Chapter 11
The throne room looks different today. Daylight streams through the tall, narrow windows along the eastern wall. Dust drifts between the beams like tiny sprites.
When I glance up at the arched ceiling, I notice the carvings along the molding are more intricate than I first thought.
Owls hunt mice as elk graze among maple trees.
Hares crouch in thickets as fish swim through winding streams. An opossum hangs from a branch with its rat-like tail, and wolves prowl around carved boulders.
There are other creatures too, ones I don’t recognize. Fae, most likely. I can’t help but wonder if they still exist, all these centuries after the castle was built.
Along the western wall, the tapestries look different too.
They still show the same gnarled, black trees, but the scenes around them have changed.
Their roots and twisted branches are blanketed in snow.
Red berries tempt birds in one tapestry, while a cruel wind blows branches nearly horizontal in another.
On a third, a yellow-eyed fox stares out at me from the entrance of a burrow beneath a stump.
This is clearly the work of old fae magic.
Tristan walks a few steps behind me, like a perfect guard dog.
Despite his icy temperament last night, his foul mood seems to have passed.
He didn’t mention it this morning when he came to fetch me, but his sleepless night is etched all over his face.
His skin is drawn and pale, and there are dark circles around his gray eyes.
Upon the dais, at the far end of the room, the Dead Queen waits.
She’s sitting on the gnarled black wood and iron throne.
It unfolds from the ground, as if it grew there from beneath the castle.
The last time I saw it, I thought it was the work of a master craftsman.
But now I’m beginning to recognize fae magic.
It’s everywhere in Gwyllion, if I only take the time to look.
“Granddaughter,” the Dead Queen says. “I’ve called you here to request a report.”
“On?” I fold my hands in front of me like a polite court lady.
“Your training.”
I keep my voice light, almost cheerful. “I was nearly killed, if that satisfies your requirements.”
She nods slowly, her face hidden beneath her long black veil. “It does. There’s no surer way to gauge someone’s competence than to put them to the test.”
“And is that what it was?” I narrow my eyes at Tristan. “A test?”
He tilts his head from side to side. “Of sorts.”
The Dead Queen turns to her Wolf. “And what have you learned about our weapon?”
The word makes my skin prickle with irritation. “I am not your weapon.”
The queen and Tristan both ignore me, which only makes my irritation burn hotter.
Tristan clears his throat. “Her upper body is too weak to wield a sword. Or hold a bowstring for any length of time.”
I bristle. It may be true, but he doesn’t need to be quite so blunt about it. “I don’t need one of your bloody swords. I work better with a knife.”
The Dead Queen turns to me, just for a second. “If you want to kill the Fox King, then you’ll need more than a knife.”
I bite my tongue to keep from arguing further. She’s right, and I hate it.
The queen turns back to Tristan. “What else?”
“We’ve learned that she’s stubborn. And she pokes her nose where it doesn’t belong.” He gives me a pointed look.
“How disappointing,” the Dead Queen says. If corpses could breathe, I suspect she’d sigh at that. Her hand strokes the silver moth necklace where it hangs above her dead chest. This simple gesture makes me bristle.
To my surprise, Tristan shakes his head.
“Not quite.” He turns to me, his gray eyes meeting mine.
“She is also curious, intelligent, and incredibly determined when she puts her mind to something. Admirably so. And she wields a knife as good as—if not better than—anyone in Annwyn. Even if she does fight like a scrappy fox.” Whether that’s an insult or a compliment, I’m not entirely sure.
There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips.
“She doesn’t shy away from danger. And she won’t give up. Possibly ever.”
The queen nods slowly. “I see.”
My heart pounds in my chest, and I have no idea what to say to this. I expected to be torn to shreds. Back home, I was called a failure so often that I expected the same here. But even after my tongue-lashing last night, Tristan has been more than fair to me.
When I look at him again, I see something I haven’t recognized before. Tristan is infuriating, yes. Grumpy, cold, and full of secrets. But he is also noble and honest. And in this world, those traits are not easy to come by.
Up on the dais, the Dead Queen stands. “Come. I have something to show you.”
When I glance at Tristan’s face, I see that he’s just as clueless as I am.
We follow the Dead Queen out of the throne room, past villagers who bow as she passes, and out into the snow-covered yard. Despite the clear skies, the air is bitter cold, but the queen doesn’t even flinch at the biting wind.
