“That pirate they executed. Brought here from Sheness. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?”
I hesitated, unsure how to answer her question, and my throat tightened. I fought the sensation, afraid that if I let my emotions filter into my voice, it would make her more inquisitive. She didn’t know who Pyrite was—who he had been—and I wasn’t sure I could make myself say the words.
“You can’t tell Luka I’m here,” I implored, choosing to address Fi’s original assertion. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone.”
She took my hands, her jaw set. “Don’t fret, Anya. I won’t say a word to Luka. But when he was here, he swore to me he wasn’t out to harm you. If things change, you can go to him. I know it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I held back a sigh, shifting my gaze to the window. In the aftermath of the horrific outcome of my relationship with Shea, I would always err on the side of caution when dealing with humans, and Fi would always err on the side of trust. Albeit trust well-placed, as far as I could tell. The temptation to put faith in Luka Ivanova was a pulsing force, a tide reaching ever closer to land. He almost single-handedly funded the Fae-mily Home and had proven himself sympathetic to Fae causes and human faults. He’d begged Shea to hand over her father so that he wouldn’t be forced to punish her in Thatcher More’s stead. Indeed, he’d shown outright disdain for the law that made Thatcher’s wife and three daughters collateral when he’d fled arrest, thus subjecting any of them to serve his sentence. Luka appeared to be a friend, and it would have been easy, a relief even, to give my fate over to him. But still I took care, for my ability to trust had diminished right along with my Fae nature, the actions of the hunters and Shea’s betrayal eating away at my core.
Fi’s voice pulled me from my deliberations. “You need to eat, and I’ve got a room where you can stay out of sight. It’s not but a closet, but it’ll keep you from the cold.”
“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
“One thing more. A message arrived for you like you said it might.”
My heart leaped—Gwyneth. Before we’d parted company in Sheness, I’d told her she could contact me at the Fae-mily Home. News from her might lift some of the gloom I was feeling.
“Where is it?”
Fi waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not going anywhere. Dinner first. You look starved.”
Though I wanted the letter, I hadn’t had a full stomach in days, and the promise of food proved irresistible. I followed her to a room at the rear of the shelter, near a door that led into an alley. She lit a lamp on a small table to reveal a space that met her description with no embellishment—it was cramped, with a cot between the night table and the wall, a washbasin and mirror in the corner, and a narrow window that was set too high to open or offer a view. But it met my most important criterion: it was secluded. I would be comfortable and, in all likelihood, safer here than anywhere else.
“I’ll fetch you a plentiful meal,” Fi offered, cheeks tinged bright pink as she darted about to wipe away dust from the little-used space and give the linens a healthy shake.
“No need for that.” I laid a hand on her forearm to bring her fussing to an end. “The room is perfect. Thank you so much.”
She hustled away, her blush deepening to red, and I deposited my pack on the floor near the bed. By the time I had washed my hands, she had returned with a heavily laden platter—chicken, warm bread with cheese, cooked vegetables, and a mug of spiced cider. The aroma washed over me, and despite the manners that had been drilled into me over the years, I fell upon the food like a starving animal. I sat on the edge of the bed, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth, almost swallowing the first bites whole. Fi left again while I ate, returning with an armful of clothing and a medicinal compress.
“I don’t want you cold on the street.” Her voice contained a trace of a scold as she set leggings, socks, a tunic, and a sash on the bed next to me. “You’ve worn through your old ones.”
I nodded, unwilling to stop chewing.
“And this,” she added, giving the compress a shake before setting it atop the pile, “is for your eye. It’ll bring down the swelling.”
“Thank you.” I spit out a bit of bread along with the words then mumbled an embarrassed “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. But you might want to slow down—there’s plenty more where that came from.”
When I finally set down my fork, Fi reached into a pocket hidden among the folds of her layered skirt and produced a rolled and wax-sealed letter. Too excited to be polite, I sprang to my feet and snatched it from her hand. Though my brain told me it was crazy, I couldn’t quell the wild surge of hope I felt that the paper would reverse the events of the past couple of days. Perhaps, against all odds, Zabriel had survived the fall and made it safely back to Sheness, and this was the letter that would explain everything. Hands shaking, I broke the Dementya family seal, but what I read when I unfurled the note was a simple statement of shared grief.
Anya, I’m so sorry. There was nothing you or I could have done. He was dead the moment he was betrayed, though I still can’t grasp what happened. And I still can’t believe he’s gone.
Write me. Please. Come and stay with me and my father in Sheness if you like. You’re always welcome here.
I’m thinking of you.
G.
At the bottom, hastily scrawled as though she had considered not including it, was an added message:
If you retain any care for Shea, she’s in danger now that he’s gone. His friends are unforgiving.
