Page 53

Chapter 53

Rahk

The tailor wasn’t hard to find. He smells of dry chalk and lingering traces of indigo dye and woad—a distinctive scent that allowed me an easy trail to follow through the mingling throngs of people. I track him through the lower levels of the palace to a staircase that leads to the upper floors.

But, as I expected, I don’t get far before someone stops me.

A flash of purple robes draws my attention to the top of the staircase. There, with a cold lifted chin and luxurious robes, the lumiral light catching on his yellow hair, is the Starborn Prince.

“Caspar,” I say, inclining my head.

He frowns at me, descending one stair toward me. “Rahk of the Nothril Court. I cannot say I was pleased when I heard you had come. Are you here to claim my city?”

I lift both of my hands. “My presence is not a declaration of war.”

He takes his time coming down the stairs, never once taking his eyes off me. He’s not as tall as I am, nor as broad, but there’s a sharp cunning in his gaze as he looks me up and down. “Then what are you here for?”

“I follow the trail of the Ivy Mask. It has led me here.”

“The vigilante who frees the human slaves?” His mouth twists. “I do not know why he would come here. We have few human slaves. His time would be better spent at your Court.”

“Have you detected any signs of his presence?”

“Beyond the Valehaven tailor being here?” He chuckles. “Nothing.”

I’m impressed. How long has he known about the tailor?

“You’re surprised I know about the Ivy Mask’s accomplice. I have my sources who keep me informed. It’s not difficult to put the pieces together, as you’ve clearly done yourself.”

I acquiesce a nod.

Caspar strides past me, tossing over his shoulder. “I have work to return to. Send a servant to me if you need anything. But please don’t kill or capture the tailor while in my city. He’s the best on this side of the Veil, and you will put me out considerably if you destroy him.”

I shake my head. “I won’t touch him. He’s not my current quarry.”

“Good.”

I take the stairs two at a time, following my nose, threading through scents like unraveling a tapestry, until I find the tailor on the twelfth floor of the palace. The entire floor appears to be Caspar’s private rooms, surrounded by a balcony that overlooks the city on all sides. The tailor is in the prince’s large wardrobe room, bent over a maroon coat of exquisite make. He does not notice me, quiet as I am.

I slide the only door shut and press my hand to the lock. My mouth moves, my voice the barest murmur, and then the seal flares to deep blue before fading back into the wood.

“Who is there?” The tailor’s muted voice permeates through the door. His footsteps are hurried. The doorknob turns, catches, jiggles. Then a fist bangs against the door. “The Tailor of Valehaven is in here! You must let me out!”

I turn on my heel and stride back the way I came.

“I am getting you tonight, Ivy Mask,” I growl under my breath.

Kat

The boy takes me up several flights of stairs to a small antechamber attached to a fae woman’s quarters. When he cautiously pushes open the door—while I watch for sign of anyone approaching—he cries, “She was right here! She couldn’t leave because of her mistress. But now she’s gone!”

I grit my teeth, casting about wildly for any sign of where the girl could have gone.

Instead of finding the girl, I see the beginning of a shadow appearing at the end of the hallway from where we came. There is a head, and the hilt of two swords rising above either shoulder.

My awareness turns white with panic.

I grab Jack’s arm and yank him into the antechamber. I kick the door shut with my heel. “Where does this lead?” I point to the door at the other end of the chamber.

“The servants’ hallway, and then to the library!”

“Perfect.”

I launch into motion, dragging the boy after me. We hurry into yet another well-lit servants’ hallway that is almost nice enough to be any regular hallway. Jack points, and we take a door that leads into the library.

The room we careen into would have stolen my breath at any other moment in my life. The soaring ceiling is stained glass, illuminating the most luxurious space I have ever seen in my life with jeweled shades of color. Jack twists free of my grip and dives behind an enormous tapestry along one wall. I start to follow, only to find the design of the wall itself creates small pockets only a child can squeeze into without being detected.

I search around, then dart into the stacks. Watching, waiting, as a shadow that might be Rahk’s appears beneath the door. And then disappears.

Gasping breath escapes me. I slide out of the stacks, about to return to the boy, when something grabs my wrist. I choke on my swallowed scream. Then suddenly, I’m slammed backward against the wall. Both my arms pinned as though with iron vices against the tapestry. But nothing is there. I yank as hard as I can, curling my fingers into fists, but whatever invisible force pins me to the wall is relentless.

