Chapter 29
Caeo
As promised, Mother’s arranged for some wrinkly old fae to teach me their—our—history.
A pair of servants leads me to a cozy chamber, like a quiet corner of the Academy library, except without any books, desks, or chairs.
So maybe not like that at all. A stone table, slightly off-center, sits atop a plush fur rug, while those same glowing orbs I saw drifting along the walkways outside hover near the ceiling.
They bob between hanging vines, filling the room with a warm light that flickers in a steady pulse, as if alive.
They’re hypnotizing.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Wisps,” the old fae responds, but doesn’t elaborate any further.
If he were human, I’d guess he’d be in his seventies?
He introduces himself as a Keeper of the Memories, then prattles on about how he’s been tasked with teaching me all about Aedys and the Evermoor family, which I’m apparently a member of.
We’ll be starting with the dawn of the first Keepers, about seven thousand years ago.
He’s been talking for five minutes, and I have no idea what he’s been saying.
While the rug’s soft, my back aches from holding myself upright, and my thoughts keep circling around my situation; ignoring my forced betrothal, things haven’t been as horrible as I’d feared.
The food’s better, my clothes are nicer, the bed’s softer.
I have my own space, and everything’s beautiful.
There are definitely worse places I could be stuck.
And as much as I want to escape my mother and marriage, the reality is, I don’t have anywhere I can go. Not without being caught or killed.
Which is why I need to get Owena on my side—she could help me plan an escape. And if not, she’s gonna be my wife, so we might as well get along.
But all that will have to wait. For now, I’m stuck listening to this geezer’s ramblings.
“Can’t I just read about this?” I ask, cutting him off mid-sentence.
His face contorts as if I’ve insulted his mother. “We do not require books when we have our memories.”
My elbow slides along the cold tabletop as I slump forward, chin in hand. If Reid were here, he’d probably be gathering as much information as possible—as Owena said, knowledge is power. But there has to be a less boring option than listening to this droning for bells on end.
I straighten up. “How did my mother end up as queen?”
The Keeper pauses his pacing to glare at me. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?”
“Uh… no?”
He shakes his head, then folds his hands together like a schoolteacher addressing a small child. “The Evermoor family has ruled Aedys since our earliest memories. Your mother inherited the throne over two hundred years ago, when Arandur the Desecrator killed her father in battle. As I was saying—”
“But why the Evermoors? What gives us the right to rule?”
The Keeper’s arms tense as his hands clench together. “The Land blessed the royal family of each realm with a unique gift, establishing their divine right. For instance, the Duskblooms of Llynos can—”
“I’m more interested in what my family can do,” I say, my pulse quickening. A divine gift sounds really useful.
The Keeper’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick to the door. “The gift of the Evermoor line is not important to today’s lesson. If you’ll allow me to return to my instruction—”
The door swings open just as I’m about to press him further. Princess Owena stands there, looking ravishing in a long-sleeved, pine-green gown, with her golden curls catching the warm light as they tumble past her shoulders.
I’d be happier to see her if her timing wasn’t so fucking terrible. Relief washes over the Keeper’s face as he sinks into a deep bow. Whatever this Evermoor gift is, my mother must have forbidden him from sharing it with me.
“Your Highness,” he mumbles, his head still dipped down.
“I’ve come to borrow Prince Caeo,” Owena says, her gaze landing on me.
I lean against the table, eyeing her. Is her sudden appearance really a coincidence? There’s no trace of a hidden motive on her face, no tension in her shoulders, but it’s entirely possible she wants me kept in the dark as well. To make me reliant on her instead of my mother.
The Keeper straightens. “Of course, Your Highness.” He hurries from the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Why’d you have to interrupt? I was so close to getting something useful out of him.”
Owena laughs as she picks at a knob on the wall. “No, you weren’t. Your mother would have instructed him not to share anything you could turn to your benefit. If anything, I was saving him from risking her wrath.”
Wonderful. So this was a waste of time after all.
Owena sighs, then folds her hands. “You should have stood when I entered.”
