by Melissa Marr
Eilidh rolled her eyes. “Mother worries because I’m her heir. She worries that Father won’t manage to gift her with a healthy child to replace me. She worries that she’ll have to hand the throne over to a broken princess instead of the baby who was lost to the sea.”
“So where were you?” He leaned close, sniffing the ashy scent that clung to her skin and hair.
She debated not telling him, knew that she shouldn’t, but Torquil already had enough of her secrets in his hands to have her locked inside the glass tower forever. One more was no extra risk. “I went to check on someone.”
“You can’t keep going to their world,” Torquil continued. “They kill our kind.”
She brushed the truth away with a sweep of her hands. “And we kill theirs. It doesn’t have to be war between us. There has to be a way—”
“The queen asked me to watch you more closely,” Torquil confessed suddenly. “If she knew that you were going over there, she’d see me punished. She’d see you locked away under guard. You know that.”
“So tell her.” Eilidh folded her arms and met his eyes. It was harder than when she was a child. Back then, she hadn’t realized how ugly she was, how scarred, how pitiful to the beautiful ones. Even the least of the fae were stunning.
Once, many centuries before the war began, humans had thought the fae were gods. It was easy to understand why when she looked at Torquil. He was of one of the purest bloodlines, a family close to the regent of the Seelie Court.
Why the queen agreed to allow him to be her playmate, Eilidh would never know. Perhaps her father had insisted. Eilidh never asked outright, but it was common knowledge that Torquil’s birth loyalty wasn’t to the Unseelie Court. The unification of the courts didn’t change history. His father was devoted to her father, the Seelie King, not to the Unseelie Queen. The regents’ ruling together was new, only a few decades, but the rivalry between the courts stretched as far back as there had been fae courts.
“Eilidh?” He touched her shoulder, drawing her attention to him. “The humans would cage you. They cage anyone who has fae blood.”
“And we kill them,” she reiterated. “So much blood has already been shed. If Mother would—”
“Eilidh,” he said, drawing her name out slowly. “You cannot keep going over there.”
“She suspects something, then,” Eilidh said, hearing the words he wasn’t saying. She wasn’t ready to deal with her mother. She needed time before she could utilize the secrets she’d collected. “She wants you to watch me because she has doubts about what I’m doing.”
Torquil dropped his arm around her shoulders. “You know I’ve always tried to keep your secrets, but the queen knows that too.”
Eilidh nodded and let him lead her deeper into the shadows of the Hidden Lands. The degree of purity in fae blood determined the ability to lie. Pure lines like his—and hers—felt extreme physical pain upon lying. The Sleepers were able to lie, to a degree at least. That was one of the reasons they’d been created. They could blend, and they could lie. She and Torquil couldn’t have done what the Sleepers were sent to do.
“Just walk with me,” she said. “I’m not asking you to suffer for me.”
“I have. Willingly,” he reminded her.
“But I’ve never asked you to.”
He kept pace with her, shortening his stride so he was matching her much shorter one. Torquil wasn’t unusually tall, just under six and a half feet. Like the light that radiated from his dark skin, his height marked him as belonging to one of the oldest, purest families.
When he finally decided on a bride, he would have his pick of them. Truth be told, even those who were promised already would probably say yes if he chose them. If he desired a man, no one would care—as long as he had a surrogate to carry his ancestry forward. Only someone who sought heartbreak would be foolish enough to seriously fantasize about him. Despite the embarrassing dreams she often had, Eilidh didn’t seek to have her heart broken as her body once was.
Eilidh knew Torquil was as out of her reach as the stars are to the soil. She’d known it since she’d been old enough to realize that no other fae, Seelie or Unseelie, looked like her. The maze of scars that covered her body like a madman’s map assured that no fae looked on her with longing. Only Torquil had ever looked at her with genuine pleasure. How was she to avoid caring for him? How could she not imagine that his friendship was the precursor to love?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For?”
