Chapter 8 #2
Elizabeth leans in closer to whisper. “Two hundred years ago, he arrived on the island of Tintagol, armed for battle. He’s a warlord from the wild forest. He gathered an army of fighters, people with grievances against the High Lord.
They slaughtered half the inhabitants, then murdered the monarch.
Starved him to death in an oubliette. They say the Ruthless Knight really loves drawing out pain, making people scream.
And he does the same for pleasure, too. They say he has a harem of women, and they’re always begging for him to fuck them, and then he won’t let them come when they want to. ”
I blink at her, startled. I have forgotten what it’s like to be in Fey society, where people say things like that within moments of meeting someone. I swallow hard and say, “I see.”
“The man who spilled his drink on me—the drunk one with black hair? Mabon. He’s from Tintagol, too. He lived here in Brocéliande once, but he fled after poisoning his wife. The woman next to him is Igraine, a Countess of Tintagol. She’s not very friendly.”
I nod. “I met her briefly. She’s as charming as a maggot.”
But only one other man here looks as strong as Rion. He’s enormous, with uneven, close-shorn hair. Iron scars mark his arms, like he was tortured.
On his wrist are tattooed words: I pledge myself to the gods.
“Do you know who he is?” I ask Elizabeth.
She cocks her head. “I overheard someone say he was sentenced to death years ago on the island of Ys. I’m not sure why. All I know is that he languished in prison for years, forgotten by the world. Lucky for him, the summons of the Veiled Court must be obeyed. His halo freed him, like it did us.”
As if hearing us gossiping, he glances at us, his dark eyes glittering with curiosity.
“He looks powerful.”
She lets out a long sigh. “Gods, it feels good to gossip again. I needed this.” Then, more fiercely, she repeats, “I needed this.”
I think of the pasty arse cheeks and the Tudor window again, and I raise my glass. “You know? I needed a change too, Elizabeth.”
“And what’s your story, Alis?”
I twirl the stem of my glass. “Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid. I’m from Listenoise—it’s a Waste Land, of course—so I live in a hovel. There’s not much food or money. I haven’t eaten since the stale bread for breakfast.”
The absolute truth. Really, I don’t have to change much to describe the Waste Land.
Her eyes widen. “No wonder you’re so tiny. Not enough nutrients.”
“That’s exactly it.”
She turns, darting after a servant carrying a tray. In the next moment, she’s handing me a korriberry tart. “Here. It’s divine. Build up your strength, darling, for whatever lies ahead.”
My mouth waters. “I’m so gods-damned hungry.”
Sweet fruit, creamy custard. I’ve never had a Fey fruit tart before. In the Undercroft, we survived on stale bread, water, and dried meat.
“Tell me more about the Waste Land,” Elizabeth says, her eyes bright.
“Terrible place. Right before I came here, I found my lover shagging another woman. She looked about twenty years old.”
Elizabeth’s jaw drops. “That is grotesque. Did you slaughter them both?”
“I let them live.” I drain the last of my mead. “For now.”
The conversation in the hall becomes a hush as a woman strides into the room dressed in a pale blue gown, a gauzy veil draped over her ink-black hair. Her body shines with pale light, and her arms are tattooed with the cycles of the moon. In the center of her forehead is a triple spiral symbol.
From the entryway, a herald calls out her arrival. “Lady Niniane, High Priestess of the Veiled Court.”
She’s tall, elegant, and glides through the hall carrying a silver goblet. Her dark gaze sweeps over the room.
The herald calls, “And Lord Cador, Squire of the Veil.”
A male trails into the room. His hair is a dark, wine red, almost burgundy, and he wears a blue cloak.
Niniane holds out her arms to the side. “Welcome to the Veiled Court. Here, you will learn who you truly are. In this ancient castle, you will forge an unbreakable bond with your ruling ancestors. In the Veiled Court, we shall find our next monarch. From one hundred and eighty-one, we shall choose the next ruler.”
A cold chill shudders down my spine at the thought of another king.
Niniane reaches out a hand, and her squire, Cador, quickly hands her a goblet. Their fingers brush, and she gives him a flirtatious smile.
Then, she holds up her goblet. “As we seek the strongest in our kingdom, we have summoned you here because we have no monarch to lead us. A kingdom without a crown will wither and rot.”
Niniane seizes the wand from her attendant and raises it toward the rippling mirrors.
“Few now remember the ancient days of the Fey—before the fall of Avalon, before Auberon raised the great forests of Brocéliande. Before mortal madness spread across our world. But once, there was a time when the Fey ruled the islands and wild groves of Britain. In the Golden Age, we shone bright with primal magic, and mortals worshipped us as gods. King Bran—first to unite the Fey—earned his crown through trials. Queen Morgan won hers through right of combat. And so you stand here today in the Veiled Court to prove yourselves worthy through courage, combat, and chivalric manners. When we are finished, one of you will wear the crown of the High Fey monarch in Castle Perrilos.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, and every Fey here is alert. And now, eyeing each other as rivals for the crown.
They can have it. All I want is the grail.
Niniane takes another graceful step closer. “Of course, the ancient prince Mordred has a claim to the throne. But he’s exiled from Brocéliande, trapped in the ruins of Avalon and thus unable to rule. So, we must choose another.”
I glance at Rion du Lac, who leans against the wall, swirling his drink languidly. He’d probably carve his way through the rabble and climb a mountain of dead men’s skulls to get to the high Fey throne.
Niniane smiles. “There are three ways you can leave this castle. In a coffin, with a crown, or dismissed with the approval of the noble houses. When we dismiss you, your halo will be removed. But if you try to escape without our permission, my darlings, that golden beacon will reappear around your head. You will be hunted to death by our cugol.” She lifts her chalice, smiling.
“Now, raise your goblets to repeat the oath. Swear here in the ancient Tower of Aether that you will never betray the Veiled Court, and that you will never lie to the Council of Nobles, on pain of death by dragon fire.”
My blood has gone cold, but I keep my expression serene, raise my glass, and lie through my teeth.
When the hall falls silent once more, Niniane’s sharp gaze lands on me, and my nerves flutter.
And in this moment, I’m certain this was all a mistake—that she’ll know I don’t belong here, that I’m a peasant who grew up underground, that my grandfather was a literal gravedigger, slinging dirt on the corpses of the executed.
She stalks closer to me, her gaze brushing down my body. My spine stiffens. From shadows behind her, the Cloaked Ones emerge, their faces shrouded by dark cowls. Dark magic pours through the room like ink.
“And who do we have here?” the priestess asks in a voice cold as snow.