Page 30 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams (Fated to the Sun and Stars #3)

Corrin

I admire the embroidery on my cloak as the carriage jerks along the wide avenue toward Elmere palace. The outfit’s a little more traditional than my usual tastes, but one has to admire quality, and the clothes we purchased to play the part of Baron and Baroness Hornifold certainly speak to that.

I look up to see Damia rolling her eyes from her seat opposite me.

“Could you stop preening and focus on playing your part?” she asks, glancing out the window. “We’re nearly at the gates.”

Our progress is slowed by the queue of carriages waiting to be admitted, but I can see the bronze archways up ahead.

“Why?” I ask mildly. “Do barons not preen?”

They absolutely do, and we both know it. Her lips thin when she can’t deny it. She settles for tugging at the abundance of jewels around her neck impatiently.

“The sooner we can get inside, the sooner I can take this nonsense off,” she tuts.

“Damia prefers a tunic and pants to court attire,” the fae, Hyllus, helpfully explains to me.

Even glamoured into a smaller, more human form, he’s rather squashed into the carriage.

It had been a challenge finding servants’ clothes that would fit him.

In the end, we had to pay a geostri seamstress handsomely for a custom job.

“Because I can barely move in this thing,” she huffs, adjusting her deep purple dress. “At least in proper clothes, I can kill a man without worrying about ripping a seam.”

“I’m sure you’d have no problem killing a man in that too,” I say politely—and entirely honestly. Even with her shining black hair delicately pinned up and her lips painted a plum shade that very much compliments her brown skin, she looks no less deadly to me.

She rolls her eyes again, but I notice she wears the hint of a smile.

The carriage trundles forward a little more, and I glance through the window to see the gates of the palace just ahead. My man Warren, acting as our coachman, pulls us to a halt as an official in palace uniform knocks on the door.

“Name and papers please,” the man says dully.

All three of us straighten up. This is the moment when we discover if Tunier was worth the money. Hyllus respectfully hands across the rolled-up parchment.

“Baron and Baroness Hornifold of Artifract,” I say in my poshest voice.

The palace official unrolls the seal and studies it.

I school my features into the bored, slightly contemptuous expression nobles so often wear, not allowing it to slip even as I become increasingly tense with every second that slips by.

Damia’s the same. Her hand shifts to her thigh, where I suspect there’s a knife hidden beneath her skirts.

At last, the official begins to close the scroll. But rather than wave us on, his eyes flick from Hyllus to something outside the carriage.

“I say, what’s the hold up?” I snap. “We’ve spent enough time in this wretched carriage.”

Damia glares at me, but the official only looks apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but your servants will have to leave palace premises once they’ve escorted you to the doors.”

“Why?” Damia asks sharply, every inch the imperious baroness .

The official ducks his head under her gaze.

“I’m afraid more guests than expected have arrived for the coronation, and the palace is nearly full. The royal staff would be honored to attend to Your Graces, but we simply can’t accommodate the maids and manservants of every visiting lord and lady.”

I exchange a look with Damia. We’d been counting on Hyllus and Warren to have the run of the palace, particularly in areas guests wouldn’t be expected to go.

“But we’re no mere lord and lady ,” I bluster. “You must make an exception for us, of course.”

The official looks weary, and I guess this is far from the first time he’s had this argument today.

“I’m very sorry, Your Grace,” he says. “Your servants may drop you at the palace entrance but must go no further.”

I huff in indignation but sit back, allowing the official to wave the carriage on.

“Well, that’s put the cat among the pigeons,” I breathe once we’re out of earshot.

Damia doesn’t miss a beat, turning to Hyllus. “We’ll find a way to get you into the palace with Stratton. We still have a few days. That’s more than enough time to think of an alternative.”

My mood is eased by her certainty. With her around, it’s difficult to believe we can fail at anything. I’m not sure I would’ve ever agreed to this insane scheme if it weren’t for her, no matter what promises I’ve made to Morgana Angevire.

Warren brings the carriage to a stop in a courtyard, the palace’s pale stone walls soaring up around us. I step out and turn, stretching an arm toward Damia, unable to resist teasing her a little.

“My poor, delicate darling—you must be so weakened from the journey. Allow me to give you a hand,” I say.

Fury flashes in her eyes, but she begrudgingly accepts her role, allowing me to help her down from the carriage. Her palms are slightly calloused, like you’d expect from a warrior. But as I brush my thumb across the back of her hand, I notice how soft the skin is there.

Damia snatches her hand back as soon as she reasonably can.

The palace staff crowd in around us, getting our names from Hyllus before they start to whisk our luggage away into the palace.

I feel a twinge of discomfort at the idea of our belongings in strangers’ hands.

In Hallowbane, if you let anything precious out of your sight, you’ll likely never see it again.

I have to remind myself that I’m a noble now, wealthy enough to be careless and smug, certain that nothing unpleasant will ever befall me.

“If you’ll please follow me, Your Graces,” says another palace servant, “I can show you to your rooms.”

With one last look at Hyllus and Warren, already being hurried back onto the carriage, we follow.

As we walk down the corridors of the palace, I realize that this place is heaving with crowds of lords and ladies in all shapes and sizes.

Tall, elegant types from the southern regions bump elbows with rugged figures from the chilly north.

There are even a few barons I recognize from my establishments in Hallowbane.

I twitch, instinctively going to hide my face from them, only to remember that I’m wearing a glamour for this very reason.

Thankfully, all the bustle means no one is likely to take any notice of us.

I admire the thick carpets and polished marble, the fine oil paintings and the stained-glass windows casting rainbows across the walls. I take care not to gawp, however, acting as if this is all no more than mildly interesting—the kind of finery I’m used to.

