Page 50

Syril leads me through the second curtain to the inner room. The gently lit space is decorated like the main hall, with greenery everywhere and lamps strung across the ceiling. Booths and couches are clustered to create the illusion of intimate spaces. But my eyes fall to the dais directly across from the entrance, where a seat waits for me. Woven of what seems to be living oak branches, it looks like a throne more than a chair. Flowering vines snake through the branches. I step up the dais and stop before it, breathing their sweet perfume and willing myself to calm.

Did my father ever feel the same worry when he stepped up to the throne to take the Oath?

I have no memories of him. I know only what my mother told me, which was little. He was a warrior, a fairy of good humor and quick wit, an even-handed ruler. I always imagined we would have been too different to understand each other, because I was frivolous, I hated fighting, and my tongue was always slow. I never felt close to him when she talked about him — her pain eclipsed all other emotions in its presence.

Strangely, I feel close to him now.

Breathing through my apprehension, I sit in the chair, and the branches shift to accommodate me. No one appears out of nowhere to tell me I’m not worthy.

Syril leans over the edge of the dais. “Many wildlings who’ve come today haven’t experienced the Oath within their lifetime. You may even get a few curious monsters from other kingdoms wanting to pledge to a fairy. Just remember, you don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

What does that mean?But Syril is already gone, disappearing behind the curtain. I grip the arms of the oak chair and take a deep breath.

It’ll be fine.

The first to come through the curtain are two fauns dressed in tulle party gowns, one lavender and one dragonfly-green. One faun is spotted all across her shoulders with tidy, short fur and stubby horns, and the other’s creamy, fluffy tufts spill out of her collar. The spotted one bows first, her dress flaring out.

“Your Highness. We are Calliope and Swift from the Orchid family. We’ve come to pledge to you. We’re grateful to have a fairy take the Oath, and I asked the wind to bring your influence across the river and help our dens flourish.”

My face heats at her earnestness. The second faun, the one with cream-colored fur, curtsies and takes something out of her dress — a green bottle.

“Would you grant us your Oath?”

I gulp. The words Syril drilled into me yesterday dry up on my tongue. What if it doesn’t work for some reason? What if I’m not fertileenough?

“Your Highness?” The spotted faun, Calliope, takes the bottle from her partner. To my alarm, she lifts herself onto the dais, ignoring the stairs.

“Wait —” I clutch the arms of the chair.

The frothy tulle flares out behind her as she tumbles onto the platform. She clambers upright, hooves clattering.

“Prince Lysander,” she says quietly, leaning in close, fearless. I freeze. I would never forgive myself if I touched her by accident. “Swift and I have been trying for a litter for ten years now. Her seed is starting to run dry, and I’m not as young as I was. Being surrounded by humans makes it hard — our bodies are unsure. The Oath would mean a lot to both of us. I promise we’ll use it respectfully.”

She holds out the bottle.

What did Syril say to do? It’s all flown out of my head.

“I — I don’t know how,” I stammer.

Her face lights up. “Oh, that’s easy. Your magic. Just drink from the bottle and your saliva will be enough. Don’t worry, we don’t need to see you spill your seed.”

My cheeks burn and she lets out a bright laugh. She sets the bottle on the arm of the chair and climbs back down. I put it to my mouth. Like she said, it’s just water.

I let the water touch my lips. A strange shiver passes through me, like a bell being rung. It’s so unexpected I gasp and immediately lower the bottle to see if they noticed.

Both fauns are watching me. Warm with embarrassment, I get to my feet and set the bottle down at the edge of the dais.

“I accept your pledge and give you my Oath.” I stumble over the words, but Calliope only smiles. She puts the cap back on the bottle carefully.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” She bows again, and Swift curtsies. There’s true gratitude in their eyes and it humbles me.

I feel good. Like I’ve done something to help them.

My confidence lasts until the next monster ducks through the curtain, and he’s not a wildling at all, but a gargoyle.

“Your Highness. I am Kilim of the West Greenriver clan.” The gargoyle bows, his well-cut suit not shifting a millimeter. His horns gleam with polish in the low light and his teeth are studded with gold.

“Welcome,” I reply stiltedly.