Chapter 18
I stare up at the crags of the ceiling, counting the cracks and taking slow shallow breaths so as not to jostle the ten inches of crossbow bolt sticking out of me. The healers’ wing of the Unseelie Court is not exactly a calm, comfortable space right now, but I can’t blame them. All around me is the cacophony of post-battle medicine, with Unseelie running around, tossing bottles of tinctures and balms to each other, shouting instructions as the wounded groan around me.
The pain reached new levels as we traveled back through the water portal to the mountain, the squeeze and pull of the transportation spells agonizing now that I didn’t have anything to distract me from it. The heat of battle has well and truly worn off, and every inhale now is like dancing along the edge of a blade, the pain threatening to swallow me up into darkness. The only way I’m coping is by counting the cracks above me and focusing on the warm glow of my bond with Ruskin. It washes over me in gentle strokes, like waves lapping at the shore. He’s here with me, clutching my hand tight with his right hand even as his left bleeds a track of crimson down his forearm to his wrist.
“Ruskin,” I say, my voice sounding as craggy as the stony roof above me. “You should get that looked at.”
“I’m fine,” he says again bluntly, ignoring the pat pat pat of his blood hitting the floor in fat droplets.
“Fine like I’m fine?” I ask wryly. I realize that once again he’s the one sending the waves of warmth across the bond, trying to give me strength. Is his magic the only thing keeping me from screaming in agony right now? I can’t tell.
A male Unseelie in a dark gray uniform enters my sight line, leaning over me.
“I’m sorry we kept you waiting,” he murmurs, laying a hand across my forehead. “We had to see to some others first.”
I don’t need to be looking at Ruskin to feel him bristle beside me. He damn near bit someone’s head off when we first arrived and they’d told me to just lie down and wait. I squeeze his hand to calm him. Even he must realize the best thing now is to let the fae do his job, because he stays silent.
The healer repositions his hand, his brow knitting.
“Are you—” His eyes dart to Ruskin, widening. “My Lord, are you channeling magic to her at this moment?”
“You can feel that?” I rasp, surprised.
“Yes, and you need to stop,” the healer orders sharply.
“Over my dead body,” Ruskin says, his voice like thunder.
“Over both of yours, actually,” the healer says. “Your arm is bleeding so much right now because you’re actively draining your body’s strength into her. And I can’t work on healing her with your magic playing havoc with her vital signs. There’s too much interference.”
Ruskin makes a noise of frustration, lighting a little spark of fear in the healer’s eyes, but to his credit, the healer holds firm.
“I’m serious, my Lord.”
The beautiful glow of the bond fades a few notches, allowing a fresh spike of pain to dart through me. I bite my lip but stay silent, not wanting Ruskin to regret his decision. In fact, as much as I like having him by my side, I doubt either me or the healer will be able to focus with him there, bleeding onto the floor.
“Rus, go get your arm looked at,” I say, trying to put what little energy I have left into my voice. “Please, for me.”
He hesitates, but then strokes a thumb across my knuckles and stands. “For you, my love. But I will be just across the room.”
Now he’s standing I can see the intense stare Ruskin gives the healer as he goes, but the Unseelie is already busy looking me over, cutting away my riding leathers to look more closely at the wound. I stifle a cry, aware Ruskin’s still in earshot.
I see the healer’s eyes go wide again as he looks at the spot where the crossbow enters my body.
“I need you to sit up,” he says, his voice intense enough I know something’s wrong.
He helps me pivot my hips into a sitting position. I bite my lip so hard I draw blood when my stomach muscles automatically flex around the wound, sending my nerve endings writhing. I feel a vague pressure at my back, and then the healer lays me back down.
“What is it?” I say. “Tell me. I know something’s wrong.”
“It’s more like what’s right,” he says. Before I can ask him what he means, he’s calling another healer over.
“Look at this,” he says, as she steps up to the cot I’m lying in. “Crossbow got her right through the abdomen, nicked about three organs.”
“And she’s still awake?” the woman asks, sounding incredulous.
“Yes, I’m still awake,” I rasp, still able to feel annoyed that she’s talking about me like I’m not here.
“Will you help me with the extraction?” he asks his colleague.
I know what comes next. I’ve seen my mom dig enough pieces of farm equipment out of people to be prepared, but it still doesn’t stop my heart thudding with fear.
“Can you give me some kind of pain relief?” I mutter. “Is there a spell for that?”
