Chapter 50
“Why do you want to free them?” Min asks me. It’s the evening after I arrived back at the guild, and we’re gearing up to leave soon. I can tell she’s not trying to judge me. She’s curious. But still, the question pains me—probably because she knows I didn’t part with the fae on the best of terms.
I pace the kitchen, magic rippling along my skin in my nervousness.
It makes the plates and pots clatter. “We became a team. We learned how to be friends, despite all our differences. And Desmond is right that the Hollowlands deserve to be independent. Avedor just waged war again. I know rescuing them won’t reverse the war declaration, but maybe it’ll do something.
Maybe Desmond will find a way to stop the war. ”
Thousands of lives hinge on it—and I’m responsible for it. The guilt is eating me alive.
“You have grown to like them,” Min notes.
A lump forms in my throat as I nod. “I want to see them again.” I just want to make things right even more.
“It’s done,” Nog announces as she pads into the kitchen. She thrusts the stealth clothing I requested at me. Her jet eyes are full of skepticism. Nog knew about the fae’s capture when I first arrived. Like Rune, she deduced I’m the one who spilled everything.
“And the gown?” I ask her.
She harrumphs. “Presumptuous human. You are holding the finest gown I have ever sewn. Mutter the word and the ensemble will transform.” Her gnarled fingernail taps my thigh. “Don’t utter it too early and muck the whole thing up. It’s only good for one use.”
“What word?”
“Presumptuous.”
How could I have imagined otherwise?
She shoves a second bundle at Min. “I’ve also prepared a pack with matching outfits for Prince Desmond and the other two fae. It’s with the rest of your supplies.”
I draw her close for a hug, startling her. “You have my gratitude,” I whisper.
Nog harrumphs again. “Don’t appreciate me yet. Survive first. Bring our prince home.”
The main road through Mythos teems with resplendent horse-drawn carriages, but the patrolling armed guards outnumber them all.
Flaming braziers line the defensive walls.
They illuminate the chilled night with dancing red and golden glows.
With Mythos lit as brightly as a beacon, no thieves would dare trespass the ball.
Any thieves besides us, that is.
Enbarr slows to a halt as we approach the bottleneck of carriages before the north gate.
I shiver, despite the wool cloak and hat I’m wearing to complete my coachman disguise.
I think I’d be shivering from nerves even if we were in the heat of summer.
What we’re about to do might get us all thrown in prison alongside the fae.
At least we’d be together during our executions—but that’s thinking a little too far ahead.
I force out a steady breath, clenching the reins as we draw closer.
Brandur leans out the carriage window, a low growl in his throat. A guard walks by, and he forces his scowl into a grin. It drops as soon as the guard moves on. “What’s the hold up?” he asks me, just as surly as he was when we left.
As I catch another glimpse of him, it’s easy to imagine why.
His usually wild hair has been tamed in a single thick plait, tied off with a gold bow at the bottom.
He argued its necessity with Nog throughout the long styling session until she threatened to sew living, wriggling worms into the seams of his stealth linens.
His disguise is even more elaborate than mine since he’s posing as Maeve’s sha’dich, the orc equivalent of an escort.
A beaver fur shawl with a golden clasp drapes over his embroidered navy jacket.
Beneath that is a brocade vest with a leather battle sash around his waist. A sash that would normally hold sheaths for weapons, as Brandur had bitterly reminded us when we set out.
Looking at him again, I stifle a snort.
He bares his canines at me, a warning flashing in his eyes.
“There’s a scribe at the gate,” I explain, recognizing the cream robes and scholarly air of superiority. “It looks like he’s authenticating everyone’s invitations.”
We watch as the coachman ahead hands the scribe the passengers’ invitation. The scribe squints at it, rubs his fingers along every inch, licks it, and hands it back to the coachman. The guard opens the carriage doors, counts everyone inside, and admits them.
Judging by how quickly Brandur pulls back into the carriage, the scribe is going to be a problem.
Rune spent all morning meticulously copying an invitation he purchased from an acquaintance who wasn’t attending.
He matched the foiled calligraphy impeccably and crafted a stamp to imitate the official wax seal.
He may be an expert at forgeries, but even he can’t make a forged document “authentic.” I never thought someone with a Minor Gift could stop our plan.
A scribe with an authentication magic is just our luck.
“Prepare yourself for plan B,” Brandur says, leaning out the window again.
“Right,” I mutter to myself. The plan that I hoped we wouldn’t have to use.
