Page 7

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I passed the phase in bed, drifting in and out of slumber. I could have stayed longer, waited for my body to feel restored to its full health, waited for my mind to leave exhaustion behind, waited just to avoid this —

This very moment I go to face Eamon.

My boots scuff over the rocky stone path, a narrow street between the wonky walls of towering dwellings, too old, sinking into the uneven earth.

At the birth of the Quiet, the air is thinner, sharp to inhale, and the streets are empty. So as I walk towards the silhouette leaning against the corner wall, I know it is Eamon before I can make out his features through the shadows.

The first thing I notice about his appearance is the shine of his brown boots, a gloss that tells of buckles and straps and new leather. His boots are crossed at the ankles, and on the ground next to him is a bulging satchel.

He hasn’t spotted me yet.

The incline of the sloped, crooked street means I pick up my feet to close the distance between us. My boots are made for the Sacrament, and so they are soft on landing with each step; steps that bring me closer the little pocket of light dusting over Eamon from the street lantern.

It is so dark in Kithe that Eamon purposefully stands under the light of a lantern just to be easily seen.

This Quiet, he is dressed well. His breeches are littered with thin pockets and strappy holsters, unlike his usual look of plain trousers and a blouse; and the lumpy sweater he wears is enough to have me wondering if he has weapons holstered to his body, hidden under it, as I suspect there are weapons in some of those many pockets.

As I approach, Eamon turns his chin to his shoulder.

Gold greets me, not gold like Dare’s gilded gaze, but muted gold like honey glazed over bark. Amber, warmth, home.

Eamon looks at me for the quickest of moments before he’s pushing off the wall and moving for me.

I stop on the street—

And that stills Eamon.

He frowns at me, at my stagnancy when I should be running at him, throwing my arms around him, holding him so close that we can never be apart again.

Hesitation is kneaded too deep in me, and I can’t close the distance of two, three steps between us.

“How are you?” My voice is small, it is as tentative as my shifty gaze. I can’t bring myself to look at him for more than a second, and even that feels like a burning eternity, so I flicker my gaze from his eyes to his jaw, his throat, the shoulder of his sweater.

How are you…

Words fuelled by the fear gripping my heart.

As though Samick has forced his hand into my chest and clenched his fist around my heart, ice nips through me.

How are you now that you have learned the truth?

How are you coping with the loss of your lover?

How do you see me now that I wear his blood on my hands?

Eamon’s brow lowers to furrow above his eyes. “How am I? Nari, it is you who should be asked that question, not me.”

My mouth tightens into a slanted line.

Still, my steps are stagnant. I do not take another.

I stand, uneasy, shifting my focus over every part of him, from the pockets to the relaxed posture of his hands.

I guess it is worry in his gaze as he considers me.

“You don’t know,” I say, soft. “They did not tell you.”

Eamon’s frown lingers for a mere heartbeat. Then, it smooths, as though brushed away by tender fingertips.

Understanding softens him.

“I know about Ridge,” he says.

That slanted line of my mouth starts to wobble.

“I know that Ridge attacked you. I know you risked your safety to rescue him. You risked your life to nurse him. And when you tried to escape with him, he revealed his true self. His mask was removed.”

I lift my watery gaze.

Warmth meets me.

Eamon let’s a small smile, patronising, steal his lips before he takes those three final steps to meet me—and his arms cocoon me, fast.

I’m tugged into his chest.

He murmurs into my hair, “Ridge deceived us, and I am sorry— so sorry —that you paid the price for my foolery.”

My face twists against the threads of his sweater. The tears hit me with the sudden force of a lightning strike, and I sink into Eamon.

He holds me.

Our embrace lasts for a long while.

Neither of us itches to let go. Not even when scattered droplets start to pepper down on us from the skies.

Eamon’s voice is muffled, buried in my hair, “I did not think… I did not expect…”

“To see me again,” I finish his trembling words for him, a murmur against his sweater.

“I hoped. I wished. I had faith in you, please don’t mistake me. I believed in you. But I worried. So much stacked against you, every fae hunting you. I do not mourn Ridge’s death; I rejoice your survival.”