A silhouette emerges from the stacks, one shelf over from where I hid. He comes into the multicolored starlight that mingles with the low glow of fae orbs along the wall. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he strides casually toward me. A book is tucked under one arm. His head is canted to one side. Long purple robes swish with each step. He appears to be a young man, though I’ve interacted with fae long enough to know he could be thousands of years old. As all fae are, he is beautiful, with fine features and bright eyes.

I go still, refusing to glance at the place where the boy is hiding. I wait silently as he approaches. His chin jerks in one direction slightly—and then my mask is ripped from my face. It lands softly against the reflective floor. I blink and look between my fallen mask and the approaching fae.

The Starborn Prince.

I should be counting down my last seconds of life. Instead, I’m wondering: how did he just do that?

He stops two paces in front of me, his brow creasing as he regards me. “What are you doing?”

I swallow. “Robbing you, sir.”

He inclines his head in a nod. “I appreciate the honesty. You are unassuming for the infamous Ivy Mask. What are you—a girl of eighteen?”

“I will be twenty-one tomorrow,” I say between my teeth. “Are you going to kill me?”

He does not seem particularly violent or set upon my death. Instead, viewing me as a fascinating little curiosity. It is another fae game. The human provides an interesting diversion, and the fae does not immediately slaughter them.

He seems intrigued by our version of this game. Perhaps he loves games.

Just like Rahk.

A cunning light flashes in his eyes. “And keep you from facing your due penalty for your crimes? Certainly not. I believe in justice.”

Justice? He is a fae who imprisons witless humans—and my rescue of them is perverting justice? I keep my mouth shut, trying to remember Mary’s exhortations to not drive those who have power over me to further anger.

He smiles. It is cold and unamused as he takes his book, flips it open, and turns the pages until he is satisfied. Then he looks up. “I am a fae who enslaves innocent humans and so who am I to speak of justice? You’re a human in a fae world. You ought to learn to keep your face from expressing your thoughts so plainly.”

“I usually wear a mask,” I grumble between my teeth.

“What else are we supposed to do with humans who break the treaty between our peoples? The treaty that is there to ensure our lands do not become consumed in war? Rulers like me cannot step foot in your world, and yet you are allowed to enter ours with no repercussions? No, that is the price you pay to not have your world overrun by us. You agree that once you step foot in our land, you become our property. And, when you consider it, what we do is a mercy. The alternative is to let them wander through Caphryl Wood with no Path to guide them to safety, no indication of the passage of time, nothing but the endless Wood in every direction, until they are swallowed whole by monsters or drained bit by bit by the Wood itself. Without a Path, humans go mad in the Wood.”

His words bring horrible memories resurfacing. Holding my mother’s hand as she rocked in her rocking chair, staring vacantly at the wall while I sang to her. Begging her to talk to me, to look at me, to not hate me.

The Starborn Prince studies me like I am a page full of text. I suddenly wonder what my face has betrayed this time. He slams his book shut. “There is someone here who has come for you.”

“Prince Rahk of the Nothril Court,” I reply, my fear rising at the thought of him walking through that library door. Seeing me pinned to the wall by nothing, my mask at my feet.

“You know him? Should I tell him that you are here?”

The words burst from me. “No, please!”

“Why not? He doesn’t even know you’re a woman yet. The Nothril prince is well known as a skilled hunter. You’ve evaded him a long time. It is impressive.”

“I can evade him longer if you let me go.”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t how this works. I cannot simply let you go . But I can bargain with you. If you can give me something that will give me power over the Nothril prince this moment, I will let you go.”

“Power?”

Rahk’s words about fae craving power return to me, bringing heat to my lungs.

“This city of mine rests in a precarious situation, not belonging to any Court,” says the Starborn Prince. “I intend to fight for its independence as long as I live. The Nothril Court has already tried to claim this city. But you have evaded the Nothril prince long enough to have figured out a thing or two of his weaknesses. We all know his fondness for his youngest sister and how he will do anything and sacrifice anyone to keep her safe. Give me one weakness I don’t already know, and I will let you go.”

I turn this over in my mind. It seems like my only option, but I cannot give him something that could truly put Rahk in a vulnerable position. “I will tell you a weakness of Prince Rahk’s—”

“One that I don’t already know.”

“One that you don’t already know,” I repeat, sucking an impatient breath through my nose. “And in exchange, you will help me escape your city with the human slaves I came to free.”

His smile curves in ice. He shakes his head. “Once you tell me a weakness of Prince Rahk’s, I will release you and will not hinder your mission. Nor will I tell Prince Rahk of your presence—unless he asks if I’ve seen you. Then I have no choice but to tell the truth.”

