Chapter 22
T he throne room of the Unseelie Court reverberates with the shouts of its members, their chants bouncing off the rugged walls.
“May these halls echo with their names forever!”
“And may we do justice to those names,” Lisinder says, bowing his head. With that he concludes the ceremony to pay tribute to those who died in the battle of Cavalil. The holding feast was a celebration, but this was a more somber affair, with all the court gathered. With such a serious mood, I worried it wasn’t the right time or place to move forward with Ruskin’s plan. But he assured me that this was precisely the kind of event where the Unseelie would choose to bring up matters of honor.
Still, seeing the court all together, my nervousness returns. Doing this here, in front of so many people, is a bold move. I try to remind myself that the Unseelie favor the bold, as Ruskin gives my thigh a quick squeeze, then stands. We’re seated in a privileged position beside other members of Lisinder’s kin. It makes Ruskin’s sudden movement draw attention instantly. I feel Destan tense where he’s seated on the other side of me, and a ripple of muttering starts up among our neighbors.
“Stars help us,” Destan murmurs. I can’t help but think we’re going to give him an ulcer one of these days. Ruskin won me over to his plan eventually, but Destan was less easily convinced.
Ruskin raises his voice to ensure he’s heard by everyone.
“Your Majesty,” he addresses Lisinder, who looks surprised but intrigued, leaning an elbow on the arm of his throne.
“What is it, Nephew?”
Ruskin looks utterly calm, almost bored, but I know how important this is to him.
“I would like to take this opportunity while the court is gathered to right a wrong that has been festering in your kingdom. I wish to invoke the King’s Justice.”
As I expected, the Unseelie seem more excited than concerned by this turn of events. They do not shy away from confrontation, and I can see Elias a row ahead of us, wriggling in his seat like a child whose been promised a special treat.
“A petition for the King’s Justice has to be seconded by a member of his council before it’s even considered,” points out Lady Flardryn, sat a few rows behind us.
“A council member like Lady Thorn?” Elias replies with a note of triumph before I can even open my mouth.
“Exactly,” I say, nodding gratefully at him before turning to Lisinder. “I second the petition, Your Majesty.”
Lisinder sits back in his chair, stroking his beard.
“Do you know exactly what the King’s Justice involves, Nephew?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” Ruskin says.
Ruskin had first explained it to me several days ago, when we were still lying in bed and he was trying to convince me this was a good idea.
“The King—or Queen’s—Justice is a tradition by which you can challenge someone you believe has wronged you.”
“Don’t the Unseelie do that all the time anyway?” I asked.
“Yes, but those challenges could have cascading effects. Challenge the wrong person and you’ll wind up starting a blood feud between families. You might even get ostracized from the court as a whole. This challenge can only be approved by an Unseelie monarch, but it gives the challenger the right to confront whoever has wronged them and ask them to answer for their crime without fear of retribution from anyone else.”
I asked a question, suddenly feeling silly it had never occurred to me before.
“But if fae can’t lie—for the most part—why bother with the challenge at all? Why not just ask them outright if they’re guilty? If they say yes or no, you have your answer, and if they avoid answering you at all, well, you have your answer too.”
Ruskin shakes his head. “You can’t have everyone running around forcing their neighbors to incriminate or exonerate themselves at every sleight. It would be chaos. And besides, the Unseelie might be more direct than the Seelie, but they can still find a way to trick you with the truth. Only under special circumstances can you truly be certain that yes and no mean nothing more and nothing less than yes and no.”
“So no one ever just comes out and asks someone to confess?”
“In the Unseelie Court, you must have significant evidence before you’d ever ask for such a thing. Something we don’t have in this instance, my love, even if we were happy to upset the Unseelie Court and make an accusation with no insurance policy.”
“And what happens in this challenge, exactly?” I grabbed hold of his arm, suddenly assuming the worst. “It’s not a fight to the death, is it?”
“It is a fight—after all, this is the Unseelie we’re talking about—but the intention isn’t to kill each other, no,” he said.
If no one ever died in the challenges, he’d have said so. Hearing that death isn’t the intention hadn’t really made me feel better. Clearly they still happened, at least some of the time.
“And what do you get, if you win?”
“The truth. That’s when you get your answer. If you’re the challenger, then the accused must directly address your allegations. After that, the monarch can mete out punishment as they see fit.”
“And if the challenger loses?” I asked.
“Then they forfeit the right to ever speak of the matter in relation to the accused again. They can never point their finger at that person, or raise the question of their guilt on that topic, for the rest of their lives.”
The finality of it was unnerving, but not as much as the fight itself. As I look at Ruskin now, standing tall and undaunted before the court, I know he’s stronger than he’s been for a while—with every benefit that his years of experience can give him, and still it doesn’t stop me worrying what he’s getting into.
“Very well,” Lisinder says. I think he doesn’t know what to make of Ruskin’s behavior, but has no reason to deny him. “Let us hear your petition.”
