Magic was seeping out of me, black and agonizing. I could see it drifting away. The magic that would let me pass the Road to reach home again.

When sixteen-year-old Anya learns that her aunt, Queen of the Faerie Kingdom of Chrior, will soon die, her grief is equaled only by her despair for the future of the kingdom. Her young cousin, Illumina, is unfit to rule, and Anya is determined not to take up the queen’s mantle herself.

Convinced that the only solution is to find Prince Zabriel, who long ago disappeared into the human realm of Warckum, and persuade him to take up his rightful crown, Anya journeys into the Warckum Territory to bring him home. But her journey is doomed to be more harrowing than she ever could have imagined….

Books by Cayla Kluver

from Mira ink

The Legacy Trilogy

(in reading order)

Legacy

Allegiance

Sacrifice

The Heirs of Chrior Trilogy

The Queen’s Choice

The Queen’s Choice

Cayla Kluver

www.miraink.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Grandma Bev and Grandpa Noel,

whose support has made so many impossible things possible.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

CHAPTER ONE

PREDICTION

I stood at the end of the Road, feeling the frigid breeze and watching the leaves rustle in their dizzying patterns. I had a jerkin and cloak to keep me warm, a long-knife to protect me, but I knew how many souls haunted this place, and it was impossible to feel at ease.

The path and trees were white with snow, but in my mind I saw them red with soldiers’ blood. It ran down the trunks like sap and flooded the walk. There was a legacy burned into the core of this place, and the passage of years could not see it forgotten. Fae and human alike were reluctant to set foot here.

It was not my first time traversing the Bloody Road, the site of the historic battle between human and Fae, so some of its mystique was lost on me. But as my legs were stroked by the hands of the lonely and the angry, of those who could not leave this place, a chill seeped into the marrow of my bones. I walked on, passing into the Realm of my people, for though the lonely and the angry of this Road had taken many, they could not capture me. The power of the elements that ran in my blood spared me.

Despite my long journey, my exhaustion fell away once the city came into view. The human world, though fascinating, could be wearying, whereas Chrior, the ancient cradle of Fae magic, was rejuvenating. Nothing had been destroyed to make these homes possible; centuries ago, when the Faerie race had been even closer to the elements, the trees had been manipulated by Earth Fae, the ground had been raised and dropped where necessary, and a city had been constructed while the forest had been allowed to go on living.

Snow shimmered around me, falling and filling my footprints. I dropped my magical shroud and unfolded my membrane wings, which glinted green, gold, and ice-blue like oil in sunlight. Hovering skyward, I let the thin cold air of winter test them as I flew to the Great Redwood, which had long ago parted its trunk for the royal Fae who protected and inhabited it, calling themselves the Redwood Fae. The ancient tree’s orangey bark was coated with icicles, but I felt warmth radiating from inside. I ran my fingers over the love-carvings that surrounded the entrance—artistic tributes left by Fae, tiny designs across the surface of a bark that ran deep—and contentment filled my soul. It was good to see the world. It was better to come home.

Far beneath me, on the ground inside the Redwood, the Queen’s Court was in session. Revelers with wings in myriad colors feasted and danced, their laughter, music, and conversation bouncing joyously around me.

On her throne of twined roots, Queen Ubiqua presided, and on both sides she was joined by her closest followers: my father, Cyandro, who served as her Lord of the Law; the eight members of her Council, among them my grandfather, the former reigning Prince; and Davic, the young man to whom I had entrusted my heart. Three chairs in addition to my own stood empty, but one most glaringly—the throne that belonged to Ubiqua’s husband, who had never occupied it before his death.

I straightened my jerkin and handed my cloak and pack to a member of the royal guard, who would see that they were sent to my quarters. Then I hastened downward, following the spiraling ridge that ran along the inner walls of the tree until at last I came to the floor.

Almost immediately after I pressed into the midst of the Court—a jostling body of heat and fresh-spiced winter scents—arms were flung around my waist from behind, nearly knocking me into another Fae. I craned my head around and saw exactly who I expected to find embracing me. My best friend Ione, her blond waves adorably woven through a headband of scarlet berries, had playfully ambushed me.

“I was hoping you’d be back tonight,” she exclaimed, beaming in her modest way. “The entire Court was. May the Queen’s reign flourish!”

The cry was echoed by the Faefolk who now surrounded me, and I managed to return Ione’s hug before shouts of “Sale!” floated from the crowd. A bark mug was thrust at me, and I happily accepted the drink that ran from our trees and nourished the Faerie kind more powerfully than any food.

Once I’d finished sharing greetings and toasts, I abandoned my empty goblet and approached the Queen. A long queue, monitored by the Queen’s Blades in their bedazzling tunics, led to her throne of gnarled and ancient roots. My aunt smiled, kind and patient, as every member of her Court endured the procession to greet her and extend their respects. I drew up beside the line and walked its length, nodding to the Blades I passed.

The Queen’s face lit up when I drew near, and I fell to one knee, placing my forefinger upon her earthen perch. When I removed it, a droplet of dew was left in its place among hundreds of others frozen there in her honor, for tonight marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of my aunt’s coronation. The droplets were gifts from Water Fae, sparkling amidst leaves and berries from Earth Fae, glowing embers like rubies from Fire Fae, and clearest crystals filled with whispers of fog and cloud from Air Fae. The elemental offerings would dissipate within the week, allowing room for the city’s general public and not just the Queen’s Court to pay tribute to her.

“Anya! How was your journey?” Queen Ubiqua effused, leaning forward to be heard above the revelry. Having her gaze upon me, as always, was like meeting Time—there was something incomprehensible about her, something infinite. She didn’t suffer the same worries I did because her wisdom transcended them.

“Enlightening,” I replied, rising, but I could not keep my eyes from drifting toward Davic. It was proper to acknowledge the Queen before the others around her, but it was he who was foremost on my mind. His gray-blue eyes muted the bedlam in the trunk, drawing me in as though nothing existed beyond the landscape of his elegant jaw, the black hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the parting of his lips, an aphrodisiac in itself. He grinned at me, gripping the arms of his chair like he might propel himself upward at any moment and fly to my side.

“Go to him,” Ubiqua laughed, tipping her head in Davic’s direction, aware that she no longer held my attention. “You and I can talk later.”

In need of no convincing, I hurried to my promised. He’d come to his feet