I do not like it, but it’s better than my alternative. “Deal.”

“Let it be so,” he says.

My first bargain with a fae. A searing pain burns against the palm of my hand. I turn it over to find the tattoo of two swords, crossed at the middle. Rahk’s swords. I hope I don’t come to regret this foolhardy decision.

“Give me his weakness,” demands the Starborn Prince.

I swallow hard. “I’m his wife.”

True, pure shock overcomes his features. The invisible shackles fall off my wrist. I grab my mask—my tattoo already gone from my palm now that both of our ends of the bargain are fulfilled—and bolt for the door. I grab the boy from his hiding place and run.

We’re halfway out before Jack pulls me to a stop, tears streaming down his face. “I cannot leave without my sister!”

I cast a desperate look down the hallway, wishing the girl would simply materialize. Wishing I had time. Wishing Rahk wasn’t here. Wishing—

“We must go,” I tell him, my voice cracking, my heart shattering into a hundred pieces. “We’ve got to get out of here. I can try to come back later—”

“Not without my sister!”

That shadow reappears at the end of the hallway. Rahk’s two swords, paired with his almost silent stride.

He is coming this way.

I grab the boy by the shoulders and hiss under my breath: “You have a choice. You can come with me now and I will try to come back for your sister another time. Or you can stay here.”

A hardness that should never be in the face of a child overtakes his features. “I won’t leave until she does.”

With that, he breaks free of my arm and dives back into the library. I stare at him for only a second, feeling as though I’ve just been pummeled in the gut. Then I grit my teeth and sprint in the opposite direction, away from Rahk.

I navigate the servants’ hallways and staircases blindly, operating on a mix of memory and instinct. Inexplicably, I make it out of the palace with my head still attached to my shoulders, my mask gripped tightly in my palm. The glowing fae lights along the street seem to scream my presence as I sprint to the place I told the woman to meet me.

The road that leads to the Wood is eerily empty. I search in every direction, turning on my booted heel, panting hard.

The woman is not here.

Was she found? Did she run away? I search frantically, looking for any sign of her. Maybe she found Bartholomew and stayed with her. I race toward my horse’s hiding spot. There’s Bartholomew, hidden from view of the city by the Wood, her ears back and her tail twitching uneasily. But no sign of the woman.

When I turn back toward the city, there is Rahk. Fully illuminated by the streetlights. Coming this way. My ollea must have worn off. It’s impossible to tell if he has seen me yet. My hood came off while I ran. I quickly pull it low again and yank my mask back in place.

Cursing, I spring into Bartholomew’s saddle and kick her into a gallop. I can barely see the slight speckled glow of the Path through the sheen of my tears. In all the years I’ve been running these raids, I’ve never had a failure like this one. I can already feel the weight of those three souls settling onto my heart. A burden I will never be able to cast off.

And if I can’t get back home before Rahk catches me, I won’t have a chance to redeem myself with my Nothril raid.

My last raid.

I push Bartholomew as hard as she can go through the Paths, straight through the people filling the edge of the border, crushing oversized fruit and vegetables in my wake. People scream, but I cannot look. Even a second will cost me everything.

I gallop as close to Rahk’s estate as I dare, then leap off and take Bartholmew’s lead, guiding her to the stables—which are still empty, as they should be. Normally I’d brush her down, but I barely have time to toss a bucket of alfalfa in front of her before I sprint to the kitchen.

Mary is there, alone, mending by candlelight. I barrel inside, streaked with sweat, grime, and tears. “He’s behind me. I don’t know how close.”

Mary lets out a violent curse like nothing I’ve heard from her before. She drags me to the pantry and we frantically peel off my clothes. She has the small basket of everything we need sitting there by the door, and next to it is a soapy bucket of water—long gone cold. I scrub myself as fast as I can, my heart pounding a syncopated rhythm. Mary has a hair oil that she rakes into my scalp with almost enough force to break my neck. Next is the lotion I slather all over myself while she ties up my hair in a clean linen. My hands tremble so hard I can barely pull on my nightgown, so Mary yanks it into place.

A loud bang from the opposite end of the house sends both of us jumping an inch out of our skin.

“He’s here,” I whimper. “I cannot get back to the bedroom in time!”

The bellow, so thunderous and powerful, carries clearly across the hallways and doors and empty rooms between us, sending Mary and I into twin panicked states of paralysis.

“Where is Kat? Where is my wife?”