He draws back, his arms slow to slip away from me, like this is the last thing he wants, to let me go, even if he must.

We can’t hold onto each other forever.

I aim my watery smile up at him; his is soft down at me.

Without the shield of his chest, the drizzle hits me on the face. Droplets are quick to run the bend of my nose, catch on my lashes to merge with my own tears, fall onto my hair and sit a while as a mist.

I will smell like mildew soon.

The rainfall isn’t too heavy, and so I am not quick to wet. But it’s enough to bother me, and I throw a scowl upwards.

All I see is darkness, the kind that thickens the air to breathe and feels too much like a pressure, something of a weighted, woollen blanket draped over me.

I roll my shoulders against the sensation just as Eamon tugs away from me.

Panic flurries through me.

I need him close to me, even if he’s only taking a few steps back to his satchel left on the street, I shadow him.

“I went through your things.” Eamon bends at the knees to seize the satchel. It might be bulging, stuffed full, but it is light enough that he easily swings it over his shoulder as he rises. “There wasn’t much of value. I added some of my finer belongings.”

“Not your new boots, though,” I note with a curve of my mouth, and I gesture to the shine of fresh leather.

His grin is crooked, part shame. “A gift from Melantha.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the gift-giving type.”

“Only when she wants something,” he says, and the grin fades. “We are at a teashop,” he adds, and nods to the wall beside us, as though the entrance is right here, but it isn’t, it is around the corner. “Shall we?”

“I have no coin.”

None at all.

Not a shilling, not a scraping to my name.

Eamon laughs a single note, then steals my hand in his. He takes me to the teashop.

The drizzle can’t reach us inside, but the sweltering blow of the fireplace does. Now, my flesh is cold and quick to dampen with sweat.

We snag the table closest to the hearth, since the hour is late in Kithe, and not many folk are out for teas.

Eamon orders for us, a pot of poppy brews and two buttered scones.

The server, young and halved, is fond of glaring, I find. She makes sure to let us know in those frequent looks how unwelcome we are at such a late hour.

She must be desperate to close up.

I am not.

I enjoy my tea and scone.

“I have plans for us,” Eamon tells me, running the spoon around and around his mostly untouched tea. I suspect he took me here just to ensure I am fed, not for himself. “But we don’t have the funds to pursue them.”

I muse, “A lot of dreams, so few skills to create them.”

He smiles and pushes the plate of his untouched scone across the small table.

I take it without argument.

Forranach fed me again after he woke me, this time with cheese and cured ham on a stiff piece of bread.

I haven’t gone without since the end of the second passage. Between a pastry and a pie, soup and bread, and cheese and ham, and another piece of bread, I shouldn’t feel as though my stomach is entirely empty.

But I do.

So I am quick to scarf down the scone.

“Even if we sell everything in the bag,” Eamon kicks the toe of his boot to the satchel; it thuds under the table, “for a fair price, it is barely enough for a week’s worth of food. But I do have this.”

He tugs a blue velvet pouch out of his pocket and sets it on the table, next to the teapot. It clinks, and so I know coin is in it, a healthy amount by the look of the lumpiness.

“Daxeel,” Eamon says, soft.

My gaze flares on him.

“He is awake,” he starts—

“I don’t care.” I hold my hands up, as though to defend myself. “I don’t want to know.”

Eamon falls back into his seat. The chair creaks under him. “He only means for you to afford a healer.”

I choke on a bitter sound, a scoff, a laugh, a fucking misery. A healer to tend to the damage he caused.

“I will hear nothing at all about him and his wants,” I say, firm, and my gaze is unwavering.

Eamon sighs, a gentle unribboning of air that sags him. He nods, once, twice, then, “Still, we should keep the gold. I checked, and it is enough to afford a dwelling for us while we… find our starting point.”

I eye the pouch for a moment.

We do need it. But to touch it seems dirty somehow.

“I won’t take it.” I decide. “But you should.”

