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Chapter 8

Morgana

I do my best to slow them down as we hurry through the halls. Will’s warnings about not allowing anyone to take me somewhere strange ring in my head, but it’s as if the prince can read my mind every time I try to act. I manage to send a large vase wobbling on a too-small table but the prince stops it before it can topple. Not to be deterred, I shift a portrait of a long-dead relative but Alastor stops to straighten it while the prince makes a tutting noise at my failed attempts to get someone’s attention.

I learned long ago that the gods won’t make something happen just because you wish for it. But that doesn’t keep me from praying for my rescue even as the fae spirit me across the palace gardens I strain my ears for a shout, the alarm going up as someone spots our dark forms pushing through the trees. The only sounds I hear are our footsteps brushing against the wet grass and my own frightened breathing.

Wasn’t I supposed to be safer here at the palace?

The fae know what they’re doing, leading me to a spot behind a statue where the wall that surrounds the gardens tapers off, crumbled from age and never replaced due to the thick, tangled hedge that backs it.

“I hope you’re not too attached to that cloak of yours, princess,” the prince grunts as Alastor hacks away at the branches, creating a narrow passage through the hedge, which he clambers through. The prince pushes me through next, the butchered branches indeed snagging on my cloak, ripping small tears in it.

On the other side, an empty avenue runs down toward what I think is the south side of the city. A few torches flicker at street corners, magically enhanced to stay burning through the night, but most of the roads are swallowed up by shadow, each alleyway stretching into darkness like a deep, gaping mouth.

The fae keep us in that darkness as we move through the city. They’ll have to, I realize, since they lack the glamours to hide their pointed ears, tall stature, and sharp, angular faces. Whatever mechanism they used for this deception back in Otscold must have been taken from them when they were thrown in the dungeon, because I remember my shock when I first looked on the prince’s true face in the throne room. Without the glamour, there’s no mistaking his face for human—it’s too sculpted, too perfect. Now he and Alastor watch each corner carefully before we turn down it.

They steal two horses from behind a coach house, leading them quietly away. I stare up at the dark windows of the coach house, where people are likely fast asleep, mere feet away. I don’t know what I’m hoping for—even if someone did wake up to catch us, what could they do against the Nightmare Prince and his right-hand man?

Then we’re back down the side streets, out of sight of any casual passerby. The two fae mount the horses smoothly, and the prince looks down at me expectantly. When I realize he wants me to ride with him, I start to back away. I’ve never ridden before, and I certainly don’t want to be any closer to this man. The thought of his weight pressed against my back sends a spike of panic through me.

“You’re testing my patience,” he growls.

I can’t move, frozen in place at the thought of being surrounded by him. Something crosses his face—a flash of understanding cutting through the annoyance, I think. Then his surly expression is back.

“Sorry, princess, but I don’t have all night.”

He leans down, hooking an arm under my shoulder. I stiffen, but it doesn’t hinder him as he easily lifts me and deposits me on the back of his horse, behind him.

I’m tense for a few moments more, then something in me relaxes. This is better. I’d been picturing him behind me, hemming me in with his body on all sides. Back here, I get to decide exactly how close I sit to him—how tightly I want to hold on. I loosely tangle my fingers in the fabric of his tunic as he sets the horse trotting down the street. The scent of him invades my nostrils, earthy and warm.

“Are we stopping at the fountain?” Alastor asks.

The prince shifts, and I see he’s looking up at the roof of the palace, looming over the rest of the city.

“Yes, we have time.”

I don’t need to wonder what they’re talking about for long. They stop the horses in front of an elaborate water feature made of ivory stone. Alastor disappears behind the fountain and is back moments later, looking like a different person. His pointed ears are gone, his face slightly rounder, and he’s now the height of a normal man. He hands a ring to Leonidas with a grimace.

“I hate being short,” Alastor complains as the prince slips the ring on.

I watch Leonidas’s ears change, the tips shimmering like a mirage that makes my eyes feel funny. I blink a few times, getting accustomed to the glamours. The fountain must be some kind of drop site where they stashed key items, which makes me wonder exactly how prepared the prince and Alastor were when they arrived in Elmere—and, once again, where the rest of their friends are.

“Shit,” Alastor’s staring up at the palace, where there’s now a huge emerald fire burning on the roof. A beacon. Apparently, the palace is on alert.

“Looks like someone’s finally missed you, princess,” the prince says, then nods to Alastor. They flick their reins, and the horses break into a gallop. In the silence of the city, their metal horseshoes clatter against the stone roads, the sound bouncing off the buildings like rolls of thunder. The fae are done being discreet.

