by Jayne Faith
It was a pretty lame reason, but I couldn’t lie outright about why she wanted to come and I wasn’t supposed to tell Maxen that the changeling was actually my sister and Lochlyn wanted to be there for moral support.
He narrowed his eyes for a minute, and I couldn’t help thinking of Lochlyn’s command to flirt with him. Make him think you want to clank rocks. I nearly snorted a laugh but managed to control it and turn it into a broad smile. I tilted my head, channeling Penelope, my sex kitten alter-ego.
Maxen shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?” He turned to go but then paused. “Only if you beat me in the yard.”
I let out a laugh that echoed down the hallway. Since we were kids in training, I’d defeated him nine times out of ten, at least.
I pushed open the door of the mineral sauna. The small space wasn’t much bigger than a closet, with just a wooden bench by way of décor. The walls were made of slabs of shimmering opalescent stone from deep in the earth of the Old World. It was said the stone combined all the minerals and precious stones that existed on both sides of the hedge. Fae called it Brigitstone after Brigit, the Celtic Saint of healing and blacksmithing.
I took off my scabbard and set it against the wall, settled on the bench, inhaled deeply, and let my body drink in the magical nourishment.
When I emerged, my skin slicked from the mist of magic and minerals, I felt like a god reborn. I wasn’t fully healed yet, but the moments after time in the mineral sauna were always filled with a surge of energy and vitality. It was like a triple espresso after the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.
I put on my scabbard and rolled my neck as I made my way to the gym, letting the mist of the mineral room dry on my skin. Poor Maxen. I was going to kick his ass all over the training yard.
When I got outside, I squinted and shaded my eyes against the bright sunshine, automatically looking toward the flash of metal and clangs of swords. Maxen was sparring with Shane again, who was the current general weapons teacher for the youngest class of New Gargoyles. Maxen’s eyes flicked to me, but he somehow kept his focus on the fight at the same time. He slashed at Shane with a complicated sequence of strokes, but the teacher was faster—Shane fought back and slipped his blade under Maxen’s elbow, where it slid off the rock armor protecting Maxen’s ribs.
Shane spoke a few words to Maxen, the two men shook hands, and the teacher departed.
“Sure you want to do this?” I called to Maxen. With a languorous stretch of my arm, I reached for Mort. “Maybe you need to rest first?”
“Nope,” he said, working his blade in a figure-eight warm-up pattern. “Let’s go, Maguire.”
We faced off, and when our eyes met, I flashed a grin. But I waited, wanting Maxen to make the first move. He feinted a lunge and slashed upward. I sidestepped and parried. It all happened in barely a blink.
“Not even going to use your armor?” Maxen asked as we circled each other.
“Nah,” I said. “So far I see no need for it.”
He laughed good-naturedly. I attacked with an overhand swing, and Maxen barely blocked it. I came in for a jab at his midsection and hit his armor. He was stronger than me, but I was faster, and my sword was a bit lighter and shorter than his. Size wasn’t everything.
I tsked. “You still keep your elbow too high. How many times did Jaquard give you that correction when you were a kid?”
“About a million.”
We traded blows, our swords clanking in a rhythm that almost sounded deliberate, for several minutes. I got completely absorbed in the enjoyment of the dance.
Maxen came in for a complex attack, trying to use his size and strength to overpower me, and managing to drive me back several steps.
I was running out of room. I dropped to one knee in an attempt to make him think he’d gained the upper hand. When he telegraphed a too-large overhead slash downward, I spun on my knees, darted under his arm, and sprang up three feet away from where I’d been. The end of Maxen’s heavy sword jammed into the grass, and I flicked Mort out and tapped the side of his neck.
“Mine!” I shouted. It was our tradition—whoever won got to crow about it. Jaquard always told us it was a crass and immature habit. That was half the reason Maxen and I had kept doing it.
I lowered Mort and backed away.
“Again?” I asked.