“You being in this position with the queen.” They’d reached the caves where tunnels honeycombed out into routes that led either to disasters or to their homes. Only those who knew the way could safely navigate the tunnels. It was one of the many safety measures the king and queen had instituted to keep the fae safe should humans figure out how to access the Hidden Lands.
Torquil’s luminous skin, as with most fae, lit their way as they stepped into the perpetual gloaming inside the passageways. Despite everything, she still took comfort in that—in their nature, in their very being. She didn’t agree with the war, wouldn’t ever believe that the death of one person legitimized the slaughter of millions. She did, however, understand her mother’s need to save their people.
“The queen tells me you’re to be looking for a bride soon,” she said as they turned from one tunnel into the next. “She warned me that I’d need to find a new playmate once you’re betrothed.”
Torquil snorted, an indelicate sound she’d only ever heard when they were alone. “Playmate? Did you remind her that we’re well past the edge of make-believe in the garden?”
“No.” Eilidh smothered a smile.
“Afraid she’ll put you on the market too?” he teased.
She was quiet long enough that he glanced her way, prompting her to answer, “That won’t happen.”
“Because?”
“Marriage would mean childbirth, and my mother would not risk my death that way.” Eilidh paused, weighing out her words, rejecting and selecting the ones that would sound calmest before continuing, “The healers were shocked that I lived at all. None of the other children after me have. Our queen will order Father to have a daughter who will be raised to bed with Rhys before she agrees to risk me in that way.”
Eilidh’s voice was steady as she outlined the obvious. The king had two sons, Nacton and Calder; the queen had one son, Rhys. Since the queen couldn’t carry another child, logically, the king would have to take Seelie women to his bed until he had a daughter, who—once old enough—would be given to Rhys. The child of their union would then be a child of both courts. Such a child would be able to take the Hidden Throne and rule.
When the two courts had set aside an eternity of conflict, they had agreed that either children of both courts or an heir with blood of both the Seelie and Unseelie would rule. There was no other option. It was the one inviolable term of the unification.
“Right now, Mother fears that something is wrong with me inside,” Eilidh said softly. “She wouldn’t want an even more broken child to take the throne, and she wouldn’t want her only child with Leith to die. I will not have children unless Mother has no other options.”
“Eilidh,” he started.
“Hush.” She looked up at him. “Lying hurts, Torquil. Don’t do it to spare my feelings. I know what my mother thinks. I know what she fears. The broken daughter is only a stand-in until a new heir is born.”
“I don’t think you’re broken.”
Eilidh shook her head and pressed her lips tightly together.
“Are you considering anyone in particular for your bride?” she asked after a time. “I assume you’re selecting a bride, not a groom?”
Torquil tensed. “I’m not considering anyone.”
“No one caught your eye yet, then?” she persisted, perversely needing to hear that there was someone, someone other than her, he truly looked upon with interest.
Coolly, Torquil said, “In exchange for my loyalty, the que
en has given me free rein to choose anyone, no restrictions other than not taking a wife who still has young children.”
That was the sort of open choice that was usually only reserved for royals or those to whom the queen felt indebted or deemed so pure as to need every incentive possible to wed. Marriage wasn’t forever among the fae; even when the two courts were separate, the idea of permanent liaisons was odd. The first nearly permanent marriage between the Unseelie Queen and Seelie King would end when their heir took the Hidden Throne.
Eilidh couldn’t say she was surprised. Torquil was among the purest of the fae, and he was trusted by both king and queen. She hoped that the king had given him other restrictions, but it was unlikely. Leith rarely disputed the queen’s choices. Luckily, Torquil wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t attempt to separate a couple in love.
“What generosity,” Eilidh said mildly. “All of both courts open to you for the low price of selling me out.”
“It’s not only for that, Eilidh. You know that as well as I do. She wants more strong fae, and I’ve not shown any interest in breeding. She’s trying to bring me to heel.” He tried to pull her near him, catching her hand in his and tugging.
