by Bec McMaster
Immortality and power beckon. Freedom.
And if that means war, then so be it.
The Blessed deserve it.
The Court of Dreams is like nothing I expected.
The portal spits me out in the ancient glade of a forest. A waterfall plunges into a deep, dark hole bedecked in ferns and lush lilies, and I roll to a halt beside it in the leaf mulch. An ancient carving of the Goddess of Mercy looms out of the greenery, though her pale, marble skin is sheathed in a gown of moss, and her weathered face holds the wisdom of millennia.
Behind me the portal hums, its opaque surface rippling like sunlight over water. I haul myself to my feet, brushing off my borrowed finery.
And suddenly realize I'm not alone.
"It seems Prince Keir has invited practically anybody," says a haughty voice. "And here I thought this Summons was exclusive."
Fae ladies titter like a flock of starlings as the speaker glides toward me, bearing down upon me like a warship.
Half a dozen of them are gathered there in colorful gowns and crowns woven of gold and pearls, thorns and brambles. Several retainers await, wearing tufted ears that flicker, or tails that curl around their legs. It's a sign of their half-blood, and though they may strive to rise through the courts, they'll never climb higher than where they are.
The Blessed revere their pure blood.
And spit on those without it.
Clearly, today is the day to arrive and I'm to be the innocent lamb led to the slaughter.
"Don't worry," I mutter, "I'm sure the prince will be able to see exactly how well-bred you are."
The fae princess's eyes narrow on me. She's beautiful in an unearthly, inhuman kind of way. They always are. Tumbles of ruby-red hair are woven into an intricate crown, revealing the razor-sharp edge of her cheekbones and her glittering gold eyes. When she smiles, sharp teeth glint in the light.
All the better for tearing shreds off poor unsuspecting passers-by.
"Who are you?" she demands.
"Lady Merisel of Greenslieves." The lie rolls off my tongue as smoothly as honey. One of the gifts of the Forsaken's curse. We're no longer bound by the rules that govern the fae.
One could be mistaken for thinking the flock of princesses watching me harmless in their silks and braids, but their eyes hold the hungry look of a starving tiger. This is a Summons, which means none of us are friends. The challenge is to survive the court—and bring down the prize.
Who just happens to be a powerful, ancient fae male.
"And yourself?" I ask.
"You don't know who she is?" demands an incredulous blonde at her side.
"I don't know who any of you are," I reply.
The pair of them exchanges a look, and the redhead smiles nastily. "Greenslieves is a demesne far from its nearest court—and civilization. Lady Merisel's lack of knowledge is not surprising, Narcissa."
Princess Narcissa of the Court of Blood. Her uncle, King Aswan, rules the court, and it's said she's hungry to overthrow him.
Of all the Blessed fae, the Court of Blood ranks as one of the worst. It wouldn't surprise me if sweet Narcissa spends her time pulling the wings off demi-fae.
Not to be outdone, the redhead sneers at my plain green skirts. "I am Princess Ismena of the Storm Court."
Ah, just my luck.
Prince Angmar's vicious sister, Ismena, wearing a net of seaweed and pearls in her red hair.
If she recognizes me, I'm dead.
Ismena circles me, looking me up and down. There's no denying her gown is far finer than the one I stole from Lady Merisel, but I hold my chin high. "A worm from the forests," she says with a smirk. "The prince must have been desperate."
"You should return home," Narcissa adds. "You're outclassed and outbred here, worm."
I sense Soraya joining me, though she's more than adept at remaining in the shadows and avoiding notice.
Pity I cannot entirely say the same.
A raw impotent hate burns deep in my belly. The job is simple: get into the Court of Dreams, get the Dragon's Heart, and get out. A smart thief knows better than to draw attention. But I've spent twenty-eight years bowing my head to Blessed fae who think they're better than me. Every time, it chafes, but this time there's a rawness to the wound that will not be denied.