“I wish to challenge the following members of your court, for conspiring to engineer my death: Lord Turis Hailtorn, Lord Climent Falconside, Lord Dridan Hartflood, and Lady Brianna Clearglen.” Clearglen and Hartflood glare at Ruskin with open loathing as he calls their names, but Climent pales slightly.
Only Turis looks unchanged, his face unsettlingly blank as Ruskin accuses him of attempted murder. “But that is not all,” Ruskin continues, pausing to make sure he has everyone’s attention. “I also wish to accuse Lord Turis of orchestrating the murder of my father, Prince Lucan Hawkstooth, and the others for helping to conceal his crime.”
The court’s reaction to this revelation is vocal, with many of the Unseelie stomping their feet against the ground. Jasand, seated a few spaces away, leans over Destan to murmur at me, “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
Lisinder’s yellow eyes brighten dangerously when Ruskin speaks Lucan’s name. They settle on Turis’s face, and for the first time I see a flicker of discomfort in the silver-haired fae. It’s clear from Lisinder’s glare that the king is wondering if this is true, and imagining what kind of fate he wants for Turis if it is.
“Your Majesty,” Turis speaks. “Though it is not a requirement of the petition, I am a respected member of this court, and believe that earns me the right to ask on what grounds—indeed, if there are any—Prince Ruskin makes these accusations.”
Lisinder looks between him and Ruskin. “It is not a requirement of the petition, but you may answer, Nephew, if you are inclined.”
“Lords Turis, Climent, and Hartflood each attempted to sabotage me during the battle of Cavalil. As for my reasons for believing they were involved in my father’s murder, I will keep those to myself, though I trust my information.”
I try to remain expressionless where I sit. Ruskin’s theory is based on what I reported to him. I don’t doubt Turis wishes Ruskin and me harm, I just hope we’re right about Prince Lucan too.
“And what about me?” comes a high, disdainful voice. “You can’t claim I tried to harm you in battle, Prince Dawnsong,” says Lady Clearglen.
Ruskin gives her a polite smile that seems more effective than any scowl. “No, but I do know you are close allies with Lord Turis.”
She curls her lip. “So you presume me guilty by association, then.”
A gruff voice cuts through the chamber. “And by association with Palikar, that idiot who made the moon orb used on Prince Ruskin on his last visit. I know you were a frequent customer of his, Lady Clearglen. Seems mighty coincidental.” Maidar’s leaning on a block of seats towards the back of the staggered rows, looking like he’s just strolled in. He told us about Clearglen’s connection with Palakar a few days ago when we warned Maidar of Ruskin’s plan to invoke the King’s Justice. When I asked why he hadn’t thought to mention it before, he just shrugged and said there wasn’t any point without more evidence. Since invoking the King’s Justice means we don’t need more evidence, he seems happy to show up and voice his theory for everyone to hear.
Lisinder’s hawkish gaze swivels towards Lady Clearglen. “We never got to examine my brother’s body after the wolf attack. The burial was all dealt with by the Seelie Court, so we couldn’t ever establish whether he had any strange traces of magic on him. But one can’t help but wonder.”
Lady Clearglen at least has the bravery to stare defiantly back at her king. We don’t have the evidence to prove anything and they know it, but we don’t have to—Ruskin just has to win the challenge. The thought obviously occurs to Lisinder too, because he brings his fist down with a thump on the arm of his throne.
“I grant Prince Ruskin’s petition. The challenge is issued.”
As the anticipation of the court rumbles around me, I don’t know whether to feel relieved or even more anxious. There was a chance Lisinder wouldn’t want to rock the boat, considering what Pyromey said about Turis having people’s ears at court, but I sense the successful battle with Evanthe has emboldened him. Still, now Ruskin must fight each of the four accused. I’m sure he’s more than a match for them, but four rounds of combat wouldn’t be easy for anyone.
“Your Majesty,” Turis calls over the din of stomping feet and enthusiastic shouts, his gray eyes glinting in a way that chills my blood. “We respect your decision, of course, but as Lords Climent and Hartflood both carry blood of the royal line, I’m sure they will be citing the right of kinsortus .” He stares meaningfully at the two younger fae, who abruptly stand.
“Yes,” announces Climent awkwardly. “We request to use kinsortus .”
“Damn it,” I hear Jasand curse, as the court is set abuzz again. It sounds like half of the Unseelie don’t even know what this means—so at least I’m not the only one in the dark. I hear Destan furiously whispering to Jasand.
“ Kinsortus ? What in the stars is that?”
Jasand looks grim. “An obscure combat rule that says any group challenged which contains members of the royal line are allowed to face their challenger together.”
“What kind of chicken-brained rule is that?” Destan mutters. “I thought you Unseelie were all about bravery, not being too afraid to fight one fae alone.”
“It’s meant to stop a monarch killing off potential contenders to his throne en masse. About two thousand years ago there were a few monarchs who used the King’s Justice as kind of a backhanded assassination system. Kinsortus gave them a fighting chance to survive.”
