Chapter 7
T he prince’s words had felt like a slap.
It hadn’t mattered that Thomas had vowed to protect her of his own free will, that protecting her was a step toward protecting their kingdom.
It was that Thomas and every other person who cared for Mireille and for Norcliffe were made to suffer because of what the fae queen was trying to do.
It was that nothing could be done to stop it.
Alder did not owe Mireille kindness or understanding.
She knew that. She’d entered his bedchamber, kept her secret from him and, though she hadn’t realized it possible, had put him at risk from the queen’s magic.
But she could not let go of the fact that Alder, too, was fae.
Fae, like the queen who had destroyed everything, mercilessly tearing the future from everyone Mireille loved.
He could not be trusted. No fae could. And yet, she felt ill at her own part in all of it.
She tossed and turned, sending Thomas back to his own rooms, and by the time morning came, Mireille was a wretched mess.
She had to make it work, had to find a way past their distrust, to melt his defenses. And she had a mere month to do it.
She’d managed only to don a gown and get her hair in decent order when there was a sharp knock at her chamber door. It was not the knock she’d grown accustomed to from Noal, so she crossed to the entrance to open it instead of calling out. When she did, the prince stared back at her.
He did not appear to have weathered the night as poorly. He was just as handsome and put together as always.
Mireille inclined her head. “Your Highness.”
His jaw ticked, presumably at her formality. He bowed, then held forward his arm.
Mireille only looked at the proffered limb.
He cleared his throat. “I am willing to answer at least one of the many concerns you have brought to my attention. If it pleases you.”
His tone made clear he meant something more along the lines of that you have badgered me with incessantly since you arrived, and in fact, on several occasions, used to doubt my character instead of brought to my attention . Or some such intimation, Mireille wasn’t certain.
She straightened. “It does please me.” In fact, she would have liked answers to all her concerns, but more than that, she needed any time he would give her.
Grabbing a shawl Thomas had managed to obtain from a member of the staff, Mireille tucked her hand into the crook of the prince’s arm and closed the door behind them.
At the end of the corridor, he led her down a wide flight of stairs that opened into a massive chamber, then through several more corridors cooled by the shade of endless creeping vines.
The walk carried on for so long that she was sure it must be as far as possible from the entrance to the palace.
When they finally slowed at a large archway that opened into an atrium, Mireille had the unsettling sensation of realizing her assumptions were in fact very, very wrong.
She stared across the space at a figure that appeared to be dressed in the uniform jacket of Westrende red and gold. The man’s legs were stretched out before him, boots polished to a shine. There was a thick book in his hand, and a glass of amber liquid resting on the small table beside him.
Mireille’s gaze shot to the prince.
“Go on,” he said. “Speak with him.”
The words were plain enough. Mireille was meant to satisfy her concerns so that she might never accuse him again. She swallowed down her reply, stepping forward into the open room.
As she approached, she took in the scene.
Sunlight streaming through a tall window was cut by palm leaves, throwing long lines of shadow across the man and the plush golden chair.
His hair was golden as well, bright and clean, the trim of his silk suit straight and fine, his flesh appearing not only undamaged but full with health.
All of this came as a surprise, not because she’d come across the man in a fine fae palace, but because the man in question was human . A prisoner.
He was a Westrende official. Mireille had met the man at a long ago function. She stopped before his chair, her breath caught in her chest, and he glanced up distractedly from his book.
“Lord Cadby.”
“Princess,” he said with a shocked smile. “What a joy it is to see you!” He began to stand, but his expression fell. He glanced anxiously through the room. “No,” he said, “it would not be a joy, would it? Has Norcliffe been taken? Are your people well?”
Mireille knelt at his feet. “Cadby, how long have you been here?”
His bright brown eyes returned to her. “Two years now? I’m afraid it’s hard to say. Things were a bit fuzzy for a while. Got into trouble, made some bad trades.”
“A fae bargain? That’s why you’re here?”