Fuck it. They all think I'm a fae lady, anyway. Why not show my claws?
"Outbred?" I mutter. "And here I thought it was inbred?"
Several of the other young princesses gasp. One smiles, though she pretends to hide it. I like her already.
Narcissa's face pales with fury. "You wretched little—"
A horn suddenly sounds, cutting off the words, though from the way she bites down on her lip, I know her sudden silence won't last.
Horses pour over the hill. A dozen guards in gleaming gold armor guard the party, and there are servants in the blue livery of the Court of Dreams. Saved by the arrival of the prince's greeting party, though there's no sign of the prince himself.
Every princess sweeps to their station, fixing errant curls of hair and adding crowns of flowers or gold. This is a competition, after all.
Soraya slinks past me, "I thought your plan was to draw no attention?"
"I changed my mind," I murmur as she hauls the trunk we "borrowed" from Merisel. "It seems the Lady of Greenslieves has an arrogant streak. And they're all here to win the prince's heart, no matter whom they have to trample. I think a glimpse of my claws might keep them off my back."
"If I were you, I'd be more worried about the knife they'll embed in it."
I shoot her a cool glance. "That's why I have you, sister dear. You don't think you're here just to sweep my chambers and empty the chamber pot?"
Soraya's teeth gleam, and suddenly I realize it's not just the princesses I'll have to keep an eye on. "Empty your own cursed chamber pot. You and I must work together, but don't forget that we're not allies."
I never do.
I learned that lesson in the training camps many, many years ago.
3
The Captain of the Guards watches me with the glittering attention of a hawk circling its prey from far above. In a sea of glimmering silks and tittering laughs, he knows I don't truly belong.
So do I.
Sweat drips down my spine as I hold the curtsy. Head bowed like a penitent, knees starting to shake, my hands sweeping the Lady of Greenslieves' fine silk skirts into a gush of fabric around me, I am the very picture of submission.
It's been years since I was trained for this.
I'm older than most of the other princesses, my manners stiff and ill-formed, like a thin veneer over the unpolished heart of me. Ismena hinted that she considers Greenslieves to be a backwater holding, so I'll use that to cover any gaffes, but I can't help thinking the captain looks at me longer than he does the others.
"Welcome to the Court of Dreams," calls the seneschal who accompanied us to the palace. "Tonight there shall be a welcoming dinner. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the wine and candied sweetmeats, though you're quite welcome to use the time to refresh yourselves in your rooms."
Servants flood the courtyard, offering trays and goblets that are filled to the brim. The sweet scent of magnolias fills the air, and fountains splash and burble. As far as courts go, it's impressive. I can see the palace's domes over the golden sandstone walls that lock us in here, but so far the Court of Dreams has earned its title.
"Any sign of him yet?" I mutter to Soraya.
"Someone's watching us," she murmurs.
"No doubt surveying the flock of prizes that await him."
It's time to see if this ruse will pay off.
They say the Prince of Dreams can see through magic itself and pierce any lie with the cold, locking stare he's said to have perfected. Let's see if he can see through my glamour.
The herald raps his staff on the hard tiles and begins to call out Prince Keir's titles. Lord of the Morning Star, Prince of Chaos and Dreams, Master of Nightmares
.... It's a mouthful, and I cannot resist rolling my eyes as the herald drones on. Who needs so many names?
I only have one: Zemira Az Ghul.
But once there were others, gifted to me by my mother upon my birth, before they were stolen by my father, along with the rest of me.
Zemira Ashburn. Gravekissed, the Black Hawk, Winterborn.
The fae do so love their titles. They collect them like rare antiques, and I can't help wondering if it's a means to hide other, ahem, shortcomings.
Bare feet whisper over the marble floors.
None of the other princesses notice, but I can feel the prickle of hot eyes watching me. Maybe it's just the thought of being caught out, but every nerve I own is on edge.
A thief knows when she's being watched.
