Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Captain of the Guards watches me with the glittering attention of a hawk, circling its prey from far above. In a sea of glimmering silks and tittering laughs, he knows I don't truly belong.
So do I.
Sweat drips down my spine as I hold the curtsy. Head bowed like a penitent, knees starting to shake, my hands sweeping the Lady of Greenslieves' fine silk skirts into a gush of fabric around me, I am the very picture of submission.
It's been years since I was trained for this.
I'm older than most of the other princesses.
My manners stiff and ill formed, like a thin veneer over the unpolished heart of me.
Ismena hinted that she considers Greenslieves to be a backwater holding, so I'll use that to cover any gaffes, but I can't help thinking the captain looks at me longer than he does the others.
"Welcome to the Court of Dreams," calls the seneschal who accompanied us to the palace. "Tonight there shall be a welcoming dinner. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the wine and candied sweetmeats, though you're quite welcome to use the time to refresh yourselves in your rooms."
Servants flood the courtyard offering trays and goblets that are filled to the brim.
The sweet scent of magnolias fills the air, and fountains splash and burble.
As far as courts go, it's impressive. I can see the palace's domes over the golden sandstone walls that lock us in here, but so far the Court of Dreams has earned its title.
"Any sign of him yet?" I mutter to Soraya.
"Someone's watching us," she murmurs.
"No doubt surveying the flock of prizes that await him."
It's time to see if this ruse will pay off.
They say the Prince of Dreams can see through magic itself, and pierce any lie with the cold, locking stare he's said to have perfected. Let's see if he can see through my glamour.
The herald raps his staff on the hard tiles, and begins to call out Prince Keir's titles. Lord of the Morning Star, Prince of Chaos and Dreams, Master of Nightmares.... It's a mouthful, and I cannot resist rolling my eyes as the herald drones on. Who needs so many names?
I only have one: Zemira Az Ghul.
But once there were others, gifted to me by my mother upon my birth, before they were stolen by my father, along with the rest of me.
Zemira Ashburn. Gravekissed, the Black Hawk, Winterborn.
The fae do so love their titles. They collect them like rare antiques and I can't help wondering if it's a means to hide other, ahem, shortcomings.
Bare feet whisper over the marble floors.
None of the other princesses notice, but I can feel the prickle of hot eyes watching me. Maybe it's just the thought of being caught out, but every nerve I own is on edge.
A thief knows when she's being watched.
I turn, and there's the Prince of Dreams himself, stalking toward me with sinuous grace.
Dark hair flows to his shoulders, but it's those thick, dark brows that give his green-gold eyes an intensity that almost makes me back away a step. He moves with the loose-hipped stride of a predator, and I can practically feel the coil of alien power simmering beneath his olive skin.
Skin that's very much on show.
His chest is bare, a long loose robe of midnight flowing from his shoulders and a golden claw hanging about his throat. Trousers sit low on his hips, revealing the chiseled cut of muscle that dips into dangerous terrain. Every inch of him is expertly forged, and any female would want to explore.
Even me.
Sweet Mother of Night. I'd been prepared for a fae prince, but what I hadn't expected was the sheer, primordial power practically spilling from his pores.
I am so fucked.
It's as if he senses my sudden nerves.
His head turns, hunting through the crowd of princesses as if he's caught the edge of my errant thought. This must be how it feels to be stalked by a wolf. The other females are merely collateral damage. He's searching for the right prey. The weakest link. The straggler.
And the second he spots me, I know it's me.
The Prince of Dreams' eyes devour every inch of me, as if I'm nothing more than a tasty morsel to consume. "The Lady of Greenslieves, I presume?"
My breath catches in my chest, as if someone's punched me there.
"None other." I have no idea how I force my voice to work. His presence weaves its own magic.
"Tell me? Does your father still hold to the Old Ways?"
I have no idea. "He does his best, my prince."
Keir searches my eyes, though I'm not sure what he's looking for. I can sense the others watching, little whispers catching the edge of my consciousness, but for a second, I cannot look away.