We were both breathing hard. Sweat beaded on Maxen’s forehead and darkened his hairline.
“I’d like to, but it’s time to get ready for court,” he said, sheathing his sword. He glanced off to the side of the training field. I followed his gaze to where a blue-vested page was waiting with his hands folded and a tablet tucked under his arm.
I groaned and let my head drop back.
He arched a brow at me. “You’re the one who wanted to go.”
“I know. I just don’t want to go through the ridiculousness of all the pomp. It’s just so . . . archaic.” I wrinkled my nose.
“You should to have more respect for Fae traditions,” he said in a lecturing tone.
“You sound like your mother,” I shot back.
Side by side, we headed inside.
“Why did you need the mineral sauna?” I asked.
“I just want to be at full strength for the trip,” Maxen said absently. “After your shower, there will be a page waiting to take you to your dressing room. They’ll have something frilly and lovely waiting for you, I’m sure.”
I shot him a sour look over my shoulder as I pushed the door to the women’s locker room. But his comment about being at full strength snagged in my mind. Things with the Duergar were contentious. I wondered if Maxen truly feared that the situation could turn violent.
After showering and dressing, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to finger-comb my hair into some semblance of neatness but soon gave up. A stylist would most likely be in my dressing room to work out the knots and make sure I looked proper and presentable.
“Lady Maguire?”
I turned to see who the hell thought I was a lady. It was my page, a girl of about seventeen.
“Please, call me Petra,” I said.
She smiled politely, but I saw a brief flash of amusement in her fluorite-lavender eyes. She’d probably seen me fruitlessly fiddling with my hair.
“If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your dressing room now,” she said.
I strapped on my scabbard and held out my arm, indicating she should lead the way out of the locker room.
“How long have you been a page?” I asked her once we were out in the corridor and walking side by side.
“Just six months,” she said. She slid a look at me. “When I turn eighteen, I want to leave the fortress and live on the other side of the hedge. Get a job as a mercenary.”
I lifted my brows. “Really? What a coincidence you got assigned to me.” I gave her a wry look.
She shrugged a shoulder in a very teenage gesture. “Not the only reason, but yeah.”
“I bet you’re a handful for your father,” I said. “Let me guess. You and he butt heads about a dozen times a day.”
She let out a tinkling laugh. “How did you know?”
“Personal experience.” Poor Oliver. “Are you a good fighter?”
“Top three in my class, combat all forms, combined,” she replied automatically but with pride.
I gave her a nod. “Impressive.”
She smiled with delight at the compliment, revealing a dimple. Her eyes flicked to Mort on my back.
“Got a sword?” I asked.
She shook her head, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging a little. “Father wouldn’t buy me one. He thinks if I don’t have a weapon I won’t try to go into a dangerous line of work. That’s why I’m working as a page. I want my own blade by the time I turn eighteen.”
“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” I said approvingly. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Emmaline.”
“Pretty,” I said.
She groaned. “I know. I hate
it. I wish my parents had named me something more bad ass.” She glanced at me quickly. Cursing on the job—even mild swearing—was against the page’s code of conduct.
I snorted. “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle on you.”
She steered me through the corridors in a way that was almost like leading me, but without walking ahead. Despite her little slip, I could tell she was good at her job.
“When you get out of the academy, look me up,” I said. “I’ll give you an intro at the Guild.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her pale purple-gray eyes widened. For a moment, she dropped both her professional façade and her teenage pretense of nonchalance.
“Really?” She blinked at me. “You’d do that?”
I nodded. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
“I—oh my gosh!”
Rather than respond, I brushed off her gratitude, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “Please tell me you’re coming to the Duergar palace,” I said. “I’m not built for courtly nonsense, and I’m going to need all the help I can get. Plus, it would be nice to know there’s another fighter in the group.”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Lord Lothlorien assigned me to you for the duration of the trip.”
