Chapter 8
Istep into a great hall. Moonlight streams through soaring windows thirty feet high.
In the center, a fountain burbles, and flower petals drift across its surface.
Very pretty—even if the basin is carved with skulls.
I scan the hall for any signs of a grail, but I suppose it’s too much to hope I’ll just walk right into it.
A breeze stirs the flowered vines that climb the honey-gold stone.
Far above, lanterns float beneath a vaulted ceiling.
They sway in the breeze, casting light and shadow.
Around the hall, mirrors gleam and ripple like water.
Rich food is set out on the tables—glazed fruits, goat cheese, venison and boar roasted with thyme, honeycomb, dates, and candied flower petals.
Why do they get to eat like this when the rest of us have so little, simply because of an imagined birthright?
Still, my breath catches at the overwhelming splendor of this place. It’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.
Hundreds of aristocratic Fey stand around, draped in gorgeous fabrics and sipping mead.
Some linger by the fountain, talking quietly and eating fruit.
Others lounge on pillows. Some of the women wear long gowns; others are clad in short skirts and tall boots or in sheer chain mail and lace.
Dripping with jewels, they glitter and shine like a dragon’s hoard.
The crowd, overall, is sexy as hell—and just as dangerous.
Each one of these gorgeous Fey would rip me to shreds if they knew that I’m a peasant.
I take another step into the hall. As the halo around me tingles, a herald calls out, “Baroness Alis of Listenoise.”
I’d hoped to fade into the shadows. So much for that.
I go still as all eyes slide to me—the Waste Land ragamuffin in an old cartoon T-shirt. I lift my chin, attempting to strike the pose of a baroness. Fortunately, the attention of the Fey nobility only lasts a moment before they lose interest.
Plucking a glass of mead off the table, I survey the room, keeping close to the wall. The golden-haired lady I met outside the Tower leans casually against a column, her tiara set perfectly on her hair. With her lifted chin, she holds herself like she was born to rule.
Beside her, the man from my nightmares idly swirls a glass of mead between his fingers.
His face is a study in contrasts: sun-warmed skin and gold tattoos and eyes cold as winter light.
Black brows slash above his eyes, and a lock of his pale silver hair hangs rakishly down his cheekbones.
He wears a fur-lined cloak that hangs open, showing off supple leather trousers, and a soft, Fey-wool shirt that stretches over his chest in dusky forest green.
A few long chains hang around his neck, down to his waist, one adorned with the tip of an antler.
It’s uncanny how familiar he looks from my worst dreams, and I can’t stop staring at him. For so long, I’ve dreamt of his power and cruelty and unearthly beauty.
I have no idea why. The strangeness of it sets my teeth on edge.
Slowly, he lifts his glass to his lips, and the rose-kissed moonlight catches in his drink and sparkles on his gold rings.
When his icy gaze slides to me, my pulse races. I look away.
Clearly, some of them are already drunk because a tall man with long black hair is staggering around, sloshing a bright red cocktail.
He lurches toward a lady standing by herself, breathtaking and glamorous, with wavy hair tumbling over one shoulder, perfect eyebrows, and golden-brown skin.
She is wearing a figure-hugging white dress.
Well, it’s white until the drunken man spills his entire crimson drink on her. “Oops!” He breaks into laughter.
The golden lady titters. “Oh, dear, what a mess.”
The woman formerly in white stares down at her ruined dress, and I pull a napkin from one of the tables and hand it to her. “Here.”
She takes it from me, and I can see that her eyes are gleaming. “Thank you. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to dress up and go to a party.” She looks up at me, blinking. “But I suppose there are worse things in the world than stained silk, yes? Fuck it.”
“There certainly are.”
She tosses the cloth aside, and her gaze sweeps down my outfit. “You look like you went shopping in London on the way. How fun!”
I wonder for a moment if it’s an insult, but she sounds genuinely curious.
I shrug and mentally rehearse the way Auberon spoke—quietly, with little expression. “I had to try out some of their exotic attire, you know? Bit of fun. I’ve always been curious about mortals, and of course, I couldn’t leave the Waste Land to see any of them until the halo appeared. What luck.”