I tighten my grip on Leonidas’s shirt as we whip through the streets. My heart thuds in time to the hoofbeats as I wonder what exactly the palace is doing now they know about my absence. Could they catch up to us? It’s dangerous to hope, but I reach after the idea anyway.

We’re approaching the Potamis, the river that runs through the city. I know from my carriage ride into Elmere that the bridge that passes over it is well guarded. And the fae must know that too. So what are they planning? I slide a look toward Alastor, who is suddenly very focused in a way that makes me nervous.

The river curves away from us, and the bridge is now just yards away, a heavy gate squatting at the far end. Pin pricks of light crowd along it, shifting in darkness—torches, I guess. I imagine the garrison of soldiers carrying them, shouting to each other as they position themselves across the gate. They’re waiting for us. They’ve seen the beacon.

The horses’ rhythm shifts, transitioning from stone to wood as we make it onto the bridge. It occurs to me that now is my best chance at escaping the fae, freeing myself of the Nightmare Prince and whatever he has planned for me. But what option is there other than throwing myself from the horse? There doesn’t seem to be much point in escaping from Leonidas just to break my neck.

But I can let the guards know who is coming their way. I sit up as straight as I can and throw my hood back. I look at the back of the prince but figure he can’t do much to stop me while we’re on the same horse moving at high speed. I brace myself and start shouting to attract attention.

“Over here! They’re over here!”

Leonidas throws me a dark look over his shoulder, but Alastor doesn’t glance at us at all. He’s still focused elsewhere, his head tilted downward, as if examining the winding river below.

“That’s all?” the prince asks me. He gives a low laugh, even though we’re about to run headfirst into a small army of his enemies. “I expected a bit more, princess.”

His confidence is both infuriating and terrifying. Especially when, moments later, I see exactly where it comes from.

A light mist rises from the riverbank below us, traveling upward in wide clouds. It’s moving too fast for any normal fog, and something is off about its color—too dark and thick. Alastor is still looking downward, his brow furrowed, as the clouds reach the bridge, blowing up in great gusts. Some catches in my hair, and I realize what it’s made of.

Sand. Thousands of particles pulled from the riverbank below. As well as his strange truth magic, Alastor is a geostri, and this is his power.

The sandstorm doesn’t touch us, but the guards aren’t as lucky. I hear their cries of alarm as the sand hits them, causing chaos.

I lock eyes with one of the guards, forced to her knees by the hurricane of grit lashing against her from all directions. She reaches out her hand as if she might be able to pull me from the prince’s grip, but her fingers close around air. She’s just feet away from me, and yet she can’t reach me.

The horses gallop past her, through the gates the guards failed to heave closed against the force of Alastor’s magic, and I turn to watch over my shoulder as we leave the walls of Elmere behind. Dragged out into the unknown by the murderous fae, I realize I can’t count on being rescued.

* * *

We ride through the night, deep into the heart of Trova. The city’s stone roads give way to the countryside’s dirt tracks, cutting through grassy hills and clusters of trees that remind me of the land around Otscold. I have no way to count the passing hours, and I instead let the rhythm of the horse’s movement numb me for a while, stilling the frantic energy that’s been coursing through my body since I was ripped from sleep to witness a murder.

When the stolen horses finally start to tire, the prince gestures to Alastor, and they search for a place to stop. They settle on a place to camp which even I can see is ideal—sheltered by thick trees and boulders and far from the road. No one would find us here unless they knew where to look.

The prince dismounts and offers his hand to me, triggering the now-familiar lurch of fear and revulsion as I imagine his skin brushing against mine. Ignoring his hand, I slide awkwardly from the back of the horse on my own. He doesn’t seem angered by the snub; he just offers me a smirk that brightens his gray eyes.

While the fae collect wood for a fire, I put as much distance between myself and them as the Nightmare Prince will allow. When I back up too close toward the trees ringing the edge of our camp, he lets out a warning growl.

“No further, princess,” he says without even looking at me.

I shoot him a resentful glare while he’s not looking, then slide down to the ground to sit and observe. The fae have taken their glamour tokens off—perhaps something about them is uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time—and I notice the way they move swiftly and precisely, even in the dark. I’ve always been told their senses are sharper than a human’s, and it seems that rumor is true.