“There is.” The male healer shrugs. “But at this point it can only really take the edge off.” From the way he says it, I can tell asking for pain management isn’t most Unseelie’s priority and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Typical.
“Well, I’ll take whatever’s going at this point.”
The healer performs the spell, and the sharpness in my side dulls a few notches. Then he starts the extraction.
Even with the spell, the removal of the bolt is like being laid out on a burning hot pan on one side, and then being blistered by the sun on the other. Agony lances through me and I give up trying not to scream, letting my lungs burn with the rest of me. At last, darkness swallows me up, my body choosing to give me some relief through unconsciousness.
When I wake, my left side feels oddly rigid, like it’s been frozen. I shift, and there’s a series of pops, like the cracking of knuckles, only its coming from my abdomen. I immediately stop moving, terrified I might have damaged something. But the pain? It’s mostly gone. I breathe in and out, staring once more at the crags of the ceiling, trying to assess every sensation.
“It’s okay, you can move,” a voice says.
I shift my neck and see the male healer to my right.
“I can?” I croak. “But it feels weird.”
“It’s just the new muscle. You haven’t used it before so it’s a bit stiff.”
I gradually lean up onto my elbows and immediately catch sight of Ruskin asleep in a seat beside my cot. He looks ridiculously out of place there—a beautiful fae prince slumped in the sparse environment of the healer wing. It’s like he’s been ripped from a painting and dumped here by mistake. I examine the angular planes of his face, the jet black of his long lashes, taking comfort in the details of him.
“We had to knit together a part of your intestine too,” the healer says, drawing my attention away from Ruskin. “We’ve done the essential work—your body will do the rest for you. You’re lucky you have magic, and that it’s so strong. You should be fine in a few days.”
“Wow,” I say, gingerly lifting the cotton shirt they’ve changed me into. There’s a pale circle of skin where the crossbow bolt once was, with a few lines radiating out from it, making it look a little like a sun. I wasn’t awake to tell them to remove the scar. Now, looking at it, I find I don’t mind. I went through something today. It would be strange not to want some evidence of it.
“Is that it, then?” I ask, amazed at how different I feel now from the agony of before.
The healer looks unsure.
“What?” I demand, glancing over at Ruskin, who is still fast asleep. He better not be faking it. If there’s bad news, I want to be the one to tell him.
“It’s just interesting, your case,” the healer says.
I narrow my eyes. “How so?”
“That wound…you hadn’t realized, but the bolt had gone right through you. The tip had lodged itself in the back of your riding leathers.”
“Well, that explains why it hurt so much,” I say, only half serious.
“It should have killed you, Lady Thorn. No ordinary human being would have survived that injury. They would’ve been dead within the hour.”
“Okay,” I say, digesting this. “So my magic must have helped, right? You said it means I’ll heal faster?”
“Yes, but…all fae have magic. That is often not what saves a fae on the battlefield. It is only the strongest fae, physically, who may continue fighting with such injuries. Your body has the strength of a fae and then some.”
I remember how I’d pushed Ruskin when he grabbed me in our room, how I lobbed the ball so far in bastet. He’s right, I’ve been physically stronger—a lot stronger—for a while now, but it’s impossible to notice when it creeps up on you day by day, when you have nothing specific to compare it to.
“How can that be?” I ask. I don’t expect the healer to have the answer at all, but he starts to offer me one, his tone cautious.
“You are naminai matched, aren’t you, my Lady? Forgive me, but I’ve heard the rumors. It’s why I suspected Prince Ruskin was channeling to you, though I’ve never seen that type of bond in action before.”
“Yes, we are. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, I have no evidence for it, but I wondered if, as well as magic, you may be sharing…other characteristics of Prince Ruskin’s? It would explain your appearance, and your strength?—”
“Yes, I get the idea, thank you.” I interrupt him abruptly. He looks awkward, but happily falls silent. I want to protest, and say there’s nothing odd about my appearance at all, but it would be a lie. Frankly, I’ve stopped looking in mirrors recently, not wanting to be confronted with the undeniable sharpening of my cheekbones and ears, as well as the changes to my eyes, which deepen in color every day. And now this strength. The physical capabilities of a fae. Is it all part of the same thing? It’s not bad in itself—it just saved my life—but I don’t like not understanding exactly where it comes from.
