21. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Isoria
The smack of a pillow against my head jolted me awake.
“Time to get ready.”
Sitting up, I blinked bleary eyes at Archer. When I noticed the extra pillow on my bed, I narrowed my eyes. “Where’s Orchid? Shouldn’t a servant be helping me get ready instead of you coming in to throw pillows at me?”
“She was already in—more than once, she said—and you slept through it. I told her not to waste any more of her time. She’s too gentle.
” His eyes flicked to the hearth and the crackling fire there, one I’d requested Orchid keep regularly despite the season’s heat.
It wasn’t as if the temperature bothered me, and if I couldn’t shift or conjure my own fire at will, I craved being near my preferred element any way I could.
“Fire demon or not, how can you stand this? It’s hot as Mortius’ burning underworld in here. ”
Sighing and ignoring his complaint, I sat up, grabbed the pillow, and threw it back at Archer’s head.
He caught it with an obnoxious smirk curling his lips.
The curtains were already open to the late afternoon glow, highlighting his golden hair and sharp, cruel features.
“Tell the king I’m indisposed. Then neither of us have to suffer through tonight’s event. ”
“Again,” Archer said dryly, “the event is introducing you to court. This isn’t optional. I’ll drag you out of bed if I must.”
With a scowl, I stood and stormed into my closet, surveying the dresses Orchid had left for me.
“Wear that one.” Archer’s voice behind me nearly made me jump. I rolled my eyes at the gold and black dress he was pointing at. It looked severe and much too heavy for this season’s weather, with a high collar and long sleeves.
“Unless I’m attending a funeral, I absolutely will not be wearing that.”
Archer shrugged elegantly. “Father enjoys seeing things arrayed in the kingdom’s colors.”
Smiling wickedly, I plucked a delicate pink and gold dress from its hanger, admiring the intricately detailed embroidery and beading along its fitted bodice.
Its coloring reminded me of the first kiss of dawn.
Unlike the other, its fabric was light and the skirts were flowy, promising to be much more comfortable in the humid evening.
Sighing, Archer waved me toward the washroom. “Hurry or we’ll be late.”
I hurriedly prepared in the washroom, finally shrugging on the dress and gazing in the full-length mirror.
It was perfectly feminine, its fitted bodice of mostly gold the perfect contrast to my dark hair, while the flowing pink skirts kept it soft.
I’d be the exact opposite of what King Wystan wanted to see, and I loved it.
But the back involved a series of laces I couldn’t reach, and though I’d ran a comb through my hair, it was nothing compared to the elaborate styles Orchid could surely accomplish.
“You must send for Orchid,” I called.
“There’s no time,” Archer shot back.
I hesitated in the entrance to my room, studying the prince, who was sitting on the edge of my bed, mussing his golden hair and fidgeting with the buttons on his own crisp black and red jacket.
An odd pang shot through me, and I frowned.
Was it my own anxiety, or was I sensing his? I shoved the thought away.
“You’ll have to do the laces on the back.”
I strode into the room, suddenly feeling a little shaky, and turned away so he couldn’t see my expression. Archer didn’t say a word as he stepped up behind me. “You had to choose the brightest, most feminine dress,” he muttered, close enough I could feel his breath on my skin.
Unfortunately, I’d been too nervous to remember to move my hair.
Archer’s fingers were already in it, twining through the strands in a manner reminiscent of how he’d caught me by the hair when we’d first met.
I grit my teeth, nerves rising, but the prince released it as quickly as he’d grasped it, like he was overcome with disgust.
I exhaled with relief.
But then my stomach tightened as Archer’s calloused fingers brushed against my skin as he grasped the laces.
I waited for him to tug roughly, tightening the bodice to some unbearable degree, but he was oddly gentle, his fingers swift and making as little contact as possible each time he slipped the laces through and tightened them.
The silence between us was breathless, every emotion heavy with discomfort. Each brush of his fingers made me tense; each time he exhaled, his warm breath grazing the back of my neck, I felt goosebumps rise.
He didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. And my dry mouth didn’t allow me to either. Instead, he finished the task wordlessly.
“Time to go,” he said brusquely. “You’ll have to go with your hair down.
” He hesitated at the doorway, still refusing to look at me.