I turn, and there's the Prince of Dreams himself, stalking toward me with sinuous grace.
Dark hair flows to his shoulders, but it's those thick, dark brows that give his green-gold eyes an intensity that almost makes me back away a step. He moves with the loose-hipped stride of a predator, and I can practically feel the coil of alien power simmering beneath his olive skin.
Skin that's very much on show.
His chest is bare, a long, loose robe of midnight flowing from his shoulders and a golden claw hanging about his throat. Trousers sit low on his hips, revealing the chiseled cut of muscle that dips into dangerous terrain. Every inch of him is expertly forged, and any female would want to explore.
Even me.
Sweet Mother of Mercy. I'd been prepared for a fae prince, but what I hadn't expected was the sheer primordial power practically spilling from his pores.
I am so fucked.
It's as if he senses my sudden nerves.
His head turns, hunting through the crowd of princesses as if he's caught the edge of my errant thought. This must be how it feels to be stalked by a wolf. The other females are merely collateral damage. He's searching for the right prey. The weakest link. The straggler.
And the second he spots me, I know it's me.
The Prince of Dreams's eyes devour every inch of me, as if I'm nothing more than a tasty morsel to consume. "The Lady of Greenslieves, I presume?"
My breath catches in my chest, as if someone's punched me there.
"None other." I have no idea how I force my voice to work. His presence weaves its own magic.
"Tell me? Does your father still hold to the Old Traditions?"
I have no idea. "He does his best, my prince."
Keir searches my eyes, though I'm not sure what he's looking for. I can sense the others watching, little whispers catching the edge of my consciousness, but for a second, I cannot look away.
"Then you are welcome here." It's a soft murmur, and I cannot stop the shivers that tremble down my arms.
The second he looks away from me, I release a breath. That was... intense. For a second, the thought of what I intend overwhelms me.
Steal from this prince? Am I insane?
Desperate, I tell myself.
Fine. He's powerful. All the fae are.
I have to remind myself of what's at stake.
I picture that little crystalline soul-trap around my father's throat.
The Wraith King didn't breed Soraya or me out of the kindness of his heart. He has none. No, he's the kind of creature that plays a long game, and for nearly fifty years he's been focused on breeding a half-fae, half-wraith child that can pass among the courts.
Of all those bastards found in the training camps, there were but a handful that displayed more fae qualities than wraithenkind. It didn't grant us any advantage. Indeed, the others knew we were the chosen ones, and they outnumbered us three to one. I'd often wake to a hand over my mouth and a blade to my throat and swiftly learned to sleep lightly.
And to keep a knife under my pillow.
I don't know who my mother was.
Some highborn fae from one of the northern courts, I think. Raesh used to send raiding parties out to capture the purebloods for his breeding purposes. When my birth went poorly, he ordered me cut from my mother's womb, and I don't know her fate.
Only the whisper of my true name in my ears; a name meant for me and me alone.
Sometimes I hear it in my dreams, and I wonder what she was like. Was she frightened of what she'd been sentenced to? Did she despise me for the act of my begetting? Or did she love me and hope to free me one day?
I'll never know.
My loyalty is bound to my father by magic—not love or familial affection. And I would do anything to escape its trap.
Even this.
My resolves firms as I watch the Prince of Dreams greet each princess in kind. He's dangerous and powerful, but he's the key to my freedom.
All I have to do is find his relic and steal it.
And maybe then I'll have a chance to discover more about my mother's people and who she was.
"Well," says a voice by my side. "He's everything I've ever heard said of him. Whoever captures his attention is bound to find a wild ride. That prince won't take to the bit well."
It's the female who smiled when I called Narcissa inbred. Her hair is a riot of golds and reds, with a crown of brambles woven through it, but it's her eyes that are her most defining feature. They're the gold of a hawk's eyes, and her brows fan over them with a hint of a feathery curl.
She looks nothing like the others, in their silks and precious gems. Instead, she's wearing a gown of reddened autumn leaves threaded with thin gold chains.
