Chapter Twenty
That evening, three violet gazes watch Lila and me set up service in the red-draped dining room.
Behind the head of the cherry table hangs the royal portrait of Wilhelm Vandorne the Uniter, founder of the Amyrian kingdom thousands of years ago.
He wears an enormous black beard and a leopard-trimmed cape, the Golden Whip clutched in one hand.
A giant eagle perches on his other arm, dwarfed by its owner’s massive frame.
To the right is the portrait of his son, the late Gregor the Great, similarly dark-haired, wearing intricate armor, the whip now inlaid with spikes.
To the left is a rosy-cheeked Maxian from his early two hundreds, lounging in a loose white tunic and holding a bitten apple.
So soft and golden in comparison to his father and grandfather. A kissing king, indeed.
Next to me, Lila muddles together lavender sprigs, honey, and lemon in a goblet. Even with the array of herbs and fruits on the serving cart, the scent of oil on my skin lingers.
“To sparkle the water, you need to infuse it with your breath,” Lila says.
“My breath?”
She pours water from the carafe into the goblet. “The specialty drink has bubbles, but it isn’t fermented, it’s mixed. So I exhale into the water, infusing it with my breath.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Is that clean?”
Lila laughs. “I don’t know. And I don’t think they care. They just like the bubbles. Here, watch.”
Cupping her palms, she breathes out, and herbal magic drifts into the plane. The air in her palm shimmers, the candlelight catching its movement, and she drops it into the glass, then stirs. The water fizzes.
“Done.” She smiles, turning to me.
“How did you discover this?”
Those rich eyes, like rain-soaked clay, slide to mine, and she lifts her chin. “If they can wield their magic to destroy…why can’t I use mine to create?”
I suck in a breath. “Lila.”
“I mean it. As long as they choose to ruin, I choose to build.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink rapidly. “But what if they will always destroy everything we build?”
A demolished parlor. The Unluckie keening as the gold vanished from his grasp.
“Then I will always rebuild,” she says, jaw set. “If we don’t, there will be nothing.”
I pick up the cool, fizzing drink, her granular act of protest. “You are powerful,” I state.
Before she can reply, the plane stills. The door clicks open.
Lord Eli enters, dressed in a trim emerald tunic, followed by the cloaked figure of the king’s executioner, the wide hood falling to his shoulders, a stretch of skin visible behind his mask.
Lila smiles, soft and natural like the rising sun.
If I did not witness the transition, I would not see it for what it truly is: armor.
“Good evening, my lord.” She curtsies.
In Illusion, she would be punished for speaking first. But in the House of Reign, we are entertainers, company. Eli’s gaze flickers over Lila before landing on the set table with only three spots. The executioner retreats to a corner, arms clasped behind his back.
“Hello, Lila, Avery,” Eli says. “When will Lady Kassandra arrive?”
My throat tightens, and I curtsy. “Lady Kassandra has had too much sun today.”
“I’ll have a balm sent over.”
“My lord, would it be possible to send over a pain tonic as well? I know she suffers from a terrible headache.” I wince, knowing she will not be happy.
“I’ll let a Healer know to prepare something.”
For a moment, the coiled tension loosens from my muscles. It’s small, but it’s something.
“Are you okay, after today?”
The shift in Eli’s tone has my head snapping up. Softer than before, though he’s always been somewhat gentle. Yet the Head of Healing is watching Lila, his brows knit in concern.
“Of course!” She smiles wider. “It was nice to be outside.”
“The game was crude. I apologize.” Eli glances away from us, as if embarrassed. I try to hide my surprise, but Lila does not falter.
“No need. Now, what would you like to drink? We have nonliquored options.”
“Whatever is available.”
The doors slam open on a gust of icy wind. Dominik prowls inside, beady eyes pinning me in place, and his lips curl into a lupine grin. In an instant, the plane swells toward him, sinking onto his skin to store for later. I curtsy.
“Lower.”
Phantom hands shove down my shoulders. My curtsy deepens, my legs straining.
Pointy boots. I stare at his frilly, pointy boots, lacquered like the floors.
“Avery,” Eli interjects. I look up as Lila hands Eli a drink, her expression worried. He frowns, eyes cutting to Dominik. “You may stand.”
The hands disappear, and I almost stumble with the sudden lack of pressure. “What can I get you this evening, Lord Dominik?” I ask, straightening.
“Where is my darling sister?” He bares his teeth in a passable smile.
“Apparently, she doesn’t feel well,” Eli says. “I’m sending over a tonic.”
“No need, Eli. The faerie is misinformed.”
