The goddess Maia doesn’t often grant favors for those who pray to her, but this one night, when I was at my lowest, kneeling in her temples with my knees wet with my blood, she gave me a shred of hope.
She showed me the face of the woman I’ll marry.
The woman I will love.
It’s enough to force the jagged remnants of my father’s shadow from my heart.
He can’t defeat me here, with the image of my future wife reaching out a hand to me as if to lead me into some future adventure. Not even the Darkness can overwhelm me right now.
She’s my hope. My shield. The only fucking thing that keeps my chains of control in place.
“I’m fine,” I repeat again.
“You’re such a stubborn bastard.” Eris tosses my cloak at me. “The others are waiting. Thalia’s little birds have come in.”
“There’s news of Finn?”
“There’s news.” She stalks toward the flap of canvas that partitions this room off from the main tent. “Whether it’s good or not is a question only Thalia can answer.”
It has to be good. I won’t accept any other outcome.
Pushing through the canvas flaps, I find the main room of the tent filled with my people.
They’re all here.
My generals, my spymistress, my friends.
There’s just one empty chair and it belongs to Finn.
The twins, Baylor and Lysander, look like matching monoliths carved out of stone, but despite that, it’s easy to tell them apart.
Half of Baylor’s silvery-blond hair is drawn into a leather thong, and hangs down his back in messy tangles. His armor is scarred green leather, braids of it overlapping the enormous breadth of his chest. But it’s the scowl that identifies him. Baylor’s never met a smile he wouldn’t drag into a back alley and stab to death.
Lysander, on the other hand, is all wickedness and flashy grace. Clad in a black velvet doublet that sets off his hair, his cheeks are smooth-shaven as well as one side of his head. The rest of his hair hangs in a silken fall over the right side of his face. It makes his cheekbones look sharper and sensual, and rings glitter on his fingers. It’s a little fancier than his usual attire, but Lysander likes to party and the queensmoot—a centuries-old meeting between the heads of the Seelie Alliance—is renowned for three days of drinking, dancing and fucking.
Secret assignations between members of opposing royal courts are common. It doesn’t matter who you serve when the bonfires that bring in Lammastide are lit.
It’s the only time of the year when ancient enmities are set aside and the fae can give in to our hedonistic natures.
There’s no sign of pleasure on any of their faces. This Lammastide is different.
Because, while old arguments must be set aside for the duration of the queensmoot, it doesn’t mean that blackmail and murder don’t occur—just as long as they can’t be tied back to your camp.
And right now, the Queen of Asturia has a knife to my throat.
It’s Thalia I turn to, pressing a kiss into her hair. “You have news?”
We share a grandmother and while there’s a hint of me in her sable brown hair and devious eyes, her managing ways are all her own. This is where the threat comes from, despite the pretty purple velvet gown and the innocent curls that tumble down her back. Nobody would ever suspect she’s my spymistress and while she can’t kick a man’s head off his shoulders the way the others can, she’s a knife in your back when you least expect it.
She tilts her head back. “I have news.”
Thalia’s never this serious, so whatever it is, it’s trouble.
“Tell me,” I murmur, circling the table.
“Adaia has arrived in all her golden glory,” Lysander replies. “I managed to get a good look at the layout of the Asturian tents. She’s set up in her usual spot and while there are numerous tents for her guards and servants, there’s nothing that looks like it’s built to hide Finn.”
“He’s there,” Thalia counters. “Rue caught a glimpse of him.”
She’s spent years cultivating the tiny winged demi-fey that flutter through the castle at Ceres, which is home. They’re addicted to milk and honey, and will do practically anything in exchange for it, but to get them to focus on one task long enough to complete it is near impossible.
My cousin has a stubborn streak though. And immortality has its uses. According to her, she’s trained an entire legion of the little winged sprites, and considering the depths of the information she always manages to uncover it’s hard to doubt her.
“Rue has the brains of a thimbleful of mead,” Lysander replies. “I can’t see any sign of Finn, and I’m good. I can’t smell him. And I’ve heard no mention of him among the Asturian troops.”
Thalia sniffs. “It’s not my fault you’re incompetent.”
“Incompetent?”
This needs to be broken up before they’re shouting at each other. I shift, but Baylor beats me to it, one enormous fist slamming into his brother’s chest and pinning him there.
“Finn,” Baylor says pointedly, “is all that matters.”
Lysander curses under his breath, shooting Thalia a dirty look from beneath his thick lashes. “I’m going to have an apology from you later, brat.”
“I didn’t see the army you rode in at the head of.”
“Thalia.” I settle a stare upon her that makes her sigh and draw her knees up to her chest. Her feet are bare, but the girlish look she shoots me slides off me like water.
I know her too well to fall for this innocent bullshit.
I also know the strain that exists within the room is real.
We’re all on edge.
Finn’s usually the one to break the tension, and Lysander—always by his side—is feeling it.
There are always risks in the game of kings, but I hate this moment, when the risk doesn’t pay off. Asturian soldiers were seen sniffing around the ruins of Mistmere. The kingdom was destroyed during the war with the Unseelie
