Chapter 5 #2
Moths cover every surface above us. Brown, gray, striped and solid.
Cabbage whites, speckled leopards, fuzzy silks, orange atlases, and even great lunas.
They crowd the beams, fluttering for better purchase.
Their wings—some whole, some ragged as crumpled leaves—stir softly in the draft.
For a moment, it feels like they’re watching us.
Thousands of unblinking eyes, casting judgment from the darkness above.
I stare up at them, amazed. “Impossible … it’s winter. They should all be—”
“Dead?” the queen asks.
Of course. Here I am, in a crumbling tower owned by a dead regent who rules legions of corpse beasts, and I’m surprised that she has a menagerie of undead insects?
“I give them refuge,” the Dead Queen says nonchalantly.
“But why moths?” My voice comes out strained.
I think of the silver moth blade tucked into the ankle of my boot. Moths were Grandmother’s favorite creatures. For some reason, seeing the Dead Queen with them makes my stomach turn, like she’s defiled Grandmother’s memory somehow, just like she’s defiled her corpse.
The Dead Queen studies me. “You know why.”
I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “My grandmother had a connection with moths when she was alive.”
“I had a connection with them, you mean.”
“No.” My voice is hard and brittle as obsidian. “You are not my grandmother. You’re masquerading in what’s left of her body.”
The Dead Queen shrugs. “Maybe so. Still, I had a connection with them in life. Thus, I have a connection with them in death.”
Nausea rises in my gut. Moths were sacred to me because Grandmother loved them so much. Now … my eyes drift back up toward the fluttering rafters.
The queen’s voice is clipped now. “Regardless of how you feel about me, I didn’t request an audience with you to discuss the moths.”
I drag my eyes away from the moving ceiling. From the other side of the room, Tristan studies me as if waiting to see how I’ll react.
“Your power,” the queen says. “You must learn to reclaim it.”
Instantly, I’m wary. “Why is that any of your business?”
“Because someday, you may need to wield it in defense of your kingdom, not just to save your own skin.”
I bristle at the implication that I’m selfish, even as a voice in the back of my mind tells me it’s true.
I square off with the Dead Queen of Annwyn, my gaze challenging.
She’s not my queen after all, only my host until spring.
Until I can leave this cursed place and kill the Fox King. Then, I will come back and end her.
“And why would you care about the people in Llwyn?” I challenge.
She tilts her head to the side, like a curious predator. “Because I am going to help you take the throne from the Fox King.”
It’s an odd thing, realizing people believe in you when you hardly believe in yourself. It’s especially strange coming from your mortal enemy.
There are many reasons I’ve never desired the Fox Throne, regardless of my royal bloodline.
Sure, I have exceptional power to heal and cast light.
Or at least, I used to. That’s the only thing I can thank my father for.
But it’s more than that. When you grow up hearing what a disappointment you are, again and again, you start to believe it’s true.
I never loved Llwyn because it never loved me back.
But I’ve come to understand something. My father may wear the crown, but he is not Llwyn.
Not even close. Llwyn is the grieving families who mourn loved ones lost in an unending war.
It’s the rebels who gather in secret, daring to speak against the throne.
It’s the people who despise the Fox King as much as I do.
And I left them behind.
Just like I did to Hunter on that bloody battlefield two weeks ago. I left my home for an undead woman in a tower filled with moths.
“Red.”
I look up from the warm bowl of soup in my hands. I’d finally found the great hall with its long wooden tables and delicious smells emanating from the adjoined kitchen.
Across from me, Tristan slides onto a bench. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as he watches me. The dim lantern light casts shadows across his face, making him look older, but no less striking. I wish it did.
A wave of anger rises in me at the sight of him, but I squash it down. My spoon scrapes the bowl as I turn my focus back to the long-awaited meal in front of me. Last night’s cold cellar rations did nothing to fill the emptiness left in my belly after weeks on the road.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
His lips press into a thin line at the title. He must’ve grown used to me calling him by his real name while we traveled. But that was before.