I bite my lip, grasping for a reply that will keep Kassandra safe but keep my head on my shoulders, too. Eli beats me to it.
“Can’t hurt,” he says.
“She’s fine,” Dominik snaps.
“Are you a Healer?”
The Heir of Illusion turns, facing the Head of Healing. “What did you just say?”
But the other fae remains unruffled, calm. “I said, are you a Healer? I think not. Besides, Kassandra seems to suffer many head pains, so having an extra tonic on hand can’t hurt.”
“Then you do not know my sister. She’s the type to swallow the whole vial for an afternoon of attention.”
“Then I’ll give her attention,” Eli answers. “Anyone who harms themself still needs help.”
The pair watch each other, tense, the plane pitching and rolling, warming and cooling. I clench my jaw to keep nausea at bay and, in the silence, scrape together my courage.
“Would you like a strong drink, Lord Dominik?” I ask.
“Fine.”
I’m tempted to spit in his cup. Lila joins me at the bar cart.
“What was that about?” she whispers. I shake my head, and she says, “I can deliver drinks if you’d like to gather the small bites from the Mouth. They won’t sit until the king is here, but they’ll snack.”
She’s giving me a way out. My eyes fall to the lavender drink.
“For the king?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ll add ice when he arrives.”
If they can wield their magic to destroy…why can’t I use mine to create?
I pick up an orange from the cart. “I can prepare and serve. I’d like to try a new drink. Something of my choice.”
Lila’s expression relaxes.
“You’re powerful, too.” She pats my arm before slipping through the servants’ door.
The males are wrapped in conversation on the far end of the room.
“…and what of the vote in the coming months?” Dominik is asking. “Do you know how Reign will decide?”
“I’m not sure even House of Healing agrees fully. Among our two seats, we are divided.”
“Mm,” muses the wolf. “House of Death always votes down the line. They must have graves for brains as well as homes.”
The executioner doesn’t move.
I chop up a strip of orange rind, toss it in the grinder along with clove, cinnamon, and cardamom. I pour the mixture into a glass of water to let it absorb. From the second shelf of the cart, I pull out the smoky amber liquor distilled in the white oak barrels in the Nest.
Flipping through my knowledge of plants like a deck of cards, I find the herb I need. The closed-bottle gentian. Indigo petals form an oblong shape, the edible root bittersweet. It has an earthiness similar to tarragon, a smell like fresh soil, like faerie magic.
It’s not in the bar cart.
Staring down at my golden moth ring, a new idea occurs. What if it’s too much for me to lace myself and food at the same time? What if the trick is lacing the food alone?
The servants’ door opens and Lila glides in, a tray of goat cheese and fig pastries in her hands. She quirks a brow at my work. “Everything okay?”
“Just making a drink for Lord Dominik.”
She nods on her way to the High Fae. In a moment, her light laughter bubbles into the space, followed by the rumble of male jokes, the scrape of plates.
My attention hovers on the golden moth ring, my mind’s eye seeing a map of the Illusion courtyards, the winding paths and shifting hedges.
The little pops of indigo petals from an emerald bush near the western wall.
The ring warms, energy buzzing, as my genius unspools through me and twists with the borrowed Reign magic.
I push the energies onto the plane, reaching, stretching toward that bush.
My consciousness flattens, squeezes through mounting pressure, before bursting out on the other side.
I feel it then, a piece of my genius hovering before the bush like a wraith, a small thread tying back to me, anchored in my finger.
After I thank the flower, my genius tugs on the shoot until it comes free, root and all. Cradling the shoot in my mind, I strain the plant through the compression, reel it toward me like spinning that thread around the spool once more.
The chatter of males titters in my ears, my focus blurring, chest tightening as the panic sets in. I am in the plane and I am here; I am nowhere. My grip falters on the mental limb, and I yank it toward me before it’s lost altogether.
My consciousness slams back into my body. Trembling, one hand gripping the cart, I gaze at the other, a white-knuckled fist. Uncurling my fingers, I take in the closed-bottle gentian in my palm.
I did it. I laced food. How much food could I lace to the tunnels, to the Peri, with this ability, while I wait for Maxian to approve my proposal?
I could cry. With shaking fingers, I cut off the root, grind it with the mortar and pestle, drop it into the mixture.
Straining the herbed water into a glass with the brown liquor and sugar, I garnish it with a thin slice of orange skin.
The concoction should come out bittersweet, tangy, a little smoky.
A headache pulses behind my eyes, but I feel proud, no matter Dominik’s response. I bounce toward the males and Lila, drink in hand.
“My lord.”