Chapter 15
S he’s bound and gagged, the material cutting into her skin as she stares into the portal with her fierce, viper eyes. Dread curdles my stomach even as my mind tries to make sense of how this can be possible. Wasn’t Pyromey with me just yesterday, drinking in the tavern?
Where I’d told her to go visit the borderlands.
I’m so angry at myself I could scream. It’s my fault that Evanthe captured her, that she was away from the safety of the court in the first place. I’d suggested she go check on the murders at the border, inviting her to investigate. I thought it would convince her of Evanthe’s treachery and that she could use that evidence to convince others, but now Pyromey is paying the price for my political games.
When Pyromey’s face flickers in the surface of the pool, Lisinder makes a noise and steps forward, as if he could reach in and pull her through. But the portals can’t be traversed across kingdoms—there are too many protections at the borders. It’s a fact I’m sure Evanthe is taking advantage of now.
“What are you?—”
Before Lisinder can speak another word, and without even bothering to issue another threat, Evanthe places a foot on Pyromey’s ankle and presses down. The Unseelie woman writhes, trying to break free, but hands from figures beyond the portal’s view hold her in place. She screams, a sound made more guttural for the way the gag muffles her, and then her ankle snaps.
The sound is loud enough to echo through the cavern, and I fight the urge to vomit as Evanthe raises her foot and stamps down on the broken joint once again.
Pyromey howls as the stamp forces the bone through the skin, twisting her foot so that it’s almost turned back on itself. The Unseelie around us are a hardened group—no one screams or cries, but I hear the intake of breath in collective horror all around me.
This is insane. She is insane. The Unseelie see it too. I’m sure none of them expected a queen of the Seelie—one famed for her peaceful nature, no less—to respond like this.
Lisinder growls, his voice thunderous.
“You will stop at once, Evanthe, or make yourself a mortal enemy of the Unseelie Kingdom.”
Evanthe ignores him as if he hadn’t spoken, as if she is not about to unleash a world of deadly consequence upon this realm with her actions. Instead, she raises her voice, ensuring it rings out from the portal like a death knell.
“Ruskin Dawnsong.”
Ruskin takes a step towards the pool. I grab his sleeve to hold him back, afraid of what might happen if she sets eyes on him.
“I know you’re listening,” she says, sounding horribly pleased with herself. “A mother always knows. You can save your cousin, Ruskin. That’s right—I know who she is.” Her voice is gently coaxing, but she says it all with a mad, gleeful smile like this is just a game to her. A game she is very much enjoying. I feel a lurch at the realization. The old Evanthe was certain that she was doing what she had to, but she didn’t take pleasure in it. That’s changed, and I’m certain Interra is to blame.
“Don’t you have enough Unseelie blood on your hands?” she continues. “Why shed more? Give yourself up, and I will release her.”
I don’t trust the words, even if she can’t lie. She might release Pyromey from the bonds currently holding her in place, but with a ruined ankle, how far could she go? And Evanthe hasn’t promised mercy—not from her or her followers.
“Don’t listen to her,” I tell Ruskin, hoping he can see past her taunts for the deception underneath. For the first time, I’m glad he doesn’t have his memories—there’s no guilt for Evanthe to mine, no shame about his past. Even her face means little to him.
When Ruskin doesn’t answer, Evanthe licks her lips, positioning her foot above Pyromey’s other ankle. I can’t bring myself to look at the broken one, trying to keep my eyes away from the splintered bone and mangled flesh.
“And what about you, Eleanor Thorn?” My throat goes dry when she says my name. “Never far from his side, are you? But shouldn’t you be home, helping your father? Albrecht is not treating him well, I hear. I can have him freed, you know, if you would just surrender.”
My blood heats and a series of rage-filled words rise to my mouth, but now it’s Ruskin’s turn to soothe me, and he puts a hand on my arm, stopping my reply.
“He still has my spell in place,” he murmurs. “From what you tell me, that will protect him from the worst.”
From the worst, maybe, but how many creative, cruel ways could Albrecht find to harm him without touching him? Faerie magic, after all, always has a loophole.
“Touch her again, Evanthe, and we will hunt you until the end,” Lisinder says. His voice is fierce, primal with rage, like the roar of a beast, and I think it’s a testament to Evanthe’s insanity that she doesn’t flinch.
Evanthe snaps Pyromey’s other ankle and then, without pausing, wrenches on her arm so hard it dislocates her shoulder. Pyromey convulses in agony, and I feel tears dampening my cheeks. Evanthe is so strong—the Unseelie woman’s shoulder bone presses sharply against her skin, her arm hanging uselessly at her side.