“Maybe wearing a dagger would offset how delicate the dress makes you look, but we don’t have time and I don’t trust you with my weapons.
You’d probably trip and kill yourself with one somehow.
Stay close to me tonight, or the entire court will eat you alive. ”
As a child, I’d been taught it wasn’t unusual for the fae of Emberglade, with their power strongest under the constellation representing Umbryon, God of Night, to keep nocturnal hours during the dry season when it shone bright in the sky.
Everhaven, with our need of the sun’s power, had never lived that way, but, once we’d left the capital and my memories of it had faded, I had often imagined it was a world of wild parties and feasts and dances beneath the moon.
Though we weren’t in Rainsong’s nocturnal dry season, entering the party under the stars was a lot like seeing my imagination come to life.
In the fragrant palace gardens beside a vast pond surrounded by trees cloaked in hanging moss and vines, the only decor needed was that which nature had already provided.
Lilies bloomed along the path leading toward the festivities, fireflies made the pond surface glisten, and palms swayed against the bejeweled sky.
While musicians played heady music, fae indulged themselves in fine foods and wines spread out on tables under the palm trees before coupling off to talk or dance or vanish into the shadows.
King Wystan was already seated in a carved wooden armchair, heavily cushioned and propped up on a hillock to resemble a dais.
Beside him were two other throne-like chairs, one already occupied by Princess Briar.
She, like Archer, must have taken after their mother, Queen Acacia, because she didn’t have the king’s eerie orange eyes, horns, or corpse-like skin either.
Everything about her was stunning: from her glossy red waves, her striking features, and her vivid blue eyes framed by thick lashes.
She knew she was beautiful too, preening as she accepted compliments and declarations of love from a small army of suitors all lined up to have a few moments of her time.
Archer paused at the edge of the party, where a male with shaggy red hair and the eyes and legs of a goat stood waiting to announce us. This time, there was no mistaking Archer’s anger and annoyance as my own. The feelings curled around him like smoke, heavy and cloying.
“I see Father decided to start the insults early, not preparing a throne for my betrothed.”
The goat-fae’s eyes widened. “Y-Your Highness, we can surely provide—”
With a wide, charming smile, Archer waved away the servant’s concerns. “No need to trouble yourself. This is not your fault and of no concern to you, Red. This is between the king and me.”
Red smiled and dipped his head in grateful relief, easily warmed by Archer’s friendliness.
“Come,” Archer said, holding out his arm without sparing me a glance.
I slipped mine into his, trying to pretend I was eager to be paraded in front of a court that would relish my death if they knew what I was.
Without being announced, Archer slipped into the crowd to a flurry of bows, curtsies, and eager greetings. Their eyes strayed to me, but it seemed an unspoken understanding that they needed to wait until I was presented by King Wystan before they could engage with me or ask Archer about me.
“Thank you for protecting us from the phoenix threat,” one female said, and he graciously took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.
“My pleasure,” he said, all white teeth and starlit eyes.
He continued to ignore me as others approached, speaking of the “countryside” of Emberglade and the “vile threat the feathered monstrosities posed.” My stomach dipped at the casually hurled insults and deeply-held belief in utter lies that the fae who were supposed to be my fellow citizens shared.
Their venom was practiced, their hatred old and engrained, like a comfortable outfit they’d worn for so long, they didn’t realize how violent and abhorrent they sounded. Or ignorant.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Some fae live for bloodshed no matter what, I reminded myself, thinking of trolls and goblins and their cruel ways. But this was different—a targeted violence only for a certain type of fae and his or her magic.
Bird-brains.
Arsonists.
Necromancers.
Fire demons.
Unnatural death-defiers…like living corpses burning themselves alive again and again.
Death’s whores.
That flame of anger kept me warm as I tugged my arm from Archer’s and ventured toward the tables.
I plated some fruits and an exorbitant dollop of melted chocolate, trying to pretend like I was enjoying myself.
My emotions were making it harder to control my power, heating my skin and threatening to unleash flames.
I breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the explosion of flavors across my tongue.
As I finished my dessert, my gaze snagged on the sugar dish left out for coating berries, and inspiration struck.
I started a second plate, dipping one berry carefully in sugar before leaving to find another table.