Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Dorian
We were being watched.
It had begun when we’d crossed from Sylvanwild into Highmark—from forest to open plains.
I’d never trusted the Seelie, but especially not the summer court.
When the sunlight shone on everything, you learned a special kind of subterfuge.
A wide smile and a knife held low. Batting eyelashes and steel-toed boots. Hoop dresses and hip daggers.
And on these plains, a keen eye from above.
I couldn’t see their scouts, couldn’t spy their slender-legged Andalusians, but the birds of prey passed overhead on the hour, every hour.
Queen Liora was nervous. She had good reason.
Some time after Eurydice disappeared back through her tent flap, Haskel approached the burnt-out campfire. He dropped onto the stump beside me and pointed at my pipe. “Whisper-bark? You’ve been holding out.”
I passed it to him. “Moon’s almost full.”
He took a draw, lifted his gaze to the sky. “Either great luck or terrible, on the Festival of the First Light. What’s your estimation?”
Terrible. I would almost certainly see Gawain at court; the thought of his scarred face made my fingers itch to retake the pipe. But I said nothing.
Haskel nodded toward the queen’s tent. “She still not speaking to you?”
I gestured for the pipe. He handed it back. When I opened my eyes after a long draw, he nodded.
“Well, she’s within her rights,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“When have you ever?” He rubbed his chin. “She’s just like Carys, except—”
He contemplated the smoke. I didn’t think he’d finish.
“She’s had less time to marinate,” he said, “and a whole lot more anger.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The stag isn’t known for impulse.” His eyes met mine in the silver night. “Her anger isn’t incidental.”
And neither is yours. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. Not long after I’d first met Haskel, he gave me a nickname: Crowmere. Crows remembered; they held grudges for years. Sat on branches, waiting for the right moment—then they pecked out your eyes. A cold anger, a patient spite.
I took a pull off the pipe. “You think Liora’s striders will ride up on us to make a point?”
“No good reason, with no one around to witness the show.”
“They might get a glimpse of her. What do you think Liora expects?”
He shrugged. “I think they’ve no idea what to expect. It’ll be all poking and prodding until they understand the shape of the little changeling queen. And you know the Dawnmaker—she does nothing in haste.”
For all her glamour, Queen Liora was caution tucked away in pastels. No doubt a grand festival awaited—sometimes, the best disguise was peacocking.
Beyond the camp, the velvet plains ran on and on. “All that matters is keeping her alive.”
“Actually, that’s not all that matters, veyre.” Haskel sat back, suddenly sober. “Between the two of us, I’m the only one old enough to remember the end of Carys’s reign. It was—”
“Terrible, I know. But Eury’s different.”
How many times had he spoken of Carys’s reign? Ever since I was a boy. Always with that haunted look. But I had never known he was a squire in the citadel while she reigned. Drystan’s squire.
Haskel’s eyes narrowed as he considered me. “Drystan said the same of Carys. In the end, he stabbed her in the heart.”
“She was paranoid. Out of control.”
He was uncommonly silent. In the lull, the plains’ wind blew over us, singing its soft song. And I drew on the pipe like it could give me answers. Once more I shifted my gaze to the sky.
Haskel finally stood. His shadowed form appeared in my vision, and his voice was low when he said, “I like the girl just as much as you. But I hope, for all our sakes, that you aren’t so blind if the time should come.”
He stepped away, toward one of the tents. And I was alone again.