“Hand them over,” Evanthe demands.
Lisinder’s face is pale as snow, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he turns to look at Ruskin and me. We say nothing, but I grab Ruskin’s hand, afraid for us, afraid for Pyromey, and hating the decision that Evanthe is forcing us all to make.
Lisinder looks back at Evanthe and slowly shakes his head.
“My subjects—my family —will happily die with honor, if that’s what the Unseelie Kingdom asks of them. I will not bow to your threats, nor will I indulge your madness. So I will not negotiate with you, Evanthe Dawnsong. But may you be cursed by this court for the evil you have demonstrated on this day. The Unseelie will not forget it.”
Evanthe’s smile widens.
“So be it.”
She grabs Pyromey’s head, jerking it back. One single, sharp motion, and another snap rings through the chamber. Someone shouts, and I look to see Jasand falling to his knees, his face ashen. When I look back in the pool, Evanthe is dropping Pyromey’s lifeless body to the floor, her neck broken.
Lisinder stands firm, but I can see his hands are shaking. He balls them into fists, his eyes aflame with hate. Evanthe simply straightens, brushing out her skirts.
“Let us be clear, King Lisinder. You would do anything for your kingdom, and I will do anything for mine.”
The water ripples once more, and again the viewpoint of the portal shifts, revealing that the shadowy figures behind her aren’t just the Hunt, as I had expected, but a small army. High Fae stretch behind her on a grassy plain, their faces too numerous to pick out many individuals. What I do notice is a group of structures sitting in the distance behind them.
“I will continue to exact reparations from the Unseelie Kingdom,” she continues, “until you hand over what is mine.”
Lisinder steps closer to the pool edge, baring his teeth.
“You have made the gravest of errors, Evanthe, and when death comes for you, I will take comfort in knowing I have hastened it, in the name of my niece and my kingdom.”
“By the end of the day, Lisinder, I suspect you will be more willing to negotiate. Bring them to me, or I shall do to your kingdom what I did to your niece.” I recoil, turning my head away, as she kicks Pyromey’s corpse so hard the limbs jerk horribly.
The water ripples, and she is gone.
Lisinder unleashes the roar he appears to have been holding back, and it bounces around the cavern, reverberating in my ears in the same way as the snap and crunch of Pyromey’s bones—and her neck. One by one, members of the Unseelie Court join him, until the place is filled with a staggering sound—half-lament, half-battle cry.
Jasand fights his way to the front, his sword half drawn like he could run Evanthe through here and now. “My Lord, what does this mean? We’ll fight her, won’t we?”
“That was Cavalil behind them,” says Lady Flardryn, gesturing to the pool. “It’s half a mile from the border, mostly inhabited by Low Fae.”
“Then we should assume that’s where she intends to strike first,” Lisinder says. He turns to Ruskin and me.
“It is clear to me now that you were right, and the Evanthe I knew is dead and gone. She is a distortion of herself, her mind and heart poisoned beyond recognition.”
“I’m so sorry, my Lord, about Pyromey,” I say, my voice cracking on her name. And maybe it’s unwise, but I can’t help but voice the guilt twisting my gut. “She was in the borderlands because I’d told her about some murders there,” I confess. “If I hadn’t told her?—”
“Pyromey was only doing her duty. Yesterday you saved her life, you can hardly be blamed for her death today.”
I remember Pyromey’s words as she watched her ursinian plunge from the cliff: We all have to go sometime. She’d said it as if death was just an adventure waiting to happen. It gives me some small comfort, and I find myself hoping that wherever her soul is now, it’s embarking on its next adventure.
I swallow back fresh tears as Lisinder continues to address us, his tone gentle but firm.
“Understand that what I do now is not for you, but for Unseelie,” he says.
Ruskin nods. “I understand, Uncle.”
This is about honor and vengeance, I realize, and Lisinder wants us to know that he’s going to fight to avenge the offense that Evanthe dealt to the Unseelie Court. It’s not quite the same as Lisinder going to battle for Ruskin—or for his claim to the throne.
Lisinder turns and addresses Jasand. “Gather the warriors, the young and the seasoned, enough for a militia to match her forces. Once armed we will ride out to Cavalil. Move fast. An attack on the settlement may already be underway.”
The crowd breaks apart as Unseelie dash to spread the message and prepare for battle. There’s a buzz of energy in the air—they’re hungry for this. Perhaps no Unseelie could stand and watch such violence against one of their own without it awakening a fire in their blood. When I look up at Ruskin, I can see it in his eyes, and I feel it too. I want to make Evanthe pay for what she did to Pyromey.
