Chapter 18
More guards peel away from the front of the castle’s walls as we approach, and they pull open the main doors.
“Welcome back, Govern.”
The Piper tilts his head in acknowledgment, and then we’re filing inside, my muddied boots dragging over a burgundy rug.
The inside of the castle doesn’t fit him.
It’s too bright, too cheerful. It boasts of timbered ceilings that arc up a few stories, flouncing staircases and visible corridors on the higher floors.
The walls at the entrance are paneled in stacked squares, with white plaster medallions fusing into the wood and adding a softness like melting butter.
My stomach roils.
He takes us down an empty hall and into a large dining room.
The walls are painted a plain cream with a strip of dark wood belted along the middle, and overhead, chandeliers hang, unlit.
Night is nearly upon us, so there’s a dim hue spilling in from the windows that casts over benches, aided by candelabras upon the long tables that flutter with feathery light.
The Piper finally releases hold of my rope, and then he splits up our group, fiend from fae. Like we’re cattle sorted for field or slaughter.
Theo sends a lingering look before going with the other fae, while Kaetir walks over to me, and we shuffle to a bench with the other twenty-six fiends. Three of the tables fill with the stolen fae, while we fiends take up the fourth.
Kaetir and I sit side by side, and my body starts to tremble with exhaustion.
The nausea didn’t leave after using the leyline, and the headache from the bombardment of stars didn’t quite pass either.
My wounds have sapped my strength, and the Needle’s magic has worn off too, leaving me with pain that arcs and bows.
I have to breathe in heavily through my nose to keep upright.
I eye the standing guards posted against the wall, as well as the Core fae near the doorway, talking in low murmurs.
A woman comes into the room then, her blond hair tucked beneath a fancy, sheer veillet corded with silver chains across the top in an elegant drape that matches her dress. She speaks with the Piper for a moment and then walks toward us.
I see every fiend track her as she begins to walk around our table. She goes slowly, her footsteps gliding, and pauses behind each one of us for a few seconds before moving on. When she gets behind me, I stiffen, and I see Kaetir dart a look over his shoulder.
“What’s she doing?” he whispers.
I shake my head, at a loss.
But finally, she walks away, returning to the other Core.
“That was strange,” I hear another fiend mumble.
I glance back to look at her, but my attention instead gathers on the Piper, like bundling storm clouds forming overhead. His pied cloak rains down in unraveling colors, his face intent on whatever she’s saying to him.
As if he can feel my eyes, his gaze abruptly snaps to me, and my chest floods. All over again, it feels like an echo ripples between us, the lingering lure of his magic still trying to pull me in.
I want it gone.
Expelling a breath, I look away and tug at the rope on my wrist. The Piper let go of it but didn’t remove it. Probably another reminder to come to heel.
The prick.
“You alright?” Kaetir asks.
“Yes,” I lie.
His brown eyes scan me. “You don’t look so good.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I’m sure.”
Reaching over, he grabs a jug and pours me a cup of water. “Here.”
I eye the offering. “Don’t be nice to me just because Theo’s not around.”
Kaetir blinks in surprise, and then shame tightens his face. His gaze flicks to the other table, probably to find Theo where he sits. “Esti, I wasn’t trying to be like that. It’s just . . . I’m Theo’s friend.”
“Part of his flock, you mean.”
A flash of defensiveness shadows his expression, and he sets the cup down in front of me. “That’s not true.”
But it is. Theo’s family is successful. They own half a dozen businesses in Hamelyn, and connections are important.
Theo always talked about that. Always made sure he was meeting new people and bringing them into his fold to help further his own influence.
Every so often, he’d change people out, introducing someone new and shoving aside the old, and everyone else in his group just followed along with it.
Like they did with me.
I rub my aching brow. I know I shouldn’t be saying anything to Kaetir, because what’s done is done. But the past two days have chipped me raw, my lips loosened from the rambling pain.
“I thought you’d at least still speak to me after he ended things,” I say quietly as I pick up the cup. “There aren’t many of us in our city. You were the only fiend I talked to.”