I dismiss the healer, thanking him for his help. He seems glad I’m not harsher with him for being so honest. When I sit up to swing myself out of bed, Ruskin stirs, and I find my mood immediately improves as his yellow-green eyes blink sleepily at me, then brighten as he becomes more alert.
“Ella,” he breathes, and leans forward to kiss me. It’s gentle and tender, his fingers stroking trails of warmth down my face as I sigh into him.
“It’s okay,” I say between kisses. “I won’t break.”
He draws back, his lips curving upwards into a smile, even though I can still see a spark of worry in his eyes.
“Let’s not test that theory again, shall we?” he murmurs. “Now, let’s get you out of here and into a proper bed.”
I kiss him again, enthusiastically, my hands going to his chest. “That sounds fun.”
“To sleep , you minx,” he says, helping me up from the cot.
“How dull,” I complain. “I was hoping for some entertainment. I know I’ll feel much better once you’ve taken care of me.” I tug playfully at his waistband—a quick movement so no one sees, and he rolls his eyes at me even as they darken with desire at my suggestion.
But I suppose I should be more specific when wishing for entertainment, because as we exit the healers’ wing, Destan comes towards us. He’s half striding, half-jogging, and glances over his shoulder like he’s being pursued.
“Great, I was hoping you’d be up by now,” he says and then, to my surprise, pulls me into a hug. “Well done not dying, my dear. Though it should be noted that you and arrows are not a good mix either.”
“Gentle,” Ruskin complains, making me giggle. “She’s still mending.”
“She looks all right to me,” says Destan airily. “Definitely well enough to celebrate.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”
He smiles, but there’s a slight edge of panic to it. “Don’t make me go on my own,” he says.
“Make you go wh—” Ruskin begins, but then a pair of Unseelie come stumbling down the corridor.
“Lionsvale!” shouts Jasand, “We were wondering where you’d gotten to.”
Destan’s eyes widen in a silent plea for help as Jasand claps him on the back.
“He was finding Prince Ruskin,” Wistal hollers, sounding delighted. “And Lady Thorn!”
“The holding feast is already underway, my friends. You mustn’t miss it!”
I meet Ruskin’s eye and we share an amused look. It’s clear the pair have already been celebrating plenty, but it’s difficult to see how we could say no. I shrug at Ruskin and follow Destan as he’s dragged down the corridor by the two Unseelie.
“Just don’t overdo it,” Ruskin mutters in my ear as we enter the dining room, which is heaving with Unseelie from the battle and others who want to join in the fun. “You’re still recovering, you know.”
I try to heed his advice, but it’s difficult when fae keep coming up to me and shoving drinks in my hand, telling me I fought valiantly and patting me on the back hard enough to slop ale on the floor. Since more than half the drinks that get handed to me are fae-brewed anyway, I have a good excuse to discreetly hand them off to the nearest reveler. Ruskin sits in the corner, holding his own audience with a group of older fae who seem to have known his father. At first I worry that his lack of memory would give him away, but it seems that they’re more intent on talking than listening, reminiscing about glory days Ruskin was never around for anyway.
Feeling reasonably sure that he’s safe from exposure, I let Vaccia take me by the arm and drag me over to some musicians. I’m wrung out from the last twenty-four hours and I know that I should be exhausted—but I feel a kind of delirious joy in that moment. Looking around, that seems to be the point of this gathering. Blowing away the cobwebs after a difficult time.
The musicians’ playing is nothing like the delicate melodies I’ve heard in the Seelie Court. Instead the beat is loud and primal. The Low Fae hammer on drums and blow on bone horns to create a rhythm that reminds me of working songs sung by fishermen back home. Vaccia starts up singing, her voice surprisingly beautiful, and she tries to teach me the words until we’re both laughing.
“There she is,” says a gruff voice, and I turn to see Elias holding his arms wide to me, his eyes shiny with drink. “The iron tamer, queen challenger, the—” He casts around for a third name just as Wistal and Jasand bound up to us.
“The warrior of the Unseelie?” suggests Jasand.
“No.” Elias shakes his head. “We’re all warriors of the Unseelie. But Lady Thorn, here, won the day for us, she deserves a better title.”
I shift, increasingly uncomfortable with everyone’s praise. As glad as I am that I was able to keep them safe, I’m still coming to terms with what I did in the battle. I killed people: Seelie who thought they were protecting their queen. Yes, they would have done the same to me and my friends if they could have, but that’s for their consciences to deal with. I can only grapple with mine. Never have I used my power for such destruction before. I can still see it now, the spray of crimson as I drove the iron shoots into the Seelie front line.
