Page 32 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson makes a harrumphing sound in the back of his throat. “None of the fairy tales I’ve read have prepared me for how viciously bloodthirsty you lot are.”

I snort. “You’ve been reading the wrong fairy tales. Besides,” I add, “you’ve not even been north yet. If you think this area is wild, wait until you go to the Highlands.”

Why did I say that? I’ll not be taking him into the Highlands. He’s English; he can’t wait to have his curse lifted and then leave this tangled Scottish mess, no?

But he’s got an easy smile plastered on his face, like we’re planning a holiday together.

Nearby, a flash of red catches my eye. A robin. Danger .

The road takes us right through Kippen, and I buy some apples and cheese from a housewife. Our horses stroll through the little town, and then I lead us north.

The land here is flat, with icy puddles scattered around clumps of cotton grass.

The red spiky leaves of the plant look dead now in winter, but in spring, they’ll change to green with tufts of fluffy white flowers.

Bog cotton, my grandmother called it, and she told me stories of hares who left their tails in the grass.

The plants are also a sure sign we need to get off the horses.

I dismount and show Samson how to hobble his horse with rope. Lights glimmer in the shadows, but Samson doesn’t notice them.

Yet.

“So where’s your witch?” Samson asks. “Do we need to…summon her somehow?”

I snort. “She’ll be along.”

He looks surprised. “She knows we’re coming?”

“She’ll know now that we’re here.”

“And when will she—”

I shake my head. He still doesn’t understand. “She’ll arrive when she’s ready.” She’s not fae, but she is enough like the Seelie Court to not consider anything urgent unless she deems it so. “We may as well settle in.”

“Yes. Let’s ‘settle in.’ In a bog.” Samson scowls at the landscape.

Since we have no idea how long this will take, I unsaddle the horses. Samson attempts to help. I use the saddle blankets as a buffer against the cold, damp ground and sit on them. Samson plops down beside me.

“It’s not so bad,” I say, bumping against his arm. Sure, we’re in a bog, but it’s better than being at court with Darnley.

“’Spose not.”

I try to think of something that will make him laugh, but nothing comes to mind. The wind blows, whistling coldly, and I huddle a little closer to him.

This all reminds me of the first night I met him. Of sleeping on the moor, the deer in the mist.

My nightmare. The needle. The man who died.

The bean-nighe, prophesying more deaths to come.

“You should know…” I start, glancing at him. “What…I’m up against.” I almost said “we,” as if we were a team. But in the end, this is my battle, isn’t it? Mine and mine alone. I protect the wall, for the Leth and the fae and even the humans who don’t know I do it.

“What you’re up against? Witches?” Samson asks. “Giant green ladies with goat legs who want to murder me?”

“No, they’re on my side.” I half smile, but it fades so quickly that Samson notices. “The Red Caps.”

Samson tugs at his hat—dark brown, like his doublet. “You’ve told me enough. They’re making these damned weapons, and—”

“It’s more than that.” My words make him stop. I take a deep breath, watching glimmers of faint light dancing farther in the bog, floating over the dark peat-filled marsh, only visible thanks to the dim gray sky, all sunlight choked out with heavy clouds.

“The Red Caps don’t just love violence. They cannot live without it. As long as there is bloodshed to renew their power, they are as good as immortal.”

Samson watches me, his eyes liquid with intensity.

I reach for his hand, tilting it to expose the bare wrist between his sleeve and the end of his glove.

I trace my finger over the blue-purple vein beneath his pale skin.

“You have magic you were born with, as do I, as do all Leths.” I glance up at him, but his gaze is so fiery that I drop my eyes back to his hand.

I’m unsure now what to do with it, so I still hold it.

My own gloves are thin enough that I can feel the pulse thrumming through his veins, the vibrancy and life. “Magic is in your blood.”

“And that’s the type of magic Red Caps feed on?” His voice is low, a dangerous tone threaded through it.

“Not exactly,” I say. “Red Caps feed on any violence. My powers are tied to Scotland. I gain more magic when I’m in a place like this, wild and free.

Some Leths are more powerful in specific areas, like a loch.

Others gain strength in certain actions—they can weave magic with threads, for example, but they need that conduit. It varies, depending on the lineage.”

I let go of his hand, but Samson doesn’t put any additional space between us. I can tell he’s thinking, trying to figure out what the source of his power is. The Green Lady said he had a lot of magic within him; I wonder what fae ancestor gave him power and how it will be implemented.

But he also needs to know the threat. “Our world is a mirror of the other world, the world of the fae. Not an exact copy, but violence here means violence there. Peace here, peace there.”

Samson frowns, clearly not really understanding.

Tell him about the High Blade.

The thought comes unbidden to my mind. If I want him to know the threat of the Red Caps, I need to make sure he understands the danger of the High Blade, their leader.

But what’s real and what’s legend? We don’t even know if the High Blade is still alive.

I clear my throat. “As an example,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “when Emperor Hadrian brought the Roman army to fight here, before Scotland even was Scotland, the High Blade was one of the closest advisers to the fae queen. But the High Blade wanted to take the Seelie Court and therefore betrayed the queen.”