Eamon agrees with a nod, then slides the pouch back towards him. He tucks it away in the pocket. “Can I use it to pay a healer fee for you?”

I shake my head before I bite into the remainder of the last scone. Through a mouthful, I tell him, “I ‘ave un.”

Eamon frowns, but that wrinkle of his brow is quick to smoothen with understanding. “Forranach’s wife.”

My answer is a grunt.

“She is coming to treat you?”

I nod, wiping my finger along the bits of butter dotted onto the plate, then dragging it over my tongue. “Did Dare tell you about… about Ridge?” I ask, because I only told Dare in the Sacrament.

Eamon’s smile tightens his face like a grimace of pity. “Melantha.”

It takes a moment to catch up in my mind, to sit with the truth of it, that the spectators saw these things we did, these grisly ugly things, that they watched us betray each other, fight to the death, fight for our lives—and couldn’t do anything about it.

Melantha watched me.

It shouldn’t be a striking thought. But it is.

She found me in the images flashing over the portal’s tarry mirror, the window to the other side. She watched me. Like so many others did, I am sure.

“I saw some of it myself,” he confesses.

I throw a startled look at him. “But… how? You were gone from Kithe.”

“My mother and I,” Eamon starts, “were pursued when we fled. Lord Braxis sent warriors after us. Mother was injured.” At my panicked look, he adds, “She is well. It was a flesh wound, but severe enough to slow us down. We made it across the border, and we waited. Then Melantha sent word by raven. That you were nearing the summit. We returned.”

“You came back?”

Eamon is unfazed. “Do not think me a complete fool, Nari. General Agnar acted on Melantha’s wants. He came to meet us at the border and escorted us to Comlar.”

The colour drains from my face. “So you were there… You saw?”

You saw me stab Daxeel, try to kill him, you saw me almost die… You saw me beg Mother…

Eamon reaches out to swipe his thumb over my chin. “I saw you as I always have.”

My smile grows as he draws his hand back and there, on his thumb is a lick of jam.

He wipes his hands on a napkin.

I drag my fingertip over the jam smears on the plate, then sweep its bitter sugar over my tongue.

“Do you want another to go?” he asks.

I gulp down some of the soothing tea. “Go where?”

His smile is small. “We have a viewing.”

“Of a dwelling?” I frown. “But we have no coin.”

He pats the pocket at his thigh. The jingle of coin follows.

As much as I work to shove Daxeel from my mind, now that he is free of my soul, I let a thought pass my mind. It is fleeting, but it is the understanding that he paid for a prime healer ten times over in that one pouch.

I will let Eamon be the one to spend it.

I don’t want to touch Daxeel’s gold—

“ Nari .”

I whip around.

Twisted in the chair, my wild glare is flung around the shop, from empty table to empty table.

The server, leaning on the edge of a bench, narrows her eyes on me, her mouth swelling with chewed slights.

But it wasn’t her voice I heard.

Eamon swerves his gaze around the empty teahouse before considering my flustered face. “What do you sense?”

“Nothing, I… I thought… It’s fine.” I shake my head then turn around to face him. “It is fine.”

“Your lies are becoming too effortless,” Eamon decides. “Let us not make habits of these things.”

Before I can give a response, the bell above the door jingles. The sound is followed by the heavy thuds of bootsteps and the exasperated sigh of the server.

Opposite me, Eamon stiffens in his chair. Slowly, his face hardens and his spine straightens.

I look over my shoulder—and instantly understand Eamon’s reaction.

Uniforms pile into the tearoom.

Glazed brown leathers, like that of a light warrior, but decorated with the marks of officials. The fae are adorned with gold braces shielding their forearms, scabbards crossed at their backs, golden chain-link armours draped over their shoulders. What really gives their official ranks away are the gold emblem badges on their sleeves, the crest of the queen.

I count four all up.

And then the fifth enters.

My face tightens.

Ronan’s hair is braided to his scalp, adorned with speckles of gold clips, and in his gloved grip is a scroll of beige parchment.

His gaze finds me, fast. All of their gazes find me.

