played everywhere. I know these looks—it’s the same ones I’ve seen the boys in my village wear whenever they take a ball out to the field to kick around.
“So, how do you play?”
“You don’t play, you fight!”
Vaccia rolls her eyes. “To be clearer,” she says, “you have to keep the ball in the circle, and get it through the pillars six times before the other team does.”
“And what do you fight for?” I ask, curious.
“Influence,” says Pyromey, her eyes bright, and when I look at her, I think she knows this will pique my interest.
“In what way?”
“The bastet games are held once a month. The winners earn themselves a place on the king’s council until they’re replaced by the next set of champions.”
“You decide that with a game ?” I ask, trying not to sound rude, but still, it’s a surprise.
“Well, how do you decide it in Seelie?” Jasand asks Destan, who looks annoyed about being put on the spot.
“The High Monarch of Seelie doesn’t have an official council,” says Destan.
It’s the kind of answer Jasand was clearly expecting, because he snorts. “Then how is the court properly represented to them? How do they know what their subjects’ needs or troubles are?”
Destan stutters, seeming unable to give him an answer.
“Well, here in Unseelie we believe the strongest and bravest among us should have some say in those matters,” Jasand says.
“They’re not the only members of the council,” clarifies Vaccia, “and their time on it is often short, but it is good to have new voices in the mix.” At this, she throws a dark look down the table that I don’t quite understand.
I knew the Unseelie valued the bravery and strength, but apparently it goes even further than I thought. On the other hand, though, I suppose that it wouldn’t seem so odd to have a great warrior or general among your advisers. When you don’t have any more wars to fight, apparently you need to create a way to measure those traits. A physical contest is as good as any.
Plus, it gets you the ear of the king—the ability to influence matters of state. If ever there was a way to get Lisinder to reconsider his stance on supporting Ruskin, surely this is it.
“And anyone can sit on the council, as long as they’re on the winning team?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Pyromey with a slight smile. I suspect she knows exactly why I’m asking.
“Well, it sounds like fun,” I say, lying through my teeth.
The large fae waves his hand. “Not for the likes of little humans like you.” He smashes his hands together. “You’d be crushed.”
“Don’t be rude, Wistal,” Vaccia says. Noting their matching size and horns, I realize that they’re probably related. Vaccia definitely had an “annoyed older sister” note in her voice.
But I’ve already survived an Unseelie test when I took the trial to first enter the court. Surely a game couldn’t be worse than that? And I’m stronger now.
“I’m not your average human,” I say, staring Wistal down defiantly.
“Er…Eleanor…” I hear Destan murmur two seats down from me.
Pyromey nods. “You’ve got that right. She hardly even looks that human, does she?” She eyes me thoughtfully. “When you first came in I thought for a moment?—”
“The point is, you don’t know what I’m capable of.” I cut Pyromey off before she can make a comment about the changes to my face. I don’t want to think about whatever strange thing Interra did to me right now.
Vaccia shakes her head. “That may be, but it is a challenging game.”
“Yes,” says Destan, sounding relieved. “It may be best if?—”
“Why not let the human play, if she wants to?” comes a slimy voice from down the table.
I look up to see Climent’s head tilted towards us, his lip curled in a sneer.
“After all, she overcame the trial last time she was at court, and none of us would’ve predicted that. I know we were all expecting her to die screaming, with the manticore’s venom burning her from the inside out as the beast devoured her.” He stares at me, daring me to call out the clear relish in his voice as he imagines my grisly death. I just return his stare. “And yet she survived, and without help from anyone else, isn’t that right, Lady Thorn?”
I bite back a sharp retort, reading between the lines. Climent knows I’m Ruskin’s naminai now, so he likely suspects I cheated in the trial. He wants me to know that I’m playing a deadly game.
“That’s right,” I say, ignoring the thudding of my heart as I tell the barefaced lie. “You’ve seen that I can hold my own, even by the standards of this court.”
“Bastet is one of our greatest traditions,” says Turis. I shiver at his voice, which is cold as ice—matching his gaze. I get the feeling if I stare too long into his gray eyes, I might freeze. “It helps decide whose blood runs with the great strength of the Unseelie, and who is weak and inadequate. We cannot have anyone unworthy advising our king. It would be too easy for their inferiority to infect the court. Bastet ensures those people are cut off at the knees before they overstep.”
There’s a bang and a scraping noise, and I jerk my head round to see Jasand’s claws buried in the tabletop, while Pyromey’s hand is on the table knife she’s just slammed down. Both are looking at Turis like they want to gut him. But the silver-haired fae’s expression remains unchanged, except for a slight brightening that tells me he got the reaction he wanted.
“If the human believes she is worthy…” he pauses, as if to let the absurdity of the idea sink in, “then let her try to prove herself. I’m sure we’ll all find it most entertaining.”
His eyes bore into mine and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I’m not stupid—I know they’re trying to goad me, but I also know such a clear chance to gain some influence in this place might not come by again.
“An Unseelie wouldn’t hesitate to accept the opportunity,” Climent says, making no effort to hide his malicious grin. I don’t know exactly why they seem to want me dead, but they’re doing little to conceal it. At the same time, I’m realizing that I need to take more definitive action if I’m going to get these people to ever listen to me about Ruskin and Evanthe. Sitting around making small talk at a dinner table isn’t going to do it.
“Fine by me,” I reply, staring back unblinkingly. They exchange a smug look between each other, before turning away, descending into conversation with someone sat beside them. The sudden dismissal makes it abundantly clear that they’ve got what they want from me, and now are done with the interaction.
“What was that about?” Destan quietly asks the fae beside us, looking deeply worried.
“Turis’s team permanently injured one of ours in the last match,” Vaccia says bitterly.
“They took Nastal’s leg ,” Jasand spits. “Ripped it right off and made sure the healers couldn’t do a damn thing for it.”
My blood runs cold. So that’s what Turis was getting at with his comment about cutting the unworthy off at the knees. Is that the kind of thing you have to do to succeed in this game?
“Did…did they win?” I ask tentatively.
“Turis’s team has won the last three matches,” Vaccia explains with distaste.
“That’s a quarter year Lisinder has had to sit and listen to him spout his bile about blood purity,” Pyromey hisses.
“Purity?”
“Birthrights. Lineages. People being superior because of their ancestry. You see it in the way he plays—he always targets those he sees as of lower status. And if he’s enforcing it when he’s in the arena, you can bet he’s doing the same out of it. That’s why he fights so hard to stay on the council.”
“Turis sure thinks like a Seelie for someone who claims to hate them,” mutters Jasand, then he shrugs at Destan. “No offense.”
Destan straightens, looking less nervous than he has all evening.
“I was born into our system. It doesn’t mean I condone it. I have had friends—brave, honorable, incredibly loyal friends—who’ve been treated like dirt thanks to that kind of simplistic thinking about bloodlines.”
I meet Destan’s gaze. We both know he’s talking about Halima. I give him a supportive smile. His sincerity seems to raise him a bit in our hosts’ estimations too, because Jasand slides a goblet over to Destan, offering him a drink.
“Let me help you end his streak, then,” I say, steering our conversation back to the game. “Like you say, blood shouldn’t matter here in Unseelie. Forget what I am and focus on what I can do.”
Wistal laughs, seeming charmed by my boldness. “Very well. Lady Thorn, you’d be welcome at our next game.”
“When’s that?” Destan asks.
“Tomorrow,” says Jasand. He seems torn between being skeptical and impressed by my confidence. “At Gordmoor.”
“That’s the playing ground?” I ask.
“That’s the mountain the playing ground’s on ,” explains Pyromey. “I hope you’re okay with heights.”