Samson leans forward, paying such focused attention to everything I’m saying that I grow a little flustered.

I look out at the bog, not at him, as I tell him about the way the Seelie Court banished the Red Caps and erected the wall I maintain to ensure they can never get back into Scotland and thereby into the fae realm through one of the portals here.

“Since then,” I say, “the Seelie Court has been…well, a bit of a mess. There are lots of lesser nobility, princes and the like, who work together, but…”

“Bit of a mess,” Samson repeats in a low voice.

I nod. “But look at the Scottish court. Mary’s baby, James?

Sixth of his name. Ever since the first one, the kings have all ascended to the throne as children.

Scotland’s been held together by a series of regents and councils for generations.

Mary inherited the crown before she was a week old.

If I can keep her alive long enough for her son not to be plunked down on the throne before he can even walk, that’ll be a success. ”

His eyes widen slightly. “So…is the Scottish court in this constant state of turmoil because the Seelie Court doesn’t have a steady monarch, or is it the other way ’round? Because the Seelie Court doesn’t have a queen, the Scottish court is in shambles?”

I shrug. Impossible at this point to tell.

The Scottish and the Seelie courts are so closely reflected that the only thing to do now is protect them both.

“That is what the wall is for,” I say softly.

“It’s not just keeping the Red Caps from having access to the Seelie Court.

Their violence is reflected in our world. ”

“Their war is our war.”

Our war. Ours. He barely knows me, but he sees the stakes. He sees what this means.

And he is willing to stand beside me to fight back the tide of blood.

I let out a shaking breath. No. He just doesn’t understand the threat. If he did, he would not be so casual about it all.

He would leave me and go back to his safe England.

I’m watching him, so I see as his eyes shift focus away from me, widening. “Alyth,” he breathes, his hand reaching unconsciously for mine. He points into the bog where a light flickers, closer than any of the others.

He releases my hand and stands. His fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger in his belt.

I scramble up and push him away from the weapon. “It’s fine.”

Took him long enough to notice. Stepping forward, I beckon for him to follow me. He hesitates, but I hear his feet crunch over ice as he creeps forward.

“You have to be careful,” I warn.

“That…thing, whatever it is, it’ll bite me or something?”

I laugh. “No, you have to be careful of the bog. What looks like flat ground might not be solid.” One wrong step, and he could fall into the peat over his head.

At the edge of a particularly dangerous bit of ground—exactly where the flickering glow led us—I hold out my hand in front of me. In a few moments, light glows in my palm. I curve my fingers around it, gently pulling it closer.

“A will-o’-the-wisp,” I say.

Samson peers down closer. The tiny fae—fire made incarnate—pulses and glows, rising between us. The will-o’-the-wisp is so bright that it hurts my eyes to stare at it, but I do anyway.

Within the flames, there’s a little creature. Human…ish. Like Kitty. Two arms, two legs, a slender torso topped by a round head, its body hovering inside the fire as if it were floating. It spins about, tiny sparks flickering like stardust.

“It’s showing off for you,” I grumble.

Samson, however, is charmed. “Hello,” he says.

“Will-o’-the-wisps don’t speak like that,” I say, but this one must at least know it’s being admired; it does a little twirl in the fire for Samson, who laughs in delight.

Suddenly, the glow disappears.

“What happened?” Samson gasps. “Did I hurt it?”

“No,” I say, amused. As if he could hurt a will-o’-the-wisp. He could sooner hurt the sun.

I point up the path, where a faint light dances. “Will-o’-the-wisps lead us where we need to go.”

In a burst of energy, Samson races forward, barely missing a dangerous spot of marshland.

“Be careful!” I shout.

“You said they’ll lead us. Maybe this one’ll take us to the witch!”

I shake my head, heading after them both—but taking better care with my feet.

“She’s fast,” Samson gasps.

“The really wild fae don’t bother with gender.” We dodge around a large, mostly frozen puddle. Gender is a human thing, and faulty labels at that.

Wills-o’-the-wisp love the chase. This one only bothered to stay still with me because we were stopped. Now that Samson’s racing after one, it’ll just play with him until he wears himself out or falls into the bog, whichever comes first.

Samson calls to me to hurry up—“I damn near had her this time, the dodgy girl!”—and I can’t help but smile.

He stumbles, dropping to his knees and smearing mud on his clothing.

He doesn’t seem to mind, but he does pause and reevaluate the situation.

He catches my grin and matches it. “This is why you do it, isn’t it?

” he asks as the will-o’-the-wisp dances out of reach, trying to entice him to come closer again.

“All that guardianship, worry, and care you do, the formalities and the service in the shadows. You don’t care about prestige.

You do it for the wild creatures like this one, don’t you? ”

I nod, a lump in my throat blocking speech. I swallow hard. “Creatures like this, they’re not good or bad. They’re wild. They drift between the worlds, and they deserve to be protected from fae and man alike.”

They deserve to be appreciated and loved just for existing. And if no one else will do it, I will.

I was wrong before. I told Samson of Red Caps so he would know what I was fighting against.

But all I had to do was show him what I was fighting for instead.