I tried to say hi to him after Theo broke things off, but Kaetir rebuffed me in public, turning away with a pointed cold shoulder while people watched. The embarrassment still sinks into my stomach whenever I think of it.
Kaetir blows out a breath, and his tone turns more contrite as he repeats his earlier defense. “Theo’s my friend.”
Yes, and I thought you were my friend too.
He looks down at his plate, refusing to meet my eye. “He explicitly asked us not to talk to you. To let you be. So that you could get over things easier.”
My lips press together in a hard line. Theo asked that none of them talk to me?
I blink past the hurt, but my gaze lands on the back of Theo’s head. He’s two tables down, but his red hair stands out. He’s speaking to the fae next to him, a soft smile on his face I can see in profile.
Always so friendly. So polite.
So fickle.
I look away.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he did that, and I shouldn’t be surprised that you listened. Here I was thinking a two-year friendship actually meant something.”
Kaetir’s face turns stricken. “Esti . . .”
The plea in his tone notches a weakness into my anger, and all at once, it comes crumbling down with a sigh. “I shouldn’t be snapping at you,” I murmur with a shake of my head. “I’m just . . . I’m tired.”
And I am. My body doesn’t even feel like mine. Weighed down with rocks, every movement dragging. Mind glugging up. I feel so poorly. Not just my body anymore, but my heart too. I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep.
“It’s okay,” Kaetir tells me. “I understand.”
I sip my water, swallowing it down as I focus on the other fiends sitting with us.
I take in every face at the table, note their expressions, see the different-colored horns peeking through their mussed hair.
Some horns are longer, others stubbed like mine.
Some narrow, others thick or even slightly curved.
I wonder what sort of lives they’ve led.
I wonder what’s going to happen to us all.
Sweat dapples my brow as food and drink are brought in by a procession of servants. The women wear gray linen frock dresses banded with aprons, their heads covered with tucked white veillets. The men wear gray trousers, their long-sleeved tunics white and loose.
As soon as every platter and jug is served upon the tables, everyone descends upon the fare. There’s meat, some boiled vegetables soaked in broth, slices of bright red fruit, and fresh loaves of bread still steaming.
But my nausea has reared its head, so while everyone else digs in with great enthusiasm, I move sluggishly, only taking a bit of broth. All I’ve had today was the cold meat from this morning, so I know I should be starving, but I’m not. If anything, my stomach is churning.
“Do you want me to cut you some of the meat?” Kaetir asks.
I look at the bloody juices coating the platter and feel bile surging up. “No thanks.”
He breaks off some bread and puts it on my plate. “Here. At least have some of that, okay?”
It’s a peace offering, and one I appreciate.
“Thank you.”
I look down at the bread as I pick it up, feeling sweat glue to my skin. I slash at my hair stuck to my forehead and try to take in a steadying breath, but there’s too much pain. Too much fatigue. Too much . . . endured.
“Are you okay?”
The agony in my back turns piercing. My head is woozy. The bread drops from my hand, falling to the floor. “I—don’t feel so well.”
I sway suddenly, my vision tilting. My shoulder knocks against Kaetir as dots speckle my vision.
“Esti?” He grabs hold of my arm to steady me, but it’s not enough to keep me upright. I start to melt right off the bench, my body boneless, muscles liquefied.
“Esti!” Kaetir’s fork clatters to his plate as he tries to yank me back up, but the movement makes me cry out in pain as he pulls the wounds on my back.
“Shit, I—”
“Remove your hands.”
The order is bitten out, mangled with anger.
When Kaetir’s grip tears away, my heart lurches, but instead of falling, I’m lifted up into the Piper’s arms, and his heat instantly engulfs me. He presses my chest to his, forcing my limp thighs to split as he settles them around his hips.
My pulse tugs at the intimate position.
He then moves his forearm beneath me and starts walking out of the room. I try to get away from the warmth of his body, but my arms spasm, forehead knocking against his shoulder. “L-let go . . .”
His answer comes clipped. “Don’t speak.”
Even though we shared a saddle all day and a bedroll all night, this somehow feels closer. More personal.
Yet I realize that this position means he’s not touching my wounded back.