I crumpled the letter in my hand, angry at Gwyneth for even mentioning Shea. Whatever happened to my former friend was out of my hands. More than that, it was of her making.
“Is the news bad?” Fi asked.
“No, just not what I wanted to hear. Tell me—when did this arrive?”
“Only this afternoon. By snowbird to the Dementya station, then by servant here.”
I nodded. Although snowbirds were notoriously difficult to train, they were swift fliers and therefore favored as messengers by the wealthy, a class that included the Dementya family. And if the news had been spread this quickly to the coast, it had probably been flown across the sea to all the reaches of the human world, sparking celebrations at many port cities. Gwyneth’s father, Leo Dementya, was the owner of a fleet of ships that had been raided on more than one occasion, placing him among the revelatory group. What would she do if he asked her to join in a toast to the death of such a notorious pirate and criminal? At least I didn’t have to pretend happiness. Gagging at that thought, I rushed to the washbasin, struggling to keep my food down.
“Are you sick?” Judging from the concern wrinkling Fi’s brow, I looked as pale and clammy as I felt. “Should I send for a doctor?”
“No, no, I’m fine. But I should have listened to you—I think I ate too fast.”
She pursed her lips, not quite believing me, and I spoke up, wanting to head off additional questions.
“Listen, Fi, if any more letters come—”
“I’ll hold them for you—your eyes only.”
I forced a smile and returned to the cot, taking a sip from my mug of cider.
“I’ll be going, then,” Fi said, removing another item from her hidden pocket. This time when she extended her hand, it held a key. “For the door into the alley. No one ever comes or goes by it. Just use it to please yourself.”
“Thank you, again, for all your kindness.”
She picked up the food tray. “You deserve better, but it’s my best.”
Before I could respond, she exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. With a moan, I forced myself to my feet and crossed the short expanse of floor to push the lock into place. Settling down once more on the bed, I squeezed my eyes shut and applied the compress to the right side of my face.
I wanted so badly to exhale the tension from my body. But it was no use, not when guilt and sorrow over Zabriel’s death threatened to consume me and ever-present fear clogged my veins, at times almost immobilizing me. Queen Ubiqua—assuming she was still alive—would come to Tairmor with her entourage despite that there was no longer a living Prince to retrieve. Of course, she might not know of Zabriel’s execution, but whether or not she did, the political ramifications of a royal Faerie heir dead at the hands of the humans were potentially colossal. Nothing short of parlay between the leaders of our races could suffocate the impending outcry.
Unbidden, the drawing I had discovered in Illumina’s sketchbook rose once more to the forefront of my mind, the sketch depicting a young woman collapsed in the snow, bleeding out magic at the base of a tree. If my deepest, most secret suspicions were true—that Illumina had been there that night, had been the woman who stroked my hair and shushed me where I lay in agony on the cold ground—then how could I be confident she had conveyed the message she was sent to deliver? Or was this what she had wanted? Me, barred forever from the Faerie Realm, and Zabriel equally unable to return to threaten her ascension to the throne? In the end, it didn’t matter, for the Queen had more than one source of information. The three months upon which Davic and I had agreed were up, and he would bring all the forces of Nature to bear to find me, with my father’s assistance. And the Fae Ambassadors to the Warckum Territory would have sent word of the execution of a member of our race. No, the Queen and her entourage would arrive, the only unknown being when.
And while she was here, grieving her son, I would have to face her with nothing to offer but apologies. I wouldn’t try for excuses. She’d wanted me to succeed her, but I’d abandoned Chrior without her blessing, lost my wings, failed to safeguard the Royal Anlace—a timeless relic from the Old Fae that had never even been held by a non-ruler before me—and watched Zabriel die.
I took a long drink of the cider, hoping its warmth would help me to sleep. But just when I felt my consciousness drift, I sat bolt upright in bed—there was one thing I might be able to reverse. I slapped my cheeks in an effort to come fully alert, then tried to recall the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the Anlace.
Shea and I had been arrested at the West Gate of the city. We’d been searched for weapons, and I’d snapped at one of the men to be careful with the blade. During our escape, when we’d stolen back our packs and supplies, the Anlace hadn’t been there. So what had become of it?
I rubbed my temples, trying to conjure an image of the guard in my mind, and the answer came to me. He’d tucked the Anlace into a pouch at his hip, perhaps realizing the knife was valuable. And that meant I had to find him, and fast, before Ubiqua arrived in the capital.
With some semblance of a plan, I doused the lamp and fell asleep with the image of the Anlace, a brilliant ruby glinting from within its golden grip, floating before me, just out of reach.
