Page 28

We walk through a landscape with no sun or moon above us until we come to a patch of earth with a deep pit half-hidden by swirling fog. There cut into the dirt are steps spiraling down into darkness.

“The Court of Moths,” says Jack of the Lakes softly.

As I glance back at the field, the bones bother me: signs of death strewn among a carpet of flowers. I wish we had not come here. I have a dread that feels like premonition.

I notice that Oak has his hand on his sword as he begins his descent.

We follow, Tiernan behind the prince, then me and Jack, with Hyacinthe bringing up the rear, bridle tight against his cheeks. I hold my knife against my belly, inhale the rich scent of earth, and remember all the times I broke curses, all the tricks I played on the Folk.

We step into a long hall of packed dirt, with pale roots forming a latticework along the ceiling. Occasional glowing crystals light our way. I find myself growing more uncomfortable the deeper we go into the hill. I feel the weight of the earth above me, as though the passageway could collapse, burying us all. I bite my lip and keep going.

Finally, we step into a high-ceilinged cavern, its walls shining with mica.

There stands a green-skinned troll woman, with piercings through her cheeks and two sets of black horns protruding from her head. Sabers hang on either side of her hips. She wears armor of leather, carefully worked so that it seems as though there are a dozen screaming mouths on her chest plate.

At the sight of us, she scowls. “I guard the passage to the Court of Moths. Declare your name and your purpose in coming here. Then I will very likely kill you.”

The expression on Tiernan’s face hardens. “Do you not know your own sovereign? This is Prince Oak, heir to Elfhame.”

The troll’s gaze goes to Oak, looking as though she could eat him in three bites. Finally, she makes a reluctant, shallow bow. “You do us honor.”

The prince, for his part, appears genuinely pleased to meet her and not the least bit afraid, bespeaking either great arrogance or foolishness, or both. “The honor is ours,” he says, looking ready to kiss her hand if she offered it to him. I cannot imagine being so certain of one’s welcome.

Just imagining it makes my stomach hurt.

“We seek the Thistlewitch, who dwells in Queen Annet’s lands. We understand that without permission to see her, supplicants become lost in her swamp for a hundred years,” Oak says.

The troll tilts her head, as if still evaluating his deliciousness. “Some don’t make it back at all.”

The prince nods, as though she’s confirming his suspicions. “Alas, we don’t have time for either of those options.”

The troll smiles a little despite herself, at the silliness of his words. “And your companions?”

“Sir Tiernan,” says the knight, pointing to himself. “Jack of the Lakes. Lady Wren. Our prisoner, Hyacinthe.”

The troll’s gaze glides over Hyacinthe and Jack to rest on me for an uncomfortably long moment. My lip curls in automatic response, to reveal the points of my teeth.

Far from looking discomfited, the troll woman gives me a nod, as though appreciative of their sharpness and my mistrust.

“Queen Annet will wish to greet you personally,” the troll says, kicking the wall behind her three times. “She is fain to fete you in her hall and all that sort of thing. I’ve summoned a servant to bring you to some rooms. There, you may refresh yourselves and dress for the evening’s revel. We will even lock up your prisoner for the night.”

“There’s no need for that,” Oak says.

The troll grins. “And yet we will do it.”

Hyacinthe glances in Tiernan’s direction, perhaps looking to his former lover to speak in his behalf. I feel all around me the closing of a trap, and yet I do not think I am the one who is meant to be caught.

“We would be delighted to enjoy the hospitality of the Court of Moths,” Oak says. If he hopes to get what he came for, it would be impossible for him to say anything else.

The troll guard’s smile grows impossibly wide. “Good. You may follow Dvort.”

I note her gaze and turn, startled to see that one of the Folk has crept in behind us. His skin and beard are the same color as the roots winding down from the ceiling, his eyes a bloodshot pink. His ears are long, like those of a rabbit, and his clothes appear to be covered in a layer of moss, heavier on his shoulders. He does not speak, only bows, then turns and shuffles down the passageway.

Hyacinthe bumps my shoulder with his. “Before they take me, let me prove what I’ve said and give you at least this much information. The prince’s mother was a gancanagh. Alove-talker. Honey-mouths, we used to call them back at Court.”

I give a quick shake of my head, dreading what he will say next.

“You’ve not heard of them? A love-talker is able to quicken such desire in mortals that they die of it. The Folk might not find the passion lethal, but we still feel it. Oak’s first mother charmed the High King Eldredandhis son Dain into her bed. Oak’s half brother is said to have made both Jude and her twin, Taryn, his lovers and stolen Cardan’s former betrothed from his side. What do you suppose the prince is able—”