I snorted a laugh. “Lord Lothlorien,” I mumbled to myself.
“Yes, Maxen?” Her brow creased in confusion. “I thought the two of you were long-time friends.”
“Yeah, we go way back,” I confirmed. “I just have a hard time thinking of him as ‘Lord Lothlorien.’ It sounds funny. Makes him seem so high and mighty.”
“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral and clearly not sure what the proper response was.
I cleared my throat. I shouldn’t have spoken so casually about Maxen, regardless of my personal history and friendship with him. He was the equivalent of a Fae prince. He would be prince if Marisol got her wish and succeeded in forming a Stone Court. Marisol and Maxen were the closest things New Gargoyles had to royalty. And in any case, I needed to shift into a more reserved mindset and conduct. I couldn’t get around the ridiculousness of formal courtly etiquette, but it served a person well to stay tight-lipped while at court. Gossip spread faster than balefire, and one wrong word or sidelong look could set off a cascade of whispers and backlash. I didn’t have the patience or personality to succeed at courtly games, so I’d just have to keep my trap shut to get through it.
“Hey, Emmaline,” I said. “Could you do me a favor? If I start running at the mouth when we’re in the Duergar palace, clear your throat. That’ll be the signal that I need to zip it.”
She squashed a look of amusement before it could fully develop. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Lady—uh, Petra.”
“Don’t bet on that.”
She pointed to a door with a plaque holder next to it. “Here we are,” she said, artfully avoiding having to respond.
The temporary plaque was printed with my name. She pushed the door open and gestured at me to go in first.
If Emmaline hadn’t been standing directly behind me and blocking the door, I might have turned around and left.
The room was a nightmare of pretty, girlie things. Racks of dresses, a styling station with a bazillion curling irons, makeup, and other tools of torture. And mirrors everywhere.
A very polished, made-up woman floated across the room at me, gracefully extending her hand.
“Lady Maguire, I’m so pleased to be working with you today,” she said in a rich, cultured voice. “I’m Vera, your head stylist.”
For a split second, I just stared stupidly. I’d never seen a New Gargoyle woman who seemed so thoroughly frilly, curvy, and feminine. But then I noticed her crazy-long eyelashes and realized she wasn’t full-blood. Probably at least a quarter Sylph.
I stuck my hand out and shook hers. “Pleased to meet you. And good luck with this.” I waved my other hand down my body.
She smiled at me out of the corners of her eyes.
“Challenged accepted,” she said, already reaching for my scabbard. I stepped back and removed it before she could put her hands on it.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Emmaline said, and backed out the door. I shot her a look of desperation, but she just smiled demurely as she closed the door.
Two more women appeared from an adjoining room, and then hands were everywhere, undressing me, arranging me, pushing clothes at me.
“Help me, Oberon,” I whimpered.
The ladies just laughed.
Chapter 11
THE LAST TIME I’d been to court, I was a teenager and no one had made a fuss beyond forcing me to wear a dress.
“Really, there’s no need to go to such effort,” I said, my words muffled as one of the ladies pulled a horrible, crinkly, pale orange dress over my head. “I’m just tagging along. I’m not one of the important guests. No one is even going to care I’m there.”
“Every New Gargoyle who visits a foreign court is a reflection on her people,” Vera said. “As such, it’s our duty to ensure you make the proper impression.”
I snorted. They could dress me up like a doll, but making a proper impression? There wasn’t a lacy frock in the world that would guarantee that.
After much yanking and manipulation, they pulled the dress down into place. It was sleeveless, and the arm openings were so tight they bit into my skin.
“She’s very muscular. Look at her arms,” one of the assistants remarked, speaking about me as if I weren’t standing right there. A slight crease of worry formed across her forehead. “Lord Lothlorien failed to mention it.”
I scowled. I had no shame about my body, but it irritated me that Maxen hadn’t told them I was fit.