“We’re going with them, right?” I say to Ruskin.
He looks down at me and for a moment, I see the conflict in his face. He wants to keep me safe—as if such a thing is possible now. I’m gearing up for a fight when he just nods, and I feel a surge of love for him. He knows we should both be in this fight.
There’s a sigh over my shoulder.
“I suppose that means I’m along for the ride too,” says Destan.
I bite my lip. “Des, maybe you should stay here.”
He scoffs. “And have Halima haunt me for not looking out for you two? I don’t think so.”
“We need to get Lisinder’s permission first,” says Ruskin. “Like he said, this is his fight, regardless of why Evanthe did what she did.”
Lisinder looks unsurprised when we tell him we want to join them, but he doesn’t immediately agree, instead curling a clawed hand towards us and marching from the chamber.
“Come with me.”
We follow him to a room with a long table in the center, and shelves of maps and books along one side. It’s well-warded—I can sense the magic parting for us as we enter—and Lisinder catches my curious look.
“It’s a war room. It hasn’t been used since the Great Divide,” he grunts.
At the table he turns on us, raising a dark eyebrow.
“Your mother’s mind may be poisoned or twisted, Nephew, but she’s no fool. She knows me, and she knows I would never agree to her terms after she murdered my kin in front of me.” His voice grows rough on this last part, the loss of Pyromey weighing on us all. “We Unseelie cannot be intimidated like that. She must know that we’d go to battle before we dishonored ourselves by accepting the terms of a kin-killer. Is that her goal? What does she really want? Because it seems like it’s a war.”
“She really wants us,” I say miserably. “Before we left I put certain protections on the founding stone—she needs me alive to undo them, and as for Ruskin—” I glance at him, wondering if I guessed correctly about what he shared in his private conversation with Lisinder.
“She needs him to name her as heir because he is still technically High King,” Lisinder finishes.
“I told him that I have been the true ruler of the Seelie Court all these years,” Ruskin says, confirming my theory. He brushes his hand against my knuckles, and I think it’s an assurance, a message that he’s sure telling Lisinder was the right thing to do.
“It’s a level of secrecy and deception I can’t say I understand,” Lisinder says sternly. “But if it’s you she wants so badly, then she’s using this ploy to draw you out into the open, forcing an Unseelie retaliation that you will feel compelled to join. I am not your keeper. If you want so badly to get yourselves killed, that’s your affair. But I feel bound to point out that you’ll be playing into her hands by coming with us today.”
“We have to. It will be too dangerous for you otherwise,” I blurt out.
Lisinder scoffs, and I feel myself flush at the bluntness of my words.
“My warriors can handle themselves.”
“We mean no disrespect, Uncle, but we don’t know what my mother has up her sleeve,” says Ruskin.
“She’s far from the source of the iron curse she visited on the Seelie Court,” I explain. “But I don’t know if it’s far enough. It’s still possible she will be able to use that power in Cavalil. If she does, I’m the only one with the magic to combat it. You’ll need me,” I say. Lisinder may be intimidating, but facts are facts, and I feel brave enough to lay them out for him now.
He eyes me with interest, as if seeing me differently. “Very well. The armory will give you what you need, they have standard armor that will fit you both. But hurry. We will ride out as soon as we are ready, and we will not wait.”
The mountain is a flurry of activity as we collect our armor, stopping by our room to hastily pull on more appropriate riding clothes to wear underneath and fasten on our weapons. I ask questions as we dress, trying to distract myself from the fight ahead.
“What convinced you to finally tell him?” I say, buttoning up a pair of pants like those I wore in the bastet ring.
“You mean telling my uncle I’m High King?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking we should be honest with the Unseelie for a while, but I didn’t know you felt the same.”
“Evanthe forced our hand, but I agree it was the right time. I could see that Lisinder wanted to oppose Evanthe, wanted to stay true to his promise to us, but was held back by the scars the war left on this court. He did not wish to be seen as provoking another Great Divide. Even if the Unseelie were to win, his reign would likely not survive it,” Ruskin says, fastening a set of greaves to his shins. “But if I could give him a reason why this wouldn’t be like last time, I suspected he’d take it. I told him that this might still end in violence, but that fighting her wouldn’t mean going to war with the Seelie Court.”
“Because Evanthe doesn’t lead the court, you do,” I finish, putting it together. “Hand me that breastplate, will you?”
He picks it up, then hesitates. His uncertainty is so rare I stand up straighter.