Lord Cadby frowned. “It is, Highness. And there are more of us, still. Lords and ladies of Westrende, officers of the court, anyone of noble blood or with ties to a would-be king. I pray that is not how it happened for you.”
“Something of the sort.” She glanced toward the archway, but Alder’s face was too shadowed to clearly make out. “I have an arrangement with the prince. I must become his bride by the turn of the moon, or break our agreement and join you and the others as a prisoner.”
Lord Cadby breathed out a curse and leaned forward to take her hand. “Oh, Highness.”
“Norcliffe has been under siege from a greater foe than him. And I’m afraid, my lord, that should our venture fail, it will not be my life alone at risk.”
He whispered, “What can I do?”
“I need whatever information you can provide of the workings of fae bargains, any weakness of the prince, how we can use the magic that holds together the Rive in a way that might help protect our own kingdom. We are desperate for any scrap of knowledge that might break the fae’s hold on Norcliffe. ”
He squeezed her hand. “I fear it is not so simple. The prince is tied by the Rive, and his kingdom is tied to him. The fae are divided as much as any kingdom. His court trapped, and the queen’s court working to keep them that way.
” He shot a glance through the room, then leaned closer.
“If the Rive comes down, the court of Rivenwilde will be in danger. It protects them as much as it keeps them caged.”
“But that is what he wants. The prince has claimed to desire nothing more than to be set free.”
“No,” he said. In the archway, Alder stepped from the shadows, and Lord Cadby released Mireille’s hand. “I don’t trust him, Highness, I don’t. But there is more going on than we’ve been told. Something else binds him as well.”
Mireille had the same feeling, because despite their betrothal, the prince did not seem to want her too near.
Mireille recalled his words from the night before, how one fool act in one fool court evidently led to him having to entertain offers of marriage.
She wondered how many princesses were being held within the palace.
She wondered whether they sat in sunshine reading books, or if they had met a fate far worse.
She stood. “Thomas is with me. I will send him to you. We will see what might be done to return you home.”
Lord Cadby shook his head. “It’s too late for that. And, though I don’t deserve your kindness, I hope that you’ll grant me leave to offer my support.”
Mireille drew a steadying breath. “I would count myself lucky to have it.”
* * *
Mireille had, perhaps, discovered the prince was not as ruthless as he seemed, but she did not say so on their return. He was still holding citizens of Westrende captive, bargain or no. He was still fae.
She still had to marry him.
He left to attend court business and Mireille, alone while Thomas did his best to investigate the goings on with the palace staff, wandered through the palace.
She traversed the corridors and climbed the grand stair, feeling turned around and out of sorts by the palace’s layout.
It was as if the rooms shifted about her, and she could never quite place where she was meant to be.
When she turned the corner into a wide hall scattered with columns, Mireille’s steps faltered.
Across the hall rose a pair of massive doors, seemingly carved out of the same strange stone that made up the filigree wall.
Unlike the boundary wall, the doors revealed no glamour, only a pale polished surface carved into scenes from what Mireille could only imagine was very long ago.
Their beauty drew her nearer, but with an undeniable sense of unease.
There was something terrible about the carved figures; while a marvel of craftsmanship, their subjects were too real, their torment and anger palpable.
A rearing horse rose tall, its foreleg reaching off the surface and its eyes rolled wide.
The man on its back was barely visible, but he, at least appeared human, face a rictus, longsword in hand.
Fae warriors surrounded him, their magic seeming to tingle over Mireille’s skin.
She did not want to touch the doors, exactly, but she could not seem to prevent her hand from lifting, her palm expecting cool stone but finding only warmth.
The door eased open beneath her touch. Mireille swallowed and drew her hand free. Her tingling fingers curled into her palms, and her heart beat a warning in her ears. Still, her feet moved forward, into the darkness waiting on the other side.
A shaft of light cut through the space, leading her onward. The echo of her footfalls sounded far away, and the focus of the room was farther than any palace ballroom or hall Mireille had yet seen.