The servant opens the door when we reach our rooms, bowing smartly as we pass by him and dismissing himself swiftly. I suspect he has a hundred other places he’s meant to be right now.

I’m impressed to see all our luggage is already neatly unpacked and the trunks stacked in the corner. I can only imagine magic was involved in dealing with it so quickly. I step past the sitting area and chuckle a little.

“Care to share the joke?” Damia says. As soon as the servant left, she’d sat down and tugged off her heeled shoes, padding across the room in bare feet .

“I was just wondering if you’d prefer to sleep on the right side or the left,” I say, raising an eyebrow and offering her a dazzling smile.

Her steps falter for just a moment before her expression hardens and she strides forward to stand beside me. We both look down at the wide, plush bed.

“The right,” she says. “It’s closest to the door, so if anyone attacks?—”

“I was joking,” I say quickly, ignoring the heat pooling under my collar. “The entire bed is yours, of course. There’s a perfectly good chaise for me.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” she says scornfully. “I’ve spent decades sharing quarters with men much more intimidating than you, Wadestaff. I’m not some blushing damsel.”

“Of course,” I say, refusing to be offended. “That dress just had me fooled for a moment.”

“Well, don’t forget what I really am,” she says. Somewhere in the depth of her long sleeves, a little serpent hisses. “We’ll share the bed. It’s more than big enough for the both of us. But don’t get any ideas. Reach a hand toward me in the night, and you’ll be pulling back a stump.”

Gods know I believe her threat. But the fire smoldering within me only burns a little hotter as I meet her gaze.

“Noted,” I say casually.

She draws back, pacing over to the sitting area. “Now let’s focus on why we’re really here.”

“As if I need reminding,” I say. I’m desperate to cool off and begin to unfasten my cloak.

Throwing off the thick fabric, I straighten my dress jacket and the white shirt underneath.

When I glance up, I see Damia’s eyes on me, an interesting expression on her face.

When we left the safehouse, I was already wearing the cloak.

This is the first time she’s gotten the full effect of my baron’s getup.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I say, turning to display myself at the most flattering angle. One must always be aware of angles. “One might even say dashing.”

She coughs lightly. “You certainly look the part,” she says, distracted for a moment before she glances away .

“Now, let’s talk about the task at hand.” She straightens in her seat. “We’ve got a queen to kill.”

LEON

“Get used to the staring,” Alastor murmurs. “It’s only going to get worse from here.”

The streets of Agathyre’s capital aren’t like anything I would’ve imagined.

There are paving stones underfoot, but they’re loosely laid, thick grass and moss sprouting through the gaps.

On either side of us, the houses look like they sprouted out of the forest—low, thatched buildings, mostly made of wood.

But behind them, shining towers soar up.

Their spires are tipped with silver, and their tall glass windows glint in the sunlight.

While I’m taking in the architecture, all eyes are on us.

It would be almost comical if the Agathyrians didn’t seem so disturbed. Each dryad we see stops in their tracks, as if they’ve seen a creature with three heads and not simply a band of foreigners. When we pass a father with his little boy, the child bursts into tears.

“Not exactly a warm welcome,” Mal huffs. He’s more visibly irritated than the rest of us.

“Haven’t they ever seen a human or fae before?” Tira asks.

“The children haven’t, no. But most grown dryads have worked abroad,” Etusca says. “They’re just not used to seeing your kind here.”

She looks nervous, and I wonder for the first time what this trip is going to cost her. Everyone knows that the dryads keep to themselves. Even when they’ve left their own borders for a stint in Trova or Filusia, they never fully integrate into our societies.

They prefer it that way. While the Agathyrians take their duty to heal those in their care seriously, they’ll always be set apart from human and fae.

We live in a world they can’t understand, where violent crimes happen every day.

To them, we must seem cruel and brutal. I imagine that’s the reason for the shock and fear on their expressions now .

Etusca leads us to the center of the city, toward the tallest tower of them all. Its spire looks like a huge spear pushing upward to pierce the sky. Ironic for a society that prides itself on peace.

“It looks like a falling star,” Tira says, pointing at the building. I see it then, of course—the long, diamond shape transforming in my mind’s eye into a silver star plummeting earthward.

“This is Aquila Hall, the home of the council,” Etusca says as we turn into the avenue that leads to the impressive structure. Already, there’s a group gathered in front, waiting for us in sage-colored robes.

“They’re expecting us?” Ana asks, surprised.

“I left a message before I came to meet you,” Etusca says. There’s a note of guilt in her voice. “I had to give them some warning before they got it from the Miravow.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The council regularly communes with the forest,” she says. “It would’ve told them we were coming.”

Despite Etusca’s anxiety and the crowd watching our approach, I don’t feel too concerned.

Given their vow of peacefulness, we’re by far the most dangerous people in this city.

I look to Ana and sense she doesn’t seem worried either.

In fact, she appears calmer the closer we get to Aquila Hall, some of the tension of our journey melting away.

By the time we stop in front of the building, there’s a growing crowd behind us. They hover at a distance, too curious to resist following us but still wary. Their expressions of shock and concern are preferable to the dour look of the council members in front of us.

One of them steps forward, a man whose long hair hangs down to his waist. He glares at Etusca before turning to Ana and me.

“Greetings, Your Highnesses,” he says, and he and most of the Agathyrians behind him bow.

That’s something, I think. Even if they’re unhappy about our presence, they’re at least willing to acknowledge Ana’s position. That should make negotiations easier .

Nevertheless, I notice a short man toward the back of the group staring at me. It makes no sense, but it feels as if he can see all the violence I’ve committed just by looking at me—all the blood I’ve shed and lives I’ve taken.

The long-haired dryad is speaking again.

“You must turn back at once. Your guide led you here under false pretenses. None of you should have come.”