Page 11 of Tempting the Fae Lord (The Gatekeeper’s Weakness)

Chapter Ten

Gale

A full week goes by with no sign of Ezra. I’m out of my mind with worry. And I’m not the only one. None of us thought he’d be gone this long. He’s never been gone this long.

I’ve got to do something, but first I’ll take my own advice. The advice Ezra couldn’t be bothered to take.

We need to secure backup.

Once the others have gone to sleep for the night, I creep down the hall on silent feet.

I sit in his chair at his desk in his study. I use his quill and his parchment. When I’m done, I’ll use his seal imprinted in hot wax.

But the letter I write is my own.

How does one address a queen? I’ve never written a letter to royalty before. When her brothers visited briefly several years ago, they stood on formality, but I’ve since heard the new queen does not.

I dip the nub in ink and begin.

Your Most Excellent Majesty, Queen Suvi of Lemossin,

No. Looks wrong. I ball it up and try again.

Your Highness, Queen Suvi of Luminia,

I ball that up too. Why is this so hard? I blow out a breath and force my shoulders to relax. If it’s going to be from me, it should sound like me. One more try, this time without overthinking every word.

Dear Queen Suvi,

I’m writing to you for help because the lord of the house here says he likes you, and he barely likes anybody, so I figure you must be a good person.

It’s hard to explain, and I’m not sure how much I should share. There is trouble in the earthen realm. The Gatekeeper’s gone through the gate to deal with it, but he’s all alone over there. He has no one to help him, and he’s been gone longer than ever before.

I’m afraid he’s in trouble.

Please will you send us some help? Magic users, the strongest sorcerers you can find, someone to bring him home to us safe and sound.

I should warn you that he doesn’t know I’m writing. It’s likely he won’t approve. But besides going through the gate myself, I don’t know what else to do.

I’ll be making my attempt to cross tonight. If it works, I’ll be gone, and you can address your reply to Eulayla.

Sorry to ask so much of you, but we’ve nowhere else to turn.

Yours in the north,

Gale

PS. If I was supposed to call you—Your Most Excellent Majesty, Queen Suvi of Lemossin—can we just pretend I did? I honestly don’t know what I’m doing, and with him gone, I have no one else to ask.

I lean back and reread it, doubting every word. But rewriting it won’t solve anything. When the ink is dry to the touch, I fold the parchment, place it in a thick envelope, and drip a dollop of scarlet wax to seal it.

Not without a fair bit of trepidation, I use Ezra’s stamp and press a stark letter G into the ruby circlet.

He’s going to be so mad.

But a mad Ezra is an alive Ezra, so I’m willing to risk it.

Next, a letter to Eulayla explaining what I plan to do is in order so that if it works, she won’t be worried. Well, she will be worried, there’s no getting around that, but at least she’ll know what to be worried about. I won’t have disappeared with no trace. That would be worse. I think.

That done, I hide her letter with the flour where she’ll find it in the morning in case I don’t make it back before then. I pack supplies in a leather bag, throw it over my shoulder, and leave before I can convince myself this is actually a terrible idea.

Outside, the air is crisp with frost. I crunch through the snow while remembering our brisk flight through the sky, Ezra’s arms supporting me, mine hugging his neck. Stars, let him be all right. Whatever is happening on the other side, let him be all right.

At the gate, I pull the glass phial from my inner pocket and remove the cork. Inside, the mixture of water and blood has turned a cloudy pink, and the linen cloth is stained brown.

Here goes nothing.

I grab the cloth, pour the mix onto my hand, clench the iron bar, and recite the words I memorized last week to the best of my ability.

Bloath de mon kuhn

Opniz thik winsomeka

I wait. Silence ticks by like a slow, assessing blink. Nothing happens. The gate remains stubbornly closed.

I try again.

And again. I grow increasingly more frustrated, but the bars won’t budge.

Damn. It’s not like I was confident it would work, but I’d been hoping.

If I can’t pass through the gate, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Waiting is excruciating, not knowing if he’s alive or dead. If he’s hurt or captured or worse—both.

As a last-ditch effort, I unwrap a borrowed kitchen knife from the cloth sheath I fastened and stare at my bloodied hand. His blood, not mine. I doubt the gate wants mine. There’s nothing special about me.

But I’m prepared to try anything.

My palm is pink and sweaty despite the temperature. My nerves flare.

Having never cut myself on purpose before, I’m unsure how much pressure to use. Too much and I risk permanent damage. Not enough and my sacrifice might be deemed unworthy by whatever force animates this stupid gate.

I grit my teeth and go for it, slicing a diagonal line of stinging pain across my palm. I don’t look. Seeing my own blood is a terrible idea if I plan to stay conscious.

I grab the gate with both hands as if it were Ezra and I could yank him back through safety like I want.

I try his words again.

Bloath de mon kuhn

Opniz thik winsomeka

They fail to work.

Again.

Fine. I’ll just have to think of my own special words. What does one say to a possibly sentient gate when requesting a favor?

“Erm, hi, Gate. Open for me, please?”

Nothing. Frustration mounts. My palm burns, and blood drips down the bars.

“Come on, you open for him. You must like him at least a little. Don’t you want him back like I do? Open!”

Nothing.

I growl at the ancient portal and squeeze the bars in my fists. I may not have magic, but I have persistence in spades. If the test comes down to who is more stubborn, me or this gate, I intend to win.

Digging deep, I close my eyes and speak from my heart.

“You’re a magic portal between two worlds. And I am a creature of both worlds. As such, I require from you safe passage to the other side. Open for me so I can find him. Let me through!”

My breath sounds loud in the surrounding silence.

Just when I think I’ve failed, the hinges whine.

The bars move.

And the gate opens.

“Thank you,” I whisper in case it’s still listening.

I blink and stare. A rush of victory sweeps my veins, followed on its heels by trepidation. The orange scones I’m expecting flicker out as a gust of wind precedes me through the portal.

Only darkness beckons.

Steeling myself against the fear, I step through the gate.