“What is it?”
“You should probably know how badly I want to make you stay here, where it’s safe.”
I sigh and pull the breastplate out of his hand. “Ruskin, I have to?—”
“I know,” he says, and steps up against me, his hands going to my waist to pull me close. “I know you have to put yourself in danger, and it…it terrifies me.” The last three words seem like they take a huge effort for him to say.
“I’m scared too,” I say, stroking his jaw. “But you have to trust me when I say that we have weathered things like this before, and come out the other side. Since Interra you’ve seen me perform a few tricks, and play a game, but you don’t remember how strong I can be. If you did, you wouldn’t worry so much.”
“You’re a liar,” he says, but gently. “I’d still be terrified even with my memories. I don’t need them to know you’re amazing—or to understand how utterly impossible life would be for me if something were to happen to you. I don’t need to remember anything to look at you now and know that if I lost you, there’d be no light left in this world for me. So swear to me, Ella, that you’ll be careful.”
“I swear,” I say. My voice is tight with the emotion his words have pulled from me—his raw honesty piercing me deeper than any show of bravery could.
He leans down to kiss me, his lips gently demanding access, which I readily give. His hands drop from my waist to cradle my ass, and the heat of our mouths colliding starts to spread through me. There’s a frantic edge to our kisses, the way he can’t seem to pull me close enough against him. I sense we’re both hoping we can chase away all thoughts of us being parted, if we just cling tightly enough now. His fingers dance across the waistline of my pants, and I’m immediately aching for him, thinking of all the things those clever fingers can do to me. But we also both know that the battle won’t wait for us.
“Ruskin,” I breathe.
He growls unhappily, but it’s clear he knows what I’m getting at, because he withdraws his hand. Reluctantly, we untangle ourselves, finish our final checks of armor and weaponry, and head to the front gates of the Unseelie Court. As I spot the soldiers gathering there, the battle starts to feel more real. The clank of metal and the smell of animal hide—ursinian and horse—solidify the fact that soon that metal will be tested, and soon these steeds will be put to work. We get closer, mingling amongst the warriors, and I see many soldiers have fixed cuffs to their horns that taper into sharp tips, while others wear gauntlets with open fingertips to allow their claws to protrude.
Elias is there, in an ostentatious suit of armor that’s somehow—with magic, I guess—has been colored red to match his hair. He nods at me as we pass, and from this I know he holds no grudges about the fact that he once again finds himself battling to defend his court. Vaccia sits on one of the biggest Calasians I’ve ever seen, with spikes topping off her horns, and Jasand and Wistal sit on the back of a carriage full of equipment nearby. I assume they won’t be riding into battle but are saving their transformations for later.
They’re a fearsome-looking bunch, and it’s hard to imagine the Seelie High Fae wanting to stand their ground with this lot bearing down on them. It brings me some comfort, almost as much as Ruskin’s warm hand resting soothingly on my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so,” I say, taking a deep breath.
Destan pushes his way through the crowd towards us, wearing a plain suit of armor, and I can’t help but gape.
“Des…you look positively warlike,” I say.
“No need to sound so surprised,” he sniffs, as Ruskin ducks away, mentioning something about horses.
I examine Destan, realizing I’ve never seen him dressed quite so practically.
“It’s nothing special,” he says, sounding put out as he adjusts an arm brace. “I didn’t have time for the armory to make me up anything better.”
I grin, an idea forming in my mind.
“Hold on.”
I place my hand to his breastplate and close my eyes. First I check for any potential weak spots, planning to strengthen the armor where needed, but even the standard issue items from the court’s armory seem to be impeccably made. The Unseelie know what they’re doing when it comes to strong armor, they just don’t waste time making it pretty. Which simply won’t do for Destan. I shift my focus, imagining the image I want to bring to life.
Lines form beneath my fingers as I carve my magic onto Destan’s armor, the design curling and twisting back onto itself in a kind of dance. I open my eyes a moment later and step back to admire the effect.
Destan looks down at the array of fleur-de-lis and swirling shapes now engraved into his breastplate, his face lighting up.
“Eleanor, it’s beautiful,” he says, delighted. “I couldn’t have chosen better myself.”
“Just don’t go ruining it in your first battle,” I say with a wink.
Ruskin returns with a couple of horses in tow, the usual large Calasians I’ve grown to hate riding. But not everyone here is on a horse, and I remember that I’ve had much better luck recently with a different kind of steed.
“Those can be for you and Destan,” I say, nodding at the horses. “I’ve got another ride in mind.”