Chapter 2
Chapter Two
"You said it wouldn't kill her," I hiss, as the sound of someone dying groans down the stairs of the inn in Hawkesbury Shrewd.
"Her ladyship's retching. Not dying," Soraya replies.
"And her guards will bring the local herb woman to tend her.
She'll recognize the smell of Monksflower, and diagnose her with a nice peaceful two weeks in bed to recover.
Perfect amount of time for us to get into the court, steal the Dragon's Heart and get out. "
"Oh, of course. An easy little trot," I reply snidely. "Nothing to worry about at all."
"Move," Soraya whispers harshly, shoving me in the back. "We haven't got all day."
Poisoning a Fae princess is probably the lowest I'm prepared to sink to avenge my family and protect my people.
Probably.
But then the Lady of Greenslieves has the one thing I need to pull off this entire caper.
An invitation.
The Dragon's Heart is one of the most powerful relics ever crafted, the stories say.
It anchors the Court of Dreams to the mortal plane, so that the court can come and go at will, the Wraith King told me.
Strong enough to break the curse on my people and vicious enough to turn its wrath upon the Alliance of Light.
We'd no longer be trapped beyond the Shadowfangs. No longer cursed to a miserable half-life.
But if I succeed, this will mean war, and I'm not certain how I feel about that.
A bloody war ahead of me, all for the price of my soul. I shouldn't care. The fae hunt my kind. Long ago, I might have dreamed that they'd spare me for the half of my blood that belongs to them, but those dreams have long since turned to dust.
I'm not fae.
Not with even a whisper of my father's taint in my veins. I'm the monster that cost my mother her life, to be hunted and destroyed.
They'll never forget it.
"Stay here and guard the stairs," I mutter.
"Like a little servant bitch."
"You wanted to come."
Rolling my eyes, I step into the shadows beneath the stairs, and twist through them, until I'm slipping into the shadows inside the Lady Merisel's room.
This is the fun part.
The room opens up around me, draped in veils of darkness that steal all but the brightest light from the world. Nobody can see me here in the shadows, though I dare not step into the patch of sunlight that gilds the wooden floors.
Shadow Walking's an old, rare gift passed down through my father's bloodlines. Few wield it these days. Lucky me.
We weren't always wraiths.
Over three thousand years ago, the Wars of Shadow and Light obliterated most of my people. Those that survived were exiled from the Fair Lands, and found shelter in the harsh, inhospitable mountains they call the Shadowfangs.
The Forbidden, they name us, though we once bore another.
Unseelie.
The Dark Courts of fae and beastkin alike, where no fae was too hideous, too twisted, too imperfect, to be accepted. Unlike the shining, glittering Courts of Seelie, where perfection is revered, and the powerful rule with an iron fist.
Our imperfections cost us.
King Anselm of the Court of Dawn was the first to proclaim us tainted. He urged the Seelie Courts to wipe our "blight" from the world, and formed the Light Alliance against us.
The Unseelie fought to hold onto their lands, but Anselm fashioned a powerful weapon that drained the fae magic from our flesh and cost us the war.
One by one, the Unseelie fell, until my grandfather, Prince Rakulh, used his darker magics to curse us into a new form. Not quite fae. Not quite Unseelie. Faded from our past grandeur, our immortal lives forever lost to us, along with our most dangerous magic.
He was the first wraith.
And as the years passed and the curse crippled him, he died with a pledge on his lips: One day the Forbidden will rise again, and retake our lands.
One day, the war will start again.
But to do that we need the strength to shatter King Anselm's weapon.
Shadow Walking is a fae gift. An Unseelie gift.
One that shouldn't exist in my mortal body following the Purge, though my father finally found a means to circumvent the curse that restricts us.
And if any fae of the glittering courts knew I had the gift, they'd hunt me down and obliterate me.
The sour stink of vomit fills the air as I ripple through shadows, searching the room. Soraya and I have spent more than enough hours listening to Lady Merisel and her maids chattering about how excited they are about the Summons to know we're not looking for an actual invitation.
No, we need a charm.
Imbued with enough of Prince Keir's magic to protect its bearer from the lash of the portal's magic, it serves to keep the uninvited from attempting to penetrate his court.
For a second, I almost feel a moment of pity for poor Merisel. When this goes down, she'll be blamed.
Then I catch the glint of fine golden thread twined across her gowns, and the spill of silk and golden jewels that tumble from her travelling trunk.
Merisel is Seelie.
She's never known a moment of pain or torture in her life. Never had half her soul stolen from her. Never been hunted, purely for the mistake of her birth or the ghostly luminescence of her skin.
I pluck the golden charm—the one that will protect me from the portal's magic—from beneath her jewelry box. The second I touch it, it evaporates into the shadows with me, and I tuck it inside my leather waistcoat.
Immortality and power beckon. Freedom.
And if that means war, then so be it.
The Seelie deserve it.
* * *
The Court of Dreams is like nothing I expected.
The portal spits me out in the ancient glade of a woodlands forest. A waterfall plunges into a deep, dark hole bedecked in ferns and lush lilies, and I roll to a halt beside it in the leaf mulch.