Her eyes are coppery and gold, like metallic flames.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to visit the human world, too.
London, especially. But I was stuck here in Brocéliande, away from court for so long that none of them want anything to do with me.
” A shadow passes over her features, and her smile fades.
“I’ve spent far too much time in my room, never getting to go anywhere.
All I had were the books, the walls, and the somber quiet of my own thoughts. ”
“How dreadful.”
She sighs heavily, her expression clearing. “Right. Yes. Nice to meet you. I’m Countess Elizabeth de Benoic.”
“I’m Baroness Alis de Listenoise. So lovely to make your acquaintance, Elizabeth. Beautiful name.”
“There was a mortal queen by that name who never married. Smart woman to reject men so thoroughly, don’t you think?
They called her the Faerie Queen.” She leans in closer, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Will you tell me what you saw in London? Were you able to try a sausage roll? Or the wing of a chicken, fried in batter? Did you sample jellied eels? I absolutely must visit someday.”
I clear my throat, remembering how the Fey think. “I’m afraid I didn’t have long in the city, but I did pass a truck selling ribs. I don’t know what creature they belonged to originally. I imagine they devour the bones of their enemies.”
She nods, her expression serious, eyes gleaming.
“Yes. Yes, likely. What about a cocktail bar? I read about them in a book. The writer went to a cocktail bar, drank gin with a healing tonic, and wrote his book. Imagine that. Just scribbling notes so the whole world could hear your thoughts, instead of keeping them all to yourself in a quiet coffin of a room.”
“It sounds divine. Not much time for writing where I’m from.”
Elizabeth nods. “No, not in the Waste Land. I imagine you have to spend your days clawing food from the barren earth to live. But now we’re here, yes?
In this majestic place, with all the food and mead that we want, along with the people we don’t want.
” She runs a hand through her hair. “I’m out of practice at being at court, you know.
I’ve been trying to catch up with the gossip, though I mostly have to get it through eavesdropping, since no one particularly wants to speak to me.
But what, exactly, do you think we’re doing here? ”
I drain my mead and smile at Elizabeth. “I honestly have no idea. Something with the leadership of Brocéliande, I imagine? I was so eager to get out of the Waste Land, I didn’t stop to wonder too much about the details.”
She pulls my empty glass from my hand and sets it on the table. “Well, me, too. I was absolutely delighted to be chosen for this—whatever this is. I’ve been so desperate for conversation. I believe the last party I went to was a strawberry festival in Brocéliande a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“That’s a long time.”
She turns suddenly, snatching two crystal flutes of mead off a tray. “I’m going to drink as much as possible and probably end up in that fountain by the end of the night.”
“Sounds like a great start to this…meeting.”
She shoves a glass into my hand. “I hope we’re not supposed to be on our best behavior. I don’t think I have best behavior anymore.”
Charm is not one of my skill sets, either.
Though, as I established earlier, I no longer have a skill set beyond finding the cheapest biscuits in the supermarket.
I sip the mead, savoring it and letting it roll over my tongue. Faintly sweet and golden, it’s like the last weeks of summer in a glass. I can’t afford the good stuff in London. I usually drink discount white wine from the supermarket that tastes like vinegar and cardboard.
I lean closer to Elizabeth, hoping to pry information out of her. “You said you’ve been catching up on the court gossip? Can you fill me in?”
“Who shall I start with?”
I take another sip of mead, and my gaze slides to the man from my dreams. Another strange shiver runs down my spine at the sight of him. “Who is the man with the golden tattoos?”
Her expression brightens. “What a wonderful place to start. The High Lord of Tintagol—Rion du Lac. They call him the Ruthless Knight. He’s the murderous High Lord who tortures people to death at his parties.
My husband used to tell our children stories about him to scare them into bed.
Go to sleep now, or the Ruthless Knight will stick your head on a pike. Do you know the real story?”
My heart races. Of course I’ve heard of the Ruthless Knight—a monster of a creature. This might explain how I’ve dreamt of him. We’ve all heard the description. And in my nightmares, he kills everyone around him.