“Huh?”
She stares at me, eyes widening with expectation. This must be the etiquette lesson she was planning. I’m not really in the mood, but I do need her to like me. So I get to my feet and give her my most charming smile.
Owena nods. “Now offer your arm so we can go for a walk.”
I begrudgingly oblige, and we end up spending the entire afternoon in the gardens.
I learn where to stand in relation to her, when to take her arm, the appropriate number of seconds to maintain eye contact…
So many little things that fae care about, at least for their royalty.
I can’t imagine the plebs give a rat’s ass about any of this.
Then she goes even further, explaining how every motion can be altered in the teensiest ways to add deeper meaning to the gestures.
While the fae can’t lie with their words, they can deceive one another through body language.
It’s a lot to take in, but it does ease some of my worries about her intentions.
As best I can tell, she just wants a partner to navigate court with.
Someone she can rely on, who won’t embarrass her.
Once she’s satisfied I did everything correctly, we go through it all again. This time, she asks me what I think she means when she alters her movements slightly. It takes much longer, but by the end, I think I’m getting the hang of it. It feels surprisingly good.
Like, really good. I can’t remember a time when I actually felt proud of my accomplishments, outside of something stupid like climbing to the top of the clock tower without dying when I was ten.
Maybe there is hope for this life.
If not, at least I have the layout of the gardens down now—all the exits, where guards are posted. Even witnessed a shift change, though that seems like the worst time to attempt an escape since the old ones don’t leave until their replacements arrive.
And so life continues, my days blurring together as my wedding draws near.
I glue a smile on my face every morning for breakfast with Mother, then wander the gardens until someone drags me to more lessons with the Keeper.
Owena ended up being right; he dodges all of my questions, so rather than torture the guy, I concentrate on enough of his droning to repeat a few sentences to my mother at suppertime, which seems to keep her happy.
She’s less thrilled with my progress on courtly etiquette. She never comments, but her eyelid twitches every time I stand when I’m supposed to or offer Owena my arm without being reminded. And it’s immensely satisfying to feign ignorance when interacting with her.
But there’re no lessons today. Instead, I’m accompanying Mother to a small party in the gardens to celebrate my engagement.
The bright notes of woodwinds and thumping of drums fill the air as I escort her down the now familiar paths.
A small gathering of courtiers stands in the splotchy light beneath flowering trees, and the second we come into view, they’re already bending into bows and curtsies.
I wait patiently, as Owena instructed, while they line up for introductions.
Some poor attendant announces everyone’s names over and over, then they each genuflect and throw compliments until Mother waves them away.
My gaze wanders to Owena, checking out some flowers with her father, beyond the collection of low, wooden tables brought in for the event.
I still haven’t found a single chair outside of Mother’s throne.
“Prince Caeo,” a courtier says, drawing my attention—a blond woman who looks about my mother’s age, but who knows what that means when she’s apparently over two hundred. I still haven’t wrapped my head around that.
“We’ve just completed work on your crown,” she continues. “The antlers your mother selected from our collection are particularly striking.”
I flash a smile. “Thank you for your service. I’m certain it will be magnificent.”
Not that I’m looking forward to seeing it, but the glittering gold coiled around Mother’s head is undeniably impressive. Now that I know why my throat turns on me whenever I lie, I’ve been able to find ways around it to keep conversations polite.
The woman accepts the compliment before being shooed away so others can have their chance to brown-nose, until the line finally ends with Dryfid and Owena approaching. We trade partners, and I escort Owena to a nearby table, already set with plates, cups, and trays of food.
She’s wearing a coral-pink dress today, made of the same mysterious fabric as all my shirts.
It wraps tightly around her torso, showing off her voluptuous curves and leaving everything above her cleavage bare—another perk of the fae realm.
The same material winds around her arms all the way down to her wrists, probably to keep her warm, but it’s not working.
Her body keeps tensing as she resists shivering.
All in all, it’s not the best color on her. Maybe if she had brown hair. Then she’d be stunning.