Chapter 12
There was a time when the fae lived among mortals.
They feasted together, worked alongside each other, and, in rare cases, wed one another.
The great human kings and queens of old took fae husbands and brides, wooed by their enchanting powers and captivating beauty.
From their unions, the seeds of shadow and light power sprouted.
Sunlight bleeds through the library window, creeping across the page of my open book as I read.
I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon delving into the origin story of corpse wolves.
I’m trying to discover how they came into existence, how long they survive in their state of constant decay, how many there are ...
How to kill them. Again.
As centuries passed, men grew more bloodthirsty.
They stole, they lied, and they fought. They started wars and killed each other over greed and power.
Eventually, the fae grew tired of their human neighbors and fled north, where humans were few and far between.
But the power that they left behind in the hearts of human kings remained, giving more fuel for fire between them.
As the power of light became the dominant strain in the blood of men, shadow power became something to be feared.
So, the light wielders saw the opportunity to push the dark ones north, to follow the fae who fled centuries before.
The power of light grew strong in the southern lands, while the north grew ever darker in its wake.
At the front of the library, the large oak doors open with a clang. I bristle as footsteps echo on the marble floors, interrupting my concentration. I try to block them out as I read.
No good southerner knows for certain when the Dead Queen was reborn, or how her shadow powers morphed into reanimating the dead. However, one thing is forever true: To travel north into the Kingdom of the Dead is certain—eternal—death.
The footsteps grow closer and I try to will them away, but it’s no use.
I’m tempted to hide in the shadows, but my scarlet gown is hardly discreet.
A palace messenger in copper and cream livery rounds the corner.
He spots me sitting on the window bench and heads in my direction, a look of relief crossing his face.
“Your Highness,” he says when he stops in front of me. “Your presence is requested in the gardens.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Since when does my father request an audience in public?”
He shakes his head. “No, your majesty, it’s your betrothed.”
It’s out of character for Hunter to send someone to fetch me instead of coming to the library himself. Suspicion grows in my stomach, but I’m desperate to know if Hunter snuck into the kennels last night. If the Wolf survived.
I close the cover of the book in my lap and set it on the window seat for later. “Do you know what this is about?”
“No, Your Highness.” The small smile at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.
I stand with a sigh. “Take me to him then.”
It’s not a far walk to the royal gardens.
The gravel paths are full of courtly ladies and men promenading in fine silks and velvet.
Everyone here is out to see and be seen by the biggest gossips of the court.
As a general rule, I avoid the gardens. They remind me of a web with fat, glittering spiders searching for their next juicy meal.
Hunter waits at the center of the garden, near the bubbling fountain depicting a dancing maiden with foxes nipping at her heels.
He isn’t in his shining copper armor. Instead, he’s dressed in a red tunic with black trousers, as dapper as any royal fiancé should be.
When he sees us approaching, he smiles and holds out his hands.
“My beloved, what a pleasure to see you this morning.” He nods to the messenger, dismissing him.
I raise an eyebrow. “Hunter, what’s—”
He grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles lightly. Some distance behind him, a woman in fluffy pink taffeta sighs. I see what this is. We’re putting on a show for the court.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask.
He presents his arm and I hold the crook of his elbow as he leads me in a casual stroll around the fountain. His only response is a wicked grin.
“Were you able to meet with our dear friend last night?” I ask, hoping Hunter will understand. I lift one eyebrow, urging him to take the hint.
“Yes. Yes, I did.” His voice is upbeat, as if we’re discussing a beloved aunt.
Nobles mill about, watching us from the corners of their eyes.
“And … how was he?” I keep my voice calm, casual. There’s nothing in my tone that shows the fear buried in my heart.
“He lives.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Thank you.’” He pauses to think. “That’s about it.”
That can’t be all. “Did he do anything?”
“He drank that expensive bottle of wine rather quickly.” Hunter inclines his head toward a man who tips his hat in our direction. “Not that I could blame him.”
“Did you, you know?” I move my hands around in front of us, like a healer who has no idea what she’s doing.
Hunter smirks. “Dance with him? No, darling. There wasn’t time for that.”
I give him an impatient glare then lean toward his ear, like I’m whispering a lover’s secret. “He isn’t going to die, is he?”