She didn’t resist. He spun her to face him, and slid his hand from her wrist to her elbow.
“I don’t intend to tell her anything about your actions,” he said, holding on to her with both hands now. “You can trust me to keep your secrets.”
“I won’t ask you to lie,” Eilidh countered. If it came to it, she’d live in the human world. She had connections there who could shelter her. It would be horrible to leave the fae, to not see them, to be surrounded by the toxic environment humanity had created. It would be worse to be imprisoned in the tower. “You’ll need to choose soon, I suspect.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “Soon is relative when you live for centuries. Until she sets a deadline, I am ignoring it. If she sets one”—he shrugged one shoulder—“my father still has close ties to our king.”
“The king would have to owe your family quite a favor to stand up to Endellion.”
“True,” Torquil admitted, as much as saying aloud that the favor was, indeed, worthy of such actions.
She pulled out of his grasp finally and resumed walking. It was pitiful that her greatest joy was in being held prisoner by him for a few scant moments. Sometimes she was so hungry for the touch of another person that she considered starting a quarrel just for the hope to be touched. Being the broken heir was a lonely state. It was part of why she’d cherished the years she played with Lilywhite. They’d hugged and laughed, played tag and fallen into a jumble of limbs. None of those were experiences she’d known here in the Hidden Lands.
Torquil walked with Eilidh in silence the rest of the way through the tunnels and into the land where all the fae now lived. Usually she enjoyed seeing the beauty of their home, but not today. Today, she stared at the glass tower that she shared with no one. It rose up into the sky like a beacon, glistening like a jewel in even the dimmest light.
The tower had been built for another child, a baby who was lost to the sea, a daughter whose absence started a war. Neither the king nor queen lived in it. In all of Eilidh’s life, she didn’t recall her mother even visiting. Her father had periodically, but he could barely stand the sight of her. The Seelie Court was the court of beauty and light, and his daughter was not beautiful.
Waves surged against the tower, leaving behind dried salt that only added to the glitter of the tall building. Torquil walked her to the door, as he had so many times. Now, though, it felt like there were stares heavy on her skin. There was no doubt that word of his orders from the queen had begun to spread, and prospective brides were watching. More eyes on Eilidh would make her secret tasks even harder.
“Maybe you should pick a bride now,” she blurted. It wasn’t what she wanted, but a distraction would decrease his attention to her comings and goings. An announced bride would mean that the prospects wouldn’t be studying her, trying to decide if she was competition or a way to reach him.
Torquil opened the door to the winding stairwell that twisted halfway up the tower. This part of the tower was transparent, allowing any and all to see her approach so they could offer respect or flee her presence. The top, fortunately, was mostly opaque. The only other section of the tower that enabled watchers to see her was the uppermost floor. There, she moved like a wraith, not clearly visible, but a shape whose movement could be tracked through translucent glass.
On the outside of the tower was another staircase, this one minded by guards. The visitors’ staircase was to be used by everyone other than the royal parents, any siblings, and her betrothed when there was one. Those few fae could walk on the spiral staircase inside the glass tower.
“I’ll meet you at the—”
“No.” She turned away and began ascending the steps as she added, “You shouldn’t visit so much now that you’re seeking a bride. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Proper?” Torquil’s voice was as cold as she’d ever heard it. “You’re lecturing me on propriety?”
Eilidh’s temper flared, not as brightly as her mother’s did but enough that she was forcefully reminded of her parentage. She wasn’t surprised. He was fae, after all, but he’d been her only true friend in this world. That earned him a fair warning. Softly but steadily, she told him, “I’ve been the queen’s daughter, surrounded by machinations my whole life, while you were out being free. Don’t try to challenge me.”
“You sound very Unseelie right now, Patches,” he charged.
He stared at her as she stood halfway between one step and the next. In that moment, she thought that this was good-bye, that her dearest friend was about to be lost to her forever. That would’ve hurt, but not as much as what he next did: Torquil started up the spiral staircase.