When it’s our turn at the gate, I breathe in and out as steadily as I can manage.
“Stop,” a guard calls out. “We need you to verify your invitation and search your carriage.”
I halt Enbarr and climb down from the driver’s box.
Brandur steps out of the cab. He slams the door shut before anyone catches a glimpse of the others inside, then glowers at the guard with a look that would make lesser men turn tail and run.
“Mahu’rahs do not take kindly to being searched,” he growls.
“You would dare insult her after she rode all this way from Vargesh?”
The guard’s gaze snags on Brandur’s flexing fists. He hesitates for several long seconds and then shakes his head. “We’re searching every carriage tonight.”
Brandur throws the door open with an angry bang and gestures to everyone inside. “You will see my mahu’rah, our footman, and our pet.”
My heart stops dead. Min has transformed into a housecat. She licks her foot and meows. Maeve frowns at the guard, almost unrecognizable in her dramatic makeup and brocade ball gown. The man beside her is not Rune Erickson.
He waves. The very same tricorne hat Rune wore when we set out casts a shadow over his pointed nose, ruddy cheeks, and soft brown eyes. The hair peeking out underneath the hat is ginger.
“Are you satisfied?” Maeve asks the guard with a clear edge of impatience.
The guard notices my shock and squints at me. I clear my throat. “Sorry, sir. Never seen such an adorable cat. Have you?”
“No.” The guard turns away and waves at the others. “Carriage is clear. Now show the scribe your invitation, coachwoman.”
The stranger tips his hat and winks at me.
My jaw drops. How? Never mind. I have to stick to the plan.
As I walk around the carriage, I kick the hidden lever that Brandur added to the front wheel this morning.
The wheel pops off and rolls across the courtyard.
Enbarr feigns being startled into hysterics, stomping and bucking wildly.
The carriage jostles, and Maeve loudly swears inside.
“Quick! Help me catch that wheel!” I call out to the guards.
The two that were stationed at the gate scramble to run after it. They bump into each other as the wheel curves to follow a dip in the cobblestone.
“I’m so sorry,” I exclaim to the scribe.
I whip the invitation out from my pocket and wave it through the air, just as the guards sprint back with the wheel.
The scribe reaches for the parchment, but I yank it out of reach to grab the wheel with the same hand.
“This is most unfortunate. We’ve made such a ruckus!
Please forgive us. The mahu’rah does not like such trouble. ”
The scribe scowls.
I purposefully drop the wheel, then pick it up again, crunching the invitation against it. “Pardon me. Ah, where are my tools? Oh, mercy.” I mime searching my body.
“Your back pocket, miss,” the scribe says, exasperated.
“Oh!” I grab the wrench and kneel before the wheel. Enbarr keeps up the act, her stomps and shakes of her head growing increasingly agitated. “She doesn’t like to stand still for long! Quite the lively mare, isn’t she?”
“Quite,” the scribe mutters.
As much as the carriage is jostling, I don’t have to feign struggling to line the wheel up before I tighten it into place.
Brandur looms over me, bearing his canine teeth. “Stop bumbling around, coachwoman! You are embarrassing my mahu’rah!” A flash of a grin lights his eyes. He’s enjoying the performance, despite hating his attire.
“Yes, sir! Got it.” I stand and dust my hands off, then turn to the scribe. “We’ll head on through, now. Any more dallying and we’ll delay the entire ball!” I laugh as I climb back atop the driver’s box. “Stable is around the back?”
The scribe bustles forward. “Yes, but I need you—”
Enbarr bucks again, crying out so loud it drowns out the scribe’s words. A guard whips her arm across the scribe’s body to stop him from approaching. “Get a move on,” the guard says.
“Thank you kindly.” I crack the reins and lead Enbarr through the north gate, right into the courtyard of Drottheim Keep.
One step down. My blood pumps as I think of the dozen harder ones to go.
I halt Enbarr before the grand one-story staircase that sweeps up to the open ballroom doors.
Dignitaries from Torok, Vargesh, and every province of Avedor make their way toward the music and affable laughter.
Glittering gems adorn collarbones and wrists.
The gowns and suits are rich in color, some of the softest of silks, others sewn from fabrics I don’t even have a name for.
The sight would make the draper in the Mythos market envious.
The beams of enormous mage lights sweep across the courtyard, more for security than ambience. The lights are nestled in large metal bowls that the guards beside them rotate to redirect the beams. Otherwise, the light would shine in every direction, hindering the guards more than helping them.