Hunter shakes his head. “No, my love. Not today.” He straightens.
“I have a gift for you.” His voice is louder than necessary, for the benefit of the people walking by.
It’s no accident that everyone in the garden seems to be meandering closer to the fountain, like none are immune to the gravitational pull of royal gossip.
From the ledge of the fountain, Hunter grabs a small, flat rectangle wrapped in fabric. He hands it to me and I take it gingerly, like it’s dangerous. He nods for me to open it. All around us, nobles crane their necks to see.
Wrapped inside the cloth is a small, green book.
I can’t help but laugh. “You requested I leave the library so you could present me with a book?”
His smile doesn’t waver, but he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Well, no one would see your gift in the library.”
My fingers glide over the gilded title embossed on the soft cover, “Love Poems for the Ages.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I never knew you liked poetry, Hunter.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me. I am a man of mystery.” He kneels in front of me and a gaggle of ladies near the willow tree put their hands over their hearts and swoon.
“Hunter,” I say between gritted teeth hidden behind a forced smile. “What are you doing?”
“I’m reciting love poetry to you. It’s every courtly woman’s dream.” He pauses. “Or so the kitchen maid told me when I asked her for tips about wooing.”
I want to laugh. Or scream. I’m not sure which, but the humor in his eyes softens me. “Let’s get on with it then.”
“Fear not, good lady. ‘Tis a short one.”
I narrow my eyes at him, sensing a joke. “How short?”
He fishes several leaves of parchment from his belt pocket and unfolds them with a snap. “A mere fifty verses.”
I groan as my smile falters. “Make it quick. For the love of …”
Hunter clears his throat, then projects. “The great poet, Archibald, once said that true love comes but once in a generation.” Hunter pauses as nobles gather nearer to listen. “We must be those lucky few, my sweet, for our love is one for the ages.”
The growing audience claps politely.
I attempt to flee, but Hunter reaches for my hand and holds me in place. I lean down to hiss into his ear. “I won’t let you forget this little stunt, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He turns his head to whisper back, his nose nudging my ear like a caress. “I’m looking forward to it.” His eyes shine with laughter.
I sigh, hoping the courtly ladies think it’s from adoration rather than frustration.
Hunter continues, “So here I kneel, ready to pour my heart out to you in verse. I wrote it this morning as I gazed into the depths of your eyes over our breakfast porridge.”
I close my eyes, thinking murderous thoughts. My fingers grip the edges of the green poetry book. I briefly consider smacking Hunter with it.
He clears his throat.
What beauty is a flower when compared to your sweet complexion?
What softness is velvet when set next to your soft skin?
What sweetness does a berry compare to your lips?
I raise an eyebrow, and he gives me a slight shrug. He tosses one hand up toward the sky theatrically.
None! I say.
For thou art more beautiful, more soft, and sweeter than anything yet known.
I am but a humble man, who knows not many things.
I try to hide my scoff behind the book. He continues on, reciting something about birds and rainbows—or maybe it’s honeybees and dewdrops?—I’m far too embarrassed to pay attention.
Finally, the torture ends to scattered applause.
The ladies in the garden have flushed cheeks and stars in their eyes.
Hunter stands, wiping the dirt from his knees, and bows to the audience.
When they’ve turned their heads to giggle and whisper together in small groups, Hunter leads me down a path of impeccably trimmed boxwood shrubs.
“I’m reluctant to praise you for this little stunt,” I say. “But if the point of this exercise was to endear us to the people, I think you might be something of a genius.”
He laughs. “All I heard you say was that I am a genius.”
I groan.
He bumps his shoulder into mine. “It’s easy to give the people what they want.”
“Speak for yourself,” I grumble. “Public humiliation doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“It’s less about humiliation and more about humility.”
I give him a skeptical look. “Nothing about that poem screamed ‘humble.’”
He snickers. “No, I guess you’re right. What I meant was, it’s less about you than it is about them. People want to believe in love and hope. Is it really so bad to give them that?”
I purse my lips, but say nothing. Hunter has always been a bigger person than I am. Less selfish or single-minded.
“Anyway,” he says, nudging a stick out of our path with the toe of his shoe. “That book wasn’t the real gift. It was just the public one.”