“I’ve decided not to wait, after all,” he said. “I’ve made my choice.”
He strode up after her, and she wanted to run—or perhaps shove him backward.
Behind her, behind him, there were gasps. No one could have heard his words, but his actions spoke like a declaration. Only the royal parents, siblings, or her intended could walk up those stairs.
He was not her family.
“Back up,” Eilidh said desperately. She spun so she was facing him. “This isn’t funny. Go back! Go back now.”
“No.” He continued up the stairs, stalking after her. “The queen said I could chose anyone. Anyone.”
“She didn’t mean me! I’m not agreeing to this. Stop it this instant, Torquil.”
He laughed. “And when has a princess been allowed to select her own groom?” He was on the step next to hers. There, in front of her, he kneeled and stared up at her. “Shall I tell the queen or would you like the honor of letting her know that we are betrothed?”
Eilidh swallowed hard. Words wouldn’t come. She looked away from him, staring through the walls of her tower at the growing number of faeries clustering around the building. They stared at her, as they often did, but this time she saw surprise, envy, and anger in their expressions.
“What have you done to me? To us?” she whispered. “What have you done, Torquil?”
six
ZEPHYR
The semester was starting finally, and Zephyr’s team would all be back on campus. When Zephyr arrived at his suite, he found a not surprising note that both his suitemate and his best friend had already left for a bar, so he dropped his bags and headed into town.
Belfoure was an overcrowded maze of streets and shops. It was one of the strongest cities on the Eastern seaboard. Crime there was at a record low, and the pollution levels were among the lowest in the country. Generous donations from the families of St. Columba’s students no doubt kept it that way. The school was home to children from some of the wealthiest families in the world, those who graced the pages of magazines or screens because of their own talents . . . or, as in his case, because of a parent’s talents.
“Waters! Hey,
Zephyr!” a salesman called out as Zephyr paused to wait for the traffic light.
This was it, the start of the future he’d been waiting for. He’d trained, and he’d readied himself, studying essays and treatises, paying attention to politics and laws of the Hidden Lands. All the while, he’d concealed those habits from all but his closest friends and become the person that best fit his role in the human world: spoiled, sardonic son of film legends.
Tonight he was going to see his friends, pretend to drink heavily, and flirt outrageously. He’d either leave with a girl whose name he didn’t bother to learn or he’d cuddle up to his best friend, Alkamy. He would, in essence, be the person that he was assigned to embody as his cover—and he’d enjoy it. That was the trick to the game: enjoying the lie you lived, finding the pleasure in it. Zephyr enjoyed a lot of it.
The bouncer at the front of the Row House didn’t even blink when Zephyr skipped the line. When school was in session, he was a fixture here. There were still a few regions where a drinking age was set, but the majority of the continent had eliminated that law well before Zephyr was born. That didn’t mean that he ingested poison, but he’d learned young how to pretend. It was a part of the role he lived, part of how he hid his true genetics. The fae-blood, those with any portion of fae ancestry, couldn’t drink alcohol without being weakened by it. Zephyr had never consumed more than the one glass of it he’d been ordered to drink to get a sense of the way it hurt. That was enough.
He couldn’t understand why Creed drank—or how he endured it.
Shaking away thoughts that would lead to a fight once he saw Creed, Zephyr paused so a cute girl could snap a picture of him. It wouldn’t be useful to go to the club without being seen doing it. The headmistress at St. Columba’s didn’t comment on the plethora of photos that cropped up online or in magazines proving that Zephyr routinely ignored the rules about leaving campus. Headmistress Cuthbert was a fan of minimal conflict and maximum donations. Neither Zephyr nor his teammates—Alkamy Adams, Creed Morrison, Violet Lamb, or Roan Kenrick—ever caught hell for flaunting the rules. Not surprisingly, the four of them were often in the same pictures with Zephyr. It was only their friend Will Parrish who stayed clear of the club and the cameras.