“And now it’s being used to protect people who happen to have the right blood,” I bite back. Trust Turis to think of it.
I look up to Ruskin, and he offers me a quick nod, letting me know he’s heard our conversation.
Lisinder waits for the noise to die down a little before he replies. He doesn’t look pleased, clearly aware Turis has outplayed us.
“I cannot deny you your right, Climent and Hartflood. You may fight Prince Ruskin together, with Lord Turis and Lady Clearglen.”
Ruskin slips between our chairs, heading out towards the center of the cavern. I catch his hand as he brushes past me, squeezing it tight. The brief physical contact isn’t enough to quell my rising panic. I’d only been a little worried about the fights themselves before, but now the odds are very much stacked against Ruskin.
Despite this, there’s not the slightest tremor in his voice as he looks up at the four High Fae he’s challenged, and then to his uncle, addressing them all.
“Then let the challenge begin.”
The four accused are given a short time to prepare, sending servants to collect weapons and protective gear. Most of them opt for the same clothes I saw them wear in the bastet arena—tough but lightweight enough to move fast. Meanwhile, other Unseelie members place wards in a circle around the center of the throne room—to avoid rogue spells or weapons flying into the audience, Jasand explains.
As I watch the four Unseelie step into the circle of magic, I’m hit with the urge to shout at Ruskin to get out of there. Turis and Clearglen have both opted for swords, Climent wears a small dagger at his waist, but I suspect he plans to rely on his magic to do any real damage, and Hartflood…I watch the fae’s body shift and grow, becoming the huge stag that nearly killed several of my teammates in the bastet game. His black eyes glitter menacingly and he paws the ground, his antlers finishing in sharp, metal-tipped points.
I have to fight myself not to channel every ounce of magic I have to Ruskin right now. But I can’t. That would be cheating, and even if it’s unlikely anyone would be able to tell, the challenge is too important to risk. Ruskin managed to respect that in the bastet game, and I have to do the same now, even though it makes my stomach churn and my heart stutter.
The three opponents still on two legs ready themselves, adopting fighting stances, ready to swing or cast. Ruskin looks more casual, one hand dangling, empty, at his side, and the other holding his sword only half aloft. I wonder what he’s planning, knowing that this must be for show to put the others at ease. It’s obvious they think they have the edge over him. That overconfidence, as I remember Halima once explaining to me, will make them prone to mistakes. They stand there, Ruskin and the Unseelie, watching each other for a few agonizing seconds, then Lisinder claps his hands to signal the start of the challenge, and the crowd roars.
The first charge happens so fast my eyes almost miss it. Turis and Clearglen sprint at Ruskin with their swords raised, but Clearglen barely gets a few steps before a thin, knotty branch bursts through the ground, shoving aside paving stones, to shoot up and twist around her sword arm. She tugs furiously at it, as Ruskin ducks and blocks a spell thrown by Climent with his sword. The movement allows him to simultaneously dodge the swipe from Turis’s blade. Before the silver-haired fae can halt the momentum of his swing, Ruskin kicks out his foot and slams Turis so hard in the stomach the fae flies back several feet.
Turis is now down and Clearglen is still struggling with the tree that has her in its gnarled grasp, but Climent begins to cast again and Hartflood, who until now has been hanging back, unable to attack without injuring his peers, paws the ground again. The sound of hard hoof against stone rings round the chamber, making Ruskin jerk round. The stag lowers his antlers and, in the moment Ruskin is distracted, Climent releases his spell.
I try to shout in warning, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and I watch, powerless, as the magic hits Ruskin’s sword in a flash of heat and light, sending the blade spinning across the floor, out of reach.
If we were in Seelie, I’d expect Ruskin to call on more of his High King magic, but I know it takes longer to manifest here in the Unseelie Kingdom. While he had it ready to go in the first attack, he might not have time to call on it now. Even his claws won’t be much use against the hulking beast squaring up across the circle from him.
Hartflood snorts and charges.
It’s like time slows down. The fight was a flurry of activity, but now I feel like I can see every detail—each ridged bone of Hartflood’s antlers, every crease in the fabric of Ruskin’s shirt.
Except something’s happening to Ruskin. I watch as his skin darkens, his shoulders expanding and limbs lengthening. My mind can’t make sense of it at first, but he’s changing before my eyes, jet black fur bursting from where his clothes were a moment before, his body becoming long and leonine.
Paws as big as my head hit the ground, their great claws scratching across the stone. Hartflood shakes his head, lowing in alarm, and the stag aborts his charge to change direction and canter to the other side of the circle.
But Ruskin is after him now.
He’s nearly as big as Wistal’s bull, a panther-like animal with long, curving fangs and larger versions of his Unseelie horns. Ruskin’s eyes—still the same slitted pupils and yellow-green hue—cast about the chamber, taking us all in.
Then he roars.