The sun hadn’t risen, but I ran down to the training ground before the others woke up and practiced my moves until my muscles were sore. When Tristan got back, I was more than warmed up when he came to find me. It was quite obvious he had already heard what had happened in the catacombs. Erik or the dowager must have told him.
“Do you have a death wish?” he growled, side-stepping my blow, which should have hit him in the stomach. “What were you doing in the catacombs? Werewraiths have poison in their bite. You could have been killed.”
“If you had let me train with silver fire by now, I would have been better prepared.” I twirled my staff deftly in my hands.
His eyes narrowed. “That’s because I didn’t think you were ready yet.”
“There’s no more time, Tristan. If I don’t learn how to use all of my powers now, I will never be ready.”
He nodded. “You’re right,” he said unexpectedly, walking over to the sword rack. “Now pick a sword.”
“I have my own,” I said, and pulled out my sword from a glamoured scabbard on my back. Only a few formidable spirit-fae, like my grandmother or the dowager, could see through it. I knew all fae had the gift of glamour. But it was only the rare spirit-fae who possessed the powerful glamour used to conceal things from other fae. I was never going to be caught unarmed again.
Tristan’s lips curved upward. “You’ve been using your glamour quite well.” He sounded impressed. “I must admit I didn’t see through it.”
That was interesting. Tristan didn’t have spirit magic, but then not many of the High Fae did. Spirit-fae were as rare as the fire-fae. I grinned and looked at the sword Rafe had given me. It was a beauty, and I would be silly not to use it.
“Let me see that sword.” Tristan took it from me almost reverently. “Where did you get it?” He turned it around in his hands, inspecting the blade.
“Rafe gave it to me.”
Tristan smirked. “Yes, I heard you have a mage suitor. The illustrious Prince Rafael Ravenswood no less.” He paused, running his finger over the blade from top to bottom. “This is dwarven crafted.”
I nodded. “He had it specially made for me.”
“In the old days, the dwarves created swords like these for the noble fae families, forged in the magical fires of their mines in Dragonsgate. Those fires were said to be started by dragons, and they still burn to this day. But the dwarves don’t make these anymore. Except on a few rare occasions.”
“Why?”
He shrugged and gave the sword back to me. “They have distanced themselves from the fae for centuries. The dwarves hardly ever come out of their mountain cities in the Silverspike Mountains. I don’t know how he got them to make one for you.”
I shrugged as we walked to the middle of the field. “What makes this sword so special?”
“The steel forged in their magical fires is the perfect conduit for our silver fire,” said Tristan, taking up a fighting stance. “Other blades work too, but eventually they burn out. A dwarven-made sword will never burn up, no matter how hot your silver fire gets.” He shot a glance at my sword. “You can take an army of Drakaar down with that.”
I shifted my feet and adjusted my grip. I never knew how precious this sword was. And I was thankful Kalen brought it on the ship for me when we escaped Calos. I came so close to losing it, but I never would again. It would be a constant reminder of everything I had ever taken for granted.
“A sword like that needs a name,” said Tristan.
I grinned. “I was thinking the same thing.” And I knew exactly what name I wanted. “I will call it Dawn.”
“Perfect.” He smiled, and I must say he was even more handsome when he did, which was saying something.
That afternoon I went to see the Dowager Duchess of the Night Court for our lessons.
“Erik has checked the catacombs and there is nothing there,” she said as we walked through the flowering gardens and over a small marble bridge that spanned a sparkling waterfall. “The werewraiths must have gone back to wherever they came from.”
“But what if they come back?”
“The wards have been reinforced under the mountain. Nothing will get through again. But I would like to know what you were doing so far down in the catacombs.” She sat down on her favorite ivy-covered bench in the gardens, overlooking a little pond. A few satyrs were tending the flowers and watering plants as little gnomes wandered about finding weeds, digging them up and eating them. “The books down there are older than me, and most of them are written in the old language of the fae. You wouldn’t be able to read them even if you wanted.”
“I was looking for information on the Dawnstar,” I said finally. “But I found something else.” I told her about the book I had found, but I didn’t mention the voice that led me to it.
Rhiannon’s eyebrows rose. “Illaria Lightbringer died five thousand years ago,” said the dowager. “I didn’t know there were any books left on the ancients. Where exactly was this book you found?”
I explained the location.
“That is very far down in the catacombs, Aurora,” said the dowager, narrowing her sapphire eyes. “I would suggest you don’t go back down there again. Although the wards may have been reinforced, there are things that are best left alone.”
“Like the door with Illaria’s symbol on it?” I dared to ask.
“You found a door?” Her eyes glittered. “What door?”
I described it and told her my theory about the Dawnstar being hidden behind it.
“I thought I explained to you that the Dawnstar is only a myth,” said the dowager.
“But the