“I really just did what I could,” I say. “I just happen to be able to fight the cold iron, but if you had my magic, then any of you would have done the same.”
“But you are a human, a stranger to these lands, and you fought for our people like we were your own,” says Vaccia sincerely. “You used your magic swift and sure as a blade to free our land of Evanthe’s curse, and that is something the Unseelie Court will not forget.”
“That’s it! The sword of Unseelie . That’s your name.”
I blanch, but hold my expression neutral. Without realizing it, Elias has just echoed my true name. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but Lunasworn —literally meaning “sword of the moon”—could very well be referring to the Unseelie. They’re known for their affiliation with the moon, after all.
My mood plummets as I wonder what it means. Is this my destiny—to be a weapon, a force of destruction? I’m an inventor, not a fighter. I make things and study them, it’s the opposite of blind destruction. If being a blade to cut things down is my destined fate, then I don’t want it.
“Excuse me,” I say to the four Unseelie, “I think I just need to get another drink.”
I retreat to a quieter corner of the chamber, an alcove beside a statue that means I’m not immediately noticeable to the rest of the party, then catch a servant as they go past. I ask for something from their Styrland stores to clear my head and then lean back against the wall, watching the celebrations unfold. Wistal explained to me why it was called a holding feast. The Unseelie drink and make merry after a battle to hold on to the good things that came from the bloodshed: freedom, security, knowing you’re saving more lives than you’ve taken. But it’s also to hold on to the memory of those you’ve lost. The light and the dark—placing them side by side in your heart.
The servant comes back with my drink and I’m about to raise a toast to that very idea, when I see Turis skulking round the edge of the room with his usual posse. My fist tightens around my goblet, remembering how he threatened Ruskin yesterday. I watch him watching Ruskin, still deep in conversation with the older Unseelie, and decide that sooner rather than later I need to do something about that group of fae. There’s only so many times they get to threaten my naminai before they find themselves at the wrong end of some pointy metal.
The sword of Unseelie . The name comes back to me now, and I roll it round in my mind as I take a sip of my drink. Maybe sometimes, in certain situations, it wouldn’t be so bad to be a sword.
There’s a giggle from someone by the statue beside my alcove, high-pitched and breathy, then a male voice whose words I can’t make out, murmuring in a low, seductive tone.
Ah, time to make myself scarce, then.
I try to slip out of the alcove without being noticed, but I manage to scrape my boot against the stone floor and the giggling abruptly stops. I sigh, deciding the best thing for everyone’s dignity is just to walk past and ignore whatever scene is waiting for me on the other side of the statue, but a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.
“Er, Eleanor,” Destan says, sounding half mortified, half annoyed.
Beside him is Dreidana, the Unseelie servant, looking flushed and happy pressed up against the statue. I can’t help but notice that several of Destan’s shirt buttons are undone.
“Don’t mind me,” I say, hiding my grin behind my hand. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait!” Dreidana’s expression suddenly turns, and she steps away from the statue, reaching for my goblet.
“That’s not the Styrland import,” she says, examining the wine. “We’re under strict instructions to serve them in different cups so we don’t get them mixed up.”
I blink at her. “But I drank from it and I feel fine.”
More than that, I didn’t notice any difference in taste. The one time I’ve eaten fae food, the difference was unmistakable—it was too delicious and sweet to be anything from the human realm. I take the cup back out of her hand, sniffing it. The wine smells appealing, but no more than human wine usually does.
“Are you sure?” I ask. My confusion is tinged with an edge of worry now, and I willingly hand the cup to Destan when he asks for it. He sniffs it, takes a sip, and shakes his head.
“It’s fae wine, Eleanor. The Styrland stuff tastes completely different to us.”
I take a step back, feeling a little dizzy in a way I know has nothing to do with the drink.
“Are you all right?” Destan asks.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll go speak to Ruskin. Honestly,” I say, conjuring up a smile that I hope will reassure them, “it’s just strange, that’s all. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” I feel guilty about spoiling their time together, and make a studied effort to wave to them cheerfully as I go.
But I don’t go and find Ruskin. If I want an explanation, I know I need to see someone I’ve already noted isn’t at this party. Although whatever answer he has for me, I probably won’t like it.