Vera had stepped back and was squinting at me, one arm wrapped around her narrow waist and the other index finger pressed to her lips.
“The color is all wrong, anyway,” she said crisply. “Take it off. We need to try a cooler palette.”
“Thank Oberon,” I grumbled.
Off came the orange sherbet dress, and I let out a sigh of relief. Not even my sexy alter-ego, Penelope, would want to wear that mess. Penelope was more ripped micro-minis and off-shoulder tops, not ice-cream-colored taffeta.
One of the assistants rifled through a rack of gowns and pulled out an aquamarine one. It was simple, with a wraparound design that created a V neckline. The hem was higher in the front and cascaded to floor-length in the back. It completely lacked any frilly nonsense.
They worked me into it, and when I faced the mirror, I found the color perfectly complemented my sand-toned skin and tawny eyes.
All the stylists were nodding.
“There’s a similar one in brown,” one of the assistants said. “I’ll pull that one, too, and also pack some riding pants and blouses.”
In court, women were expected to wear dresses at all times, with the one exception of riding pants. The riding pants were intended, of course, for horseback activities. Regardless of the intent of the rule, I planned to take a very liberal interpretation of the pants allowance and make good use of the loophole.
Off came the dress and over my underwear went a bathrobe. Under the direction of the ladies, I sat down in the chair at the styling station while a new trio came in—a man and two women this time—and set to work filing my fingernails, doing various manipulations on my hair, smearing things on my skin, and brushing makeup over my face. After a while, I just closed my eyes and tried to send my mind to a more pleasant place.
Thoughts of my sister, Nicole, crept in. I couldn’t help thinking of my mother, too, with two newborn girls and terrified that they would be killed to fulfill a prophecy. Oliver had told me she’d been unstable long before I was born, but had there been any merit to her fear? Apparently, there could be, if Oliver didn’t want Marisol to know about Nicole.
Another large question loomed in my mind: Why had the Duergar King Periclase taken Nicole?
I had no idea why Nicole was valuable to him. At twenty-seven, she was very old for a changeling to be bro
ught back to the Faerie side of the hedge. Usually it happened well before the seventeenth birthday, sometimes quite young, because a person was still malleable in the right ways at that age. Much older than that, and it was too hard on the mind to try to integrate into Faerie, not to mention almost impossible to effectively learn to use and control magic. And a Fae without magic would never be fully accepted on this side of the hedge.
I honestly couldn’t even imagine what was going through Nicole’s mind. Humans were aware of the Fae, but knowing about something was very different than being yanked from your life and into a world you’d never seen and didn’t know how to navigate. And who knew what Periclase’s people were filling her head with. At their worst, the Unseelie were ruthless manipulators with grudges and jealousies that ran deep and sometimes spanned generations. And King Periclase . . . he was on an altogether different level. He actually cared less for the usual Unseelie manipulations than he did for calculated power plays. I’d met him once when I was a child, and the memory was enough to send a little shiver down my spine, even twenty years later.
“Yes, I believe she’s ready,” the male stylist said. I opened my eyes as he reached out to touch my hair, arranging it over my shoulder.
After what had seemed like hours of primpage, the team of stylists stepped back to scrutinize me. As they shifted, making small adjustments, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I let out a surprised laugh, I couldn’t help it. Leaning forward, I turned my face from side to side.
They’d managed to curl my long, stubbornly straight hair into gentle waves that somehow looked polished and natural at the same time. A simple off-center part and a silver clip held back my long bangs, which were swept to the side. My makeup was expertly done to emphasize my eyes, cheekbones, and lips, but thankfully in neutral shades. They’d stuck a bit of false lash on the outer upper corners of my lids. It remained to be seen if I could manage to get through the evening without accidentally pulling them off.
I didn’t like getting all made up, and within the hour I’d probably be itching to wash my face and throw my hair into a ponytail, but I could appreciate anyone who excelled at their chosen craft, regardless of what that craft was.