Page 108 of With Wing And Claw

But no one lunged forward with a knife in their hands. No one raised their voice to denounce her. There were just their gazes, peering, scrutinising, as she stepped up onto the dais with Naxi at her side, as she sank into her seat at the centre of the table, as she forced a smile and congratulated the winner of the hunt to her right.

Once upon a time, Old Thysandra had wished to be seen.

New Thysandra could think of nothing worse than sitting here, hundreds of unfaltering gazes aimed in her direction, while she tried to remember how to breathe.

To her left, Naxi peered back at the gathered court with daggers in her eyes, unflinching under the weight of their gathered emotions. At the far right of the table, Nicanor was all silky smiles and haughty elegance as he chatted with the army commander beside him, no trace of tension on his whetted features. If they could do it, she must be able to manage, too – but it washerwho people glanced at as they whispered among each other, and it washertheir fingers pointed out while their glares went thunderous …

Traitor’s daughter.

They were courtiers and soldiers, all of them. Dreaming of war and glory, of restoring their lives of abundance and luxury. Not a single teacher or archivist among them, no cooks or sailors or gardeners – not a single person who might be quietly grateful for peace and three solid meals a day. How in the world had she never noticed that before – how many people had been excluded from the crowd with which the Mother had surrounded herself?

She’d always been one of the violent ones, of course.

She’d spent so much time striving for the top that she hadn’t even realised not everyone might be running the same race.

Slowly, the tables filled up with black and garnet red to match the decorations of the hall. Orthea flounced in with the last groups of fae, her hunter’s costume replaced by a flowing gown of star-flecked silk – andshe, of course, was greeted with eruptions of cheers and applause, no glares for her and her schemingheart …

Thysandra would have been furious if she hadn’t been scared out of her mind, too.

The food was served as soon as the Master of Ceremony took her place at the head table, the dishes carried in not by humans as in previous years but by fae younglings in black frocks and coats, their faces tight with concentration as they performed their tasks. Plates of grilled venison, roasted onions and parsnips, steaming loaves of fresh bread … The scents mingled with the aroma of spiced wine and a hundred different perfumes – a mixture that settled over the hall with almost physical weight, like the smothering blankets Thysandra used to hide beneath.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She stared at the silver plate before her, honey-glazed plums and apples, and tried not to notice the empty eyes of the hound beyond.

Voices quieted down around the hall. At the head table, Orthea rose, goblet in hand – launching into a speech that should have been Thysandra’s to give, but she no longer managed to care. At least she could just sit, now. Sit and smile and try to keep her head from spinning so violently. Naxi would warn her, wouldn’t she, if someone tried to attack them?

‘… on the memory of our beloved Mother,’ she heard Orthea say, a small catch in her voice that might or might not be theatrics, ‘who ruled our glorious empire with a wisdom and strength that will never be equalled …’

Venomous bitch.

Glasses and goblets were raised around the hall. Thysandra grabbed her own just in time to hide the fact she had missed most of the speech so far, keeping her expression placid, unaffected, as she lifted it and drank.

The wine was too sweet. She barely suppressed a shiver as it slid down her throat.

‘… and let us remember the thousands fallen at the Battle of the White City, who fought so bravely for our freedom …’

Another toast. Another gulp of wine.Freedom– as if any freedoms had been taken from this audience since the battle, save for the licenseto kill anyone and everyone they liked without facing consequences. But she shouldn’t scoff. She shouldn’t roll her eyes. She was a traitor, but quietly, and she wouldnot—

‘… and finally,’ Orthea continued, her purring voice growing noticeably louder, ‘I would like to make a toast to the one hundred and thirty loyal patriots who have been dragged from their homes and locked up by our current High Lady, to be handed over to our enemies to die for the sake of her cowardice.’

The world froze.

A single moment of perfect stillness, like a glass about to shatter.

And then the hall erupted into raucous clamour. Wings flaring. Fists pumping. Goblets flying up with such violence that wine sloshed over their rims as voices shouted for justice, answers, blood – and all eyes,all eyes, aimed at Thysandra …

Furious gazes.

Few of them surprised, though.

They’d known. They’dknown.Not rumours at all – this was far too much knowledge, far too specific, too, for it to be a matter of rumours. Which meant …

The thoughts rolled on, inevitable like an avalanche – even as her body sat paralysed at that loaded table, even as the noise swelled to a roar around her. Which meant someone must have talked.

And their audience had gladly believed it.

Traitor’s daughter.