I pull my red cloak tighter around me and follow her. Her long black gown drags over the snow like liquid night, and her thin veil ripples in the wind.
Surprisingly, she leads us to the stables.
Inside, we’re sheltered from the icy breeze, but the horses still puff clouds of mist from their nostrils.
At the sight of the undead queen, they grow nervous, dancing and whinnying as they back further into their stalls.
They want to get as much distance from the Dead Queen as they can.
I don’t blame them. She’s unnatural. She shouldn’t exist, and someday she won’t. Not if I can help it.
The queen leads us to the furthest stall, then unlatches the gate. She steps back. “For you,” she says, her veiled face turned toward me.
I hesitate.
“Go on,” she says somewhat impatiently.
I step forward, my boots crunching on the straw-covered ground. In the back of the stall, standing as still as stone, is a horse I could never forget.
“Nell?” I whisper, confused.
It can’t be. My beloved horse was torn to pieces by corpse wolves months ago. There’s no way … I lean in to take a closer look, and there’s no mistake.
It is Nell. But it isn’t.
Her brown fur is patchy and her nose glistens with blackened blood.
Her dark mane is matted and littered with forest detritus.
Decayed leaves, clumps of mud, and small twigs are knotted in her hair.
My eyes drift over her body, and I take in the gaping hole in her side.
Where once there were strong muscles and ribs, there’s now a rotten hole where the corpse wolf devoured parts of her. I fight the urge to vomit.
Nell looks up, noticing me for the first time. Her eyes are the worst thing of all. They’re the horrible opalescent white of the undead.
“I wanted to give you a gift,” the queen says behind me, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “To help ease your homesickness.”
When I say nothing, she adds, “Her body froze before too much decay set it. I had my sentries fetch her before the worst of the storms arrived.”
My ears begin to hum. “This ... is severely misguided,” I whisper.
The queen looks back and forth between me and the horse that was Nell. “Was she not your favorite horse?”
I close my eyes, banishing the sight from my mind. Nell is yet another beloved friend who’s been defiled by this horrible place.
“Please.” I wince at the pleading in my voice. “Put her back in the ground. She deserves peace.”
The Dead Queen tilts her head to the side, as if I’m a curiosity. “You don’t like her.”
Nausea claws at my stomach. “No!” I shout, anger clouding the edge of my vision. “I don’t like that you brought her corpse back to life. She isn’t Nell. She’s one of your undead pets!”
The Dead Queen watches me for several seconds, as if trying to process my words.
It takes all of my strength to regain my composure, to keep from flying off the edge. “Look,” I say, my voice shaking. “I recognize that this was intended to be a gesture of love, but it’s horribly, terribly twisted.”
She nods once, then steps back so I can leave the stall. She latches the door behind me.
On the other side of the stable, Tristan watches us with an unreadable expression, his arms folded across his chest. His Wolf pin shines in the dull light.
“You’re wrong,” the Dead Queen says behind me.
I swallow the urge to scream. But before I can get a word out, she cuts in.
“It is not a gesture of love.”
My fury dies in my mouth, tasting like bitter ash. I must have misheard her. Why else do this if not for love?
“I do not feel love,” she says, watching my face through her veil. “Not anymore.” She rests one black-gloved hand on the stall door. “And I do not ask you to love me, either.”
The words shouldn’t sting, but they do. When my grandmother was alive, she was filled with love for me.
Overflowing with it. Her entire life revolved around me and making sure I knew how much I was adored.
That loss scarred me deeply. And while I don’t consider the reanimated version of her to be the same woman, perhaps a small part of me still clung to the shadow of a dream.
A hope that her love somehow remained for me, even after death.
My eyes flicker to the silver moth necklace that rests against the black silk of her bodice. I swallow hard, banishing the memories of the woman who once wore it. She is dead. And this abomination is wearing her skin, like a grotesque theater costume.
“We’ll put your horse back to rest,” she says.
“Thank you.” When the words come out, they sound slightly strangled in my throat.
“But I wonder.” She pauses, thinking. “Do you truly think the Annwyn people are so different with our monsters than you are with yours?”
I blink several times. “You mean the foxhounds?”
She nods slowly. “They are living, but monstrous all the same.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
The Dead Queen watches me for a reaction. “And would you pardon the living for murder, yet punish the dead for killing in self-defense?”