The prince finds a sharp rock among the boulders and pulls my knife from his belt, striking the two together until sparks form. The fire grows steadily until it illuminates his features, surprisingly fine for someone who looks more like he belongs in a boxing ring than a royal court. His hair is cut shorter than most of the men I know, so it falls in waves just below his ears. I wonder if it’s a practical choice, something about being a soldier before he’s a prince.

Now I’m away from the heat of the horse, the cold starts to get to me, and I reluctantly scootch closer to the fire as the fae settle down on the other side, talking in voices too low for me to make out the words above the crackle of the flames.

I stare into the dancing heat, watching the way it consumes the branches in glowing, golden caresses. In my mind I see again the edges of the bright, golden light I conjured up with Bede, and I feel an echo of the impossibly fierce heat that roiled through my veins. I could save myself so quickly if I could just call on that power now. Once again, I reach deep within myself, searching.

Come on. Come on.

I frown into the flames, hoping to use them to inspire my magic.

Firesta, help me now in my hour of need, and I’ll build twenty bloody temples in your honor.

But either the goddess can’t hear me or she chooses not to answer.

“What are you doing?”

It isn’t a question so much as a demand, barked at me from across the fire. The prince stands, towering over me, with his sword drawn.

“Are you trying to conjure?” he asks me, then looks at Alastor, incredulous. “Really? With us three feet away? Try it, princess, and see exactly what we fae can do when it comes to terrial magic.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Leon,” Alastor interjects. “She doesn’t have magic.”

“What?”

Both the prince and I stare at Alastor.

“She was born without magic. It’s part of whatever illness she has. One of the guards told me, though it was just rumor at that point.” He turns to me. “It’s true, isn’t it? Otherwise, you would’ve used it by now.”

His truth magic tugs at me, forcing me to answer. Luckily, he hasn’t been very specific in his wording. I try to test the limits of his power, aiming for a loophole.

“My body seems generally too weak to sustain magic, yes,” I say stiffly.

The magic releases me, accepting my answer as truthful. It is the truth—more than I’d like it to be. My fire-magic has deserted me, and I’m once again the weak, frail girl who can’t save herself no matter how hard she tries. The two men exchange looks, and I hate the way my utter powerlessness settles on me like a lead weight. It’s a stupid response, but my frustration makes me lash out.

“Well, I’m no threat to you,” I say bitterly. “So what are you going to do with me now? I’m surprised you didn’t kill me the moment you escaped the city. Or did you want to wait to find the perfect spot for another murder?”

The prince is beside me in a blink, the tip of his sword inches from my throat.

“You mean like your parents?” he asks.

My heart should thud with fear, but it’s hate I feel pouring out of my mouth, black and poisonous.

“Perhaps to you, they were just another set of lives to snuff out—you were merely following orders, like a dog obeying its master—but one day I will make you understand what you took from me.”

I feel the danger I’ve put myself in even as Alastor snorts at my response and mumbles something about stupid bravery. In the firelight, those gray eyes flicker, the prince looking for all the world like he’d like to end me right this moment.

He drops the tip of his sword.

“Except I saved you from an assassin. If I hadn’t used my evil fae powers, you’d already be dead by now.”

His claim pulls me up short.

“An assassin?”

“Yes, likely the same one who actually killed your parents. Or do hooded men with sharp knives have a habit of lurking in your bedroom?”

I’d just assumed the man they killed was a guard, but it’s true I don’t have any actual evidence of that. It feels foolish now, to not even have considered this other option, but what else should I have thought when the situation involved the Nightmare Prince? His reputation precedes him.

Which means he could just as easily be lying now.

“Why should I believe you?” I say.

He makes a scornful growl rather than answering, turning and crossing back round to his side of fire, throwing himself down.

“You’ll be staying with Alastor and me until the border. While we travel through this country, you’re our shield, and you’re going to make sure we can safely cross back into Filusia. After that, I don’t care what happens to you.”

Does he mean it? Or when we get to the edge of our two nations, will he cut my throat, finishing the job he was sent here to do?

I don’t say another word, and my silence satisfies the prince. He turns back to Alastor, ignoring me once more. I wrap my cloak closer around me, trying to ward off the cold and my dark thoughts. I have to stay alert. It’s the only way I’ll be able to take my chance to escape, if it comes. My hand drifts to my pocket, where the vial of potion sits. It’s so little. Barely a few days’ worth, even if I lower my dose like I did back in Gallawing.

I’ll run out long before we reach the border. What if I get too weak to escape at all?

I clutch it tightly, my lifeline, and glance over at the fae. They know I need it, but they can’t know exactly how important it is, or it’ll just become another sword they can hold at my throat.