"Whoever thinks they're going to land him has another think coming." We both watch the prince, and I shake my head. "He's playing his own games here."
"Aren't we all?" She snorts.
And I glance at her a little more closely.
"Calliope of the Forest of Thistlewood," she says, in response to my unspoken question.
One of the Wild Fae who are owned by no court.
If anyone belongs here as uneasily as I do, it's her.
"The worm," I reply dryly, for that's what Narcissa and her friends have named me. "Though my friends may call me Merisel of Greenslieves."
"I think I'll call you Merisel," she says, scanning the gaggle of princesses who surround the prince, "as you have more than your share of enemies."
"You've noticed."
Another faint smile. "Pay them no mind. Narcissa's fighting for an ally to help her win her throne from her uncle, and Ismena needs to protect her brother's court. Apparently, Angmar's powers wane with the loss of his trident, and he has wolves poised at every door."
"Desperate means dangerous."
This time, there's a hint of a predator in her eyes. "I'm well guarded against their claws. And they've spent too much time in a civilized court. They forget what it means to be the darkness in the forest. The huntress who bares her teeth. They're merely pretty dolls playing at court games, and when it comes time for bloodletting, they'll find my bite is worse than my bark."
Don't cross the Wild Fae is an old, well-known saying.
She looks at me. "But you're not a pretty doll. I can see the hunger in your eyes, and the baring of your teeth in every smile. We should be friends, you and I."
"Until the end?" I murmur, well aware that Calliope is playing her own games.
"An alliance until we're the last two standing?"
It won't hurt to have someone watching my back.
Until she thinks it time to remove me from the field of play.
"To hunting princes," I reply, with a smile.
"To hunting princes."
4
The first chance I get, I steal away through the palace to scope the lay of the land.
It's oddly silent in the lamp-lit hallways, and as I slip through them, I silently place myself on the mental map I have of the palace. Throne room, audience chamber, the gallery, the promenade.... There has to be a way to the lower floors where the treasury is sure to be. If anyone asks, I'll claim I'm lost.
Laughter echoes from above, startling me.
Apparently the prince is entertaining tonight.
Auditioning, I should say.
He's made it clear he expects to end this entire ruse with a pretty princess by his side, and the entire flock of them is awash with predatory intent. They look like a herd of flamingoes in their finery, albeit flamingoes with sharp teeth and hidden claws. Four of them have already formed some sort of alliance—Narcissa and Ismena among them—and they've made two girls cry. If I had to listen to their whispered malice for the evening, I was going to do something rash.
Like stick a knife in someone.
If I were Prince Keir, I would lock my bedroom doors. One or two of those princesses look desperate to me. And desperate is dangerous.
Stairs beckon ahead of me, leading down into the gloom. Yes. Here we are. Glancing along the hallway, I find myself alone. Slipping from shadow to shadow—old habits die hard—I'm almost standing at the top of them when something moves behind me; a whisper of noise, like that of silk rasping over stone.
Spinning around, I stare along the hallway.
Lights flicker in their sconces. Two of them further down the hall have been extinguished, but there's no one there.
A hint of dread trickles inexplicably down my spine, but maybe it's naught more than the thrill of getting caught?
And then a shadow moves, huge and towering. It ripples along the hallway and it moves fast.
Damn it.
Hauling up a fistful of my skirts, I turn and bolt around one of the enormous columns that line the hallways, slamming directly into a firm, hard chest—
Hands immediately lock around my upper arms, and my weight shifts onto the balls of my feet, instinct preparing me to throw him.
And that's when I see his face, hard and implacable.
The perfect straight line of his nose. The cut of those hawkish cheekbones.
The prince himself.
"What are you doing here?" I gasp, because tossing the Lord of the Morning Star, the Master of Chaos, and Lord of Shadows—or was it Secrets?—onto his backside is probably not the best idea.