An ancient carving of the Goddess of Merciful Night looms out of the greenery, though her pale, marble skin is sheathed in a gown of moss, and her weathered face holds the wisdom of millennia.
Behind me the portal hums, its opaque surface rippling like sunlight over water. I haul myself to my feet, brushing off my borrowed finery.
And suddenly realize I'm not alone.
"It seems Prince Keir has invited practically anybody," says a haughty voice. "And here I thought this Summons was exclusive."
Fae ladies titter like a flock of starlings as the speaker glides toward me, bearing down upon me like a warship.
Half a dozen of them are gathered there in colorful gowns and crowns woven of gold and pearls, thorns and brambles.
Several retainers await, wearing tufted ears that flicker, or tails that curl around their legs.
It's a sign of their half-blood, and though they may strive to rise through the courts, they'll never climb higher than where they are.
The Seelie revere their pure blood.
And spit on those without it.
Clearly, today is the day to arrive, and I'm to be the innocent lamb led to the slaughter.
"Don't worry," I mutter, "I'm sure the prince will be able to see exactly how well-bred you are."
The fae princess's eyes narrow on me. She's beautiful in an unearthly, inhuman kind of way. They always are. Tumbles of ruby red hair are woven into an intricate crown, revealing the razor-sharp edge of her cheekbones and her glittering gold eyes. When she smiles, sharp teeth glint in the light.
All the better for tearing shreds off poor unsuspecting passers-by.
"Who are you?" she demands.
"Lady Merisel of Greenslieves." The lie rolls off my tongue as smoothly as honey. One of the gifts of the Forsaken's curse. We're no longer bound by the rules that govern the fae.
One could be mistaken for thinking the flock of princesses watching me harmless in their silks and braids, but their eyes hold the hungry look of a starving tiger. This is a Summons, which means none of us are friends. The challenge is to survive the court—and bring down the prize.
Who just happens to be a powerful, ancient fae male.
"And yourself?" I ask.
"You don't know who she is?" demands an incredulous blonde at her side.
"I don't know who any of you are," I reply.
The pair of them exchanges a look, and the redhead smiles nastily. "Greenslieves is a demesne far from its nearest court—and civilization. Lady Merisel's lack of knowledge is not surprising, Narcissa."
Princess Narcissa of the Court of Blood. Her uncle, King Aswan, rules the court, and it's said she's hungry to overthrow him.
Of all the Seelie fae, the Court of Blood ranks as one of the worst. It wouldn't surprise me if sweet Narcissa spends her time pulling the wings off demi-fae.
Not to be outdone, the redhead sneers at my plain green skirts. "I am Princess Ismena of the Storm Court."
Ah, just my luck.
Prince Angmar's vicious sister, Ismena, wearing a net of seaweed and pearls in her red hair.
If she recognizes me, I'm dead.
Ismena circles me, looking me up and down. There's no denying her gown is far finer than the one I stole from Lady Merisel, but I hold my chin high. "A worm from the forests," she says with a smirk. "The prince must have been desperate."
"You should return home," Narcissa adds. "You're outclassed and outbred here, Worm."
I sense Soraya joining me, though she's more than adept at remaining in the shadows and avoiding notice.
Pity I cannot entirely say the same.
A raw impotent hate burns deep in my belly.
The job is simple: get into the Court of Dreams, get the Dragon's Heart, and get out.
A smart thief knows better than to draw attention.
But I've spent twenty-eight years bowing my head to Seelie fae who think they're better than me.
Every time it chafes, but this time there's a rawness to the wound that will not be denied.
Fuck it. They all think I'm a fae lady, anyway. Why not show my claws?
"Outbred?" I mutter. "And here I thought it was inbred?"
Several of the other young princesses gasp. One smiles, though she pretends to hide it. I like her already.
Narcissa's face pales with fury. "You wretched little—"
A horn suddenly sounds, cutting off the words, though from the way she bites down on her lip, I know her sudden silence won't last.
Horses pour over the hill. A dozen guards in gleaming gold armor guard the party, and there are servants in the blue livery of the Court of Dreams. Saved by the arrival of the prince's greeting party, though there's no sign of the prince himself.
Every princess sweeps to their station, fixing errant curls of hair and adding crowns of flowers, or gold. This is a competition, after all.
Soraya slinks past me, "I thought your plan was to draw no attention?"
"I changed my mind," I murmur, as she hauls the trunk we "borrowed" from Merisel. "It seems the Lady of Greenslieves has an arrogant streak. And they're all here to win the prince's heart, no matter whom they have to trample. I think a glimpse of my claws might keep them off my back."
"If I were you, I'd be more worried about the knife they'll embed in it."
I shoot her a cool glance. "That's why I have you, sister-dear. You don't think you're here just to sweep my chambers and empty the chamber pot?"
Soraya's teeth gleam, and suddenly I realize it's not just the princesses I'll have to keep an eye on. "Empty your own cursed chamber pot. You and I must work together, but don't forget that we're not allies."
I never do.
I learned that lesson in the training camps many, many years ago.