“I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
I stare at him over the spoon hovering in front of my mouth.
“It’s a lot. I know.” His eyes flicker behind me.
No doubt he’s looking for eavesdroppers, but there’s no one here but the nervous serving maid hovering near the kitchen.
She fiddles with the hem of her apron, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, near the despised Fox Heir.
I can’t blame her. I’m not the best company.
I shove the spoon into my mouth and resume eating.
Tristan watches me, calculating. I ignore his stone-gray eyes. The serving maid tiptoes by, bringing another plate of food. She sets it in front of Tristan, and her gaze flickers up to his face. Only now do I realize that one of her eyes is clouded white, blind.
“Thank you, Elisandra.” He nods to her.
I look up, shocked. This Wolf, one of the Dead Queen’s most trusted advisors, knows the name of a serving maid.
Elisandra’s face flushes, and she curtsies before scurrying away.
Tristan tears his bread and dips a piece into his bowl of soup. He chews, then moves to shove the other piece into his mouth before his eyes meet mine. I’m gaping at him like a stunned fish on a dock.
“Is there a problem?” he asks.
“You know her name?” My ears are humming.
He looks back at the serving maid, who’s returned to her station near the kitchen door. “Yes? Did you think I made it up just now?” He squints at me.
I shake my head, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “No, it’s just …”
Just what? That the knights and nobles in Caerwen never spoke to the servants unless giving an order? That the idea of calling a kitchen maid by her first name had never even crossed my mind until now?
“Just?” His gray eyes are on me, making heat rush up my neck.
I swallow. “Just different. Everything here in Annwyn. It’s different.” I sigh and push my empty bowl aside. “I don’t really know how to behave here. What to do. Or say.” I shrug.
He surprises me by chuckling.
“Excuse me?”
Tristan grins, and my heart stumbles at the sight of the dimple in his left cheek.
Had that always been there, hidden beneath the stubble he wore during our long days on the road?
I try to remember the first time I saw him, before he was shot with a crossbow and dragged into my father’s dungeons.
It was at my engagement ball just a few months ago, when he was dressed in immaculate black.
But he hadn’t smiled. He had no reason to.
He tears off another chunk of bread. “I heard you had a less than warm welcome in the greenhouse.”
The heat I felt a moment ago switches to irritation. “And who told you that?”
He shrugs. “It’s a big castle, but not that big. Word travels fast.”
The memory of the old woman in the greenhouse still stings. “She said I had cursed hands.”
Tristan shrugs. “It’s a common sentiment in these parts. That the Llwyn light power is cursed.”
“But why? Light power can help her.”
“Not in the way she needs it.”
I huff and throw my hands up helplessly. “I don’t understand this place with your creepy, empty halls and cold, bitter people.”
Amusement flickers in his eyes as he smothers another grin. “We may be cold and bitter, but you know why.”
A hollow moment hangs between us. “My father.”
He nods. “The woman you met is Tabitha. Her son and his wife died in the war. As did her husband. And every other relative in her family except for her young grandson. She’s terrified the war will take him too.”
My face pales. “That’s awful.”
“It’s an all-too-common experience here, I’m afraid.” Tristan watches my face intently. “I hope you can excuse my people’s poor manners. They aren’t accustomed to looking a Fox in the face. All they know is the death that follows in your wake.”
My hands are shaking on the tabletop. I tuck them under my thighs, hoping the pressure will steady them. Of course, I had nothing to do with the deaths in Tabitha’s family. But I can’t blame her for hating my entire country because of it. Myself included.
“You’ve seen us now,” Tristan says. “The real Annwyn. Our castles aren’t filled with walking dead. Our treasury is empty. Our queen is not bloodthirsty.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
He chuckles, then sighs. “You should talk to her. She’s your grandmother, after all.”