Unable to move, my useless arms hang down like flopping fish, and I fall into the sway of his stride.
My head tucks until my nose is pressed against his chest, and his scent swarms me.
There’s no spritzed fragrance or perfumed oils like Theo would wear.
It’s purely him. A masculine musk clinging to his skin that is somehow . . . pleasant.
Despite chasing out Rats, sleeping on the ground, and riding a horse, he doesn’t stink, which I find enormously annoying. It would be so nice if he reeked, so I could throw that insult back in his face. Would’ve cheered me up quite a bit.
I grumble to myself as my forehead rolls against his neck.
“Bloodied Fates. You’re burning.”
“That’ssss what happensss when y-you’re touching me,” I garble out. My vision feels heavy. Like it’s going to sink right down, out of reach. But maybe that’s okay, because then I won’t have to hurt anymore.
I feel the Piper’s arms stiffen.
“What?”
“Hmm?” My eyelids clasp together.
His voice rumbles against my cheek, but I don’t hear what he says. Don’t care anyway. I can’t stand him when he speaks. Or when he lures me with his music. Or makes any sound at all, actually.
And I’m damaged goods anyway, so he doesn’t like me much either. In fact, I’m probably too far gone now.
“Can you bury me instead of ashing me on a pyre?” I ask. “I’ve always liked the feel of dirt between my toes.”
The thought of cool, tilled soil beneath my feet fills me with calm, and I sigh, my worldly worries skittering away. Maybe it’s alright to embrace death with such peace. It feels like a gift.
“You’re not going to die,” he snaps, sharply enough that the words cut through my haze.
But that’s what everyone says when you’re at death’s door and they’re trying to ease your fears, right?
Well, I don’t need to be eased. My fears have already drifted. Swaying with his steps. I hear my mother humming a lullaby against my ear like she did when I was little.
Narey lu lai, on velin menore.
Vea en lesh, lu serey vethore.
Sleep my star, the veil is dark.
Rest in dreams, my shadow lark.
I don’t even feel the pain in my back now. Just heat and fog. Flame and soil.
But my reverie is interrupted when I’m set down on a stiff bed and positioned chest-down.
There’s an unfamiliar man’s voice.
And the Piper’s voice.
They go round and round.
Circling. Widening.
My ruined tunic is cut away. My bandages too.
I hear words. One is clear.
Infection.
Then another.
Punishment.
My brow furrows, my peace trying to run away. I attempt to snatch it back, but my mother’s lullaby is drowned out by the sound of a whip whistling. Thwacking against my vulnerable flesh. The grunt of the patrolman as he put his strength behind it.
I whimper, my lip caught between my teeth.
The unfamiliar man’s voice pushes in. “There’s not much I can do. It’s spread to her blood.”
Hefting up my eyelids, I turn my neck to look at them. To look at him. At his black pants tucked into stiff boots, and that damnable colorful cloak hanging off his back.
“So I am going to die,” I say thickly, rife with accusation. “You liar.”
The Piper turns and crouches down until his face hovers before mine. His brown eyes are infused with a fiery fury that sears into my flesh. “Death isn’t an option for you,” he growls. “You are a collected payment. You will fulfill your worth, do you hear me?”
A wheezing anger shifts forward as I force my mouth to work. “My worth isn’t determined by you.”
He leans in. Face overshadowing. Voice underground. “Oh, but it is.”
“Maybe I’ll die happily just because it’ll piss you off.”
The look he gives me is menacing. Chastisement cut into his sharp jaw, thick lips grinding against his teeth. When he raises his hand and clutches my chin, it’s a grip that holds. That clings. “Death can’t have you.”
His words purge my breath.
His touch scalds my skin.
My breath strangles as I stare at him through a vision that tunnels.
“So you had better fight, fiend. Because if you give in, I will lure you back from the brink again and again. Do you understand me?”
My head moves with a single, weary nod.
He releases me then, before turning and stalking out of the room.
And I combust.
From his words and touch. From a pain that scorches me inside and out.
And from the single demand that smothers, even as it surges: So you had better fight.