I set my shoulders against the urge to sink into my chair and slide down to the floor to hide under the table.

Without a word from them, I know they are here for me.

How they found me is a question that flitters through my startled brain, and it takes only a heartbeat before I suspect I have been trailed.

Ronan offers no gesture of greeting, no hint of familiarity as he marches the few steps between us.

Eamon and I watch his approach, until he’s towering over us at the edge of the table, and the other four officials hang back at the entrance.

“Narcissa Elmfield of the Queen’s Court, daughter of Brok Emfield,” Ronan starts and, with a tug of the string wound around the parchment, unravels the scroll, “You are hereby summoned to the High Court by order of your Queen.”

Your queen.

Not how I would address her these days… phases .

If the queen has a name, it isn’t known to the likes of me, not even Ronan. It will be a name kept like a secret by her children; not a name to be spoken by a common tongue.

Eamon is quick to answer for me. “Narcissa will not be going anywhere with you.”

As though he didn’t speak at all, Ronan shifts his gaze down the scroll. “Your immediate presence is required for questioning regarding the Sacrament and Mother.”

A bob thickens my throat.

I flicker my attention back to the other officials. Familiar faces in two of them from around the High Court. The others I do not recognise.

“Why must I be questioned?” There is no challenge in me, mere confusion in the frown that furrows my face. “You all saw it for yourselves. I committed no crimes.”

All that I did was legal within the space of the passage.

I have nothing to answer for.

“It is believed you were chosen by Mother,” Ronan says, stiff, and he lowers the scroll from his gaze. He looks at me. “It is believed, Narcissa, Mother spoke to you. This must be investigated.”

Eamon’s hand hits the table. “Licht’s loss is not Narcissa’s to answer for.”

Ronan’s fierce gaze swerves to him. “Were you not one of us, for a time? It appears that loyalty has shifted,” he says, his upper lip curling in blatant disgust. “How quickly a hybrid is swayed.” He turns his gaze back on me. Softer, he adds, “You heard Mother. She spoke to you. You spoke to her. You made a wish and offered a sacrifice. You understand that you must be questioned.”

“Must I?” I arch a brow and lean back in my seat. “What has Licht done for me but put a bounty on my head? Most of what will haunt me from the passage is you—all of you,” and I jerk my chin to the officials huddled near the door, “hunting me to get to Daxeel. I was collateral then, but now I am important?”

Shame floods his cheeks.

Ronan lowers his head for a moment, his jaw tense, then draws in a long inhale. It swells his chest before he finds the courage to look at me again. “The risks, Narcissa,” he says, a rushed breath. “You must understand, the risks of your survival were too great, and Licht has paid the price in our loss.”

My shoulders jerk with a scoff. “You need me now. But you were all too eager to turn against me. My own folk. Not one of you came to my aid before the second passage. No one offered me a way out—beyond killing Daxeel. No one offered me any protection on the mountain. No one offered to train me, to teach me basic survival skills. It was a dark one that did that.” Well, Dare is hybrid, but it doesn’t serve me well in the moment to call him such. “Licht did not only fail me, it sacrificed me.” I rise from my chair, my stare unflinching. “It is you who must understand… I am not of Licht anymore.”

His tone is as dark as his eyes. “You are leaving us?”

I snatch the bag from the floor and hoist it over my shoulder. “I never belonged.”

Eamon tosses a coin onto the table.

It clatters for a beat, and in that moment, Eamon takes great care to shove past Ronan hard enough to knock shoulders.

Ronan’s answer is a throaty snarl, one that doesn’t touch his face. But he doesn’t stop us.

None of them do, because they cannot.

This is Kithe, the Midlands, free lands.

Here, they have no power beyond influence.

I don’t doubt that they assumed their uniforms and officiality would be enough to intimidate me, and I would go with them willingly, my head hung in shame.

That is how it would have been, once.

Just two months ago I came to the Midlands. I arrived na?ve, silly and hopeful; afraid, a darling …

That is not who I am anymore.

So I leave the teashop without a backwards glance—and no comfort, because I doubt this is the last I will hear of it.