"Then you are welcome here." It's a soft murmur, and I cannot stop the shivers that tremble down my arms.
The second he looks away from me, I release a breath. That was... intense. For a second, the thought of what I intend overwhelms me.
Steal from this prince? Am I insane?
Desperate, I tell myself.
Fine. He's powerful. All the fae are.
I have to remind myself of what's at stake.
I picture that little crystalline soul-trap around my father's throat.
The Wraith King didn't breed Soraya or me out of the kindness of his heart. He has none. No, he's the kind of creature that plays a long game, and for nearly fifty years he's been focused on breeding a half-fae, half-wraith child that can pass among the courts.
Of all those bastards found in the training camps, there were but a handful that displayed more fae qualities than wraithenkind.
It didn't grant us any advantage. Indeed, the others knew we were the chosen ones, and they outnumbered us three to one.
I'd often wake to a hand over my mouth and a blade to my throat, and swiftly learned to sleep lightly.
And to keep a knife under my pillow.
I don't know who my mother was.
Some highborn fae from one of the northern courts, I think. Raesh used to send raiding parties out to capture the purebloods for his breeding purposes. When my birth went poorly, he ordered me cut from my mother's womb, and I don't know her fate.
Only the whisper of my true name in my ears; a name meant for me and me alone.
Sometimes I hear it in my dreams, and I wonder what she was like. Was she frightened of what she'd been sentenced to? Did she despise me for the act of my begetting? Or did she love me and hope to free me one day?
I'll never know.
My loyalty is bound to my father by magic—not love or familial affection. And I would do anything to escape its trap.
Even this.
My resolves firms as I watch the Prince of Dreams greet each princess in kind. He's dangerous and powerful, but he's the key to my freedom.
All I have to do is find his relic and steal it.
And maybe then I'll have a chance to discover more about my mother's people and who she was.
* * *
"Well," says a voice by my side. "He's everything I've ever heard said of him. Whoever captures his attention is due to find a wild ride. That prince won't take to the bit well."
It's the female who smiled when I called Narcissa inbred. Her hair is a riot of golds and reds, with a crown of brambles woven through it, but it's her eyes that are her most defining feature. They're the gold of a hawk's eyes, and her brows fan over them with a hint of a feathery curl.
She looks nothing like the others, in their silks and precious gems. Instead, she's wearing a gown of reddened autumn leaves threaded with thin gold chains.
"Whoever thinks they're going to land him, has another think coming." We both watch the prince, and I shake my head. "He's playing his own games here."
"Aren't we all?" She snorts.
And I glance at her a little more closely.
"Calliope of the Forest of Thistlewood," she says, in response to my unspoken question.
One of the Wild Fae, who are owned by no court.
If anyone belongs here as uneasily as I do, it's her.
"The Worm," I reply dryly, for that's what Narcissa and her friends have named me. "Though my friends may call me Merisel of Greenslieves."
"I think I'll call you Merisel," she says, scanning the gaggle of princesses who surround the prince, "as you have more than your share of enemies."
"You've noticed."
Another faint smile. "Pay them no mind. Narcissa's fighting for an ally to help her win her throne from her uncle, and Ismena needs to protect her brother's court. Apparently, Angmar's powers wane with the loss of his trident, and he has wolves poised at every door."
"Desperate means dangerous."
This time, there's a hint of a predator in her eyes.
"I'm well guarded against their claws. And they've spent too much time in a civilized court.
They forget what it means to be the darkness in the forest. The huntress who bares her teeth.
They're merely pretty dolls playing at court games, and when it comes time for blood-letting, they'll find my bite is worse than my bark. "
Don't cross the Wild Fae, is an old, well-known saying.
She looks at me. "But you're not a pretty doll. I can see the hunger in your eyes, and the baring of your teeth in every smile. We should be friends, you and I."
"Until the end?" I murmur, well aware that Calliope is playing her own games.
"An alliance until we're the last two standing?"
It won't hurt to have someone watching my back.
Until she thinks it time to remove me from the field of play.
"To hunting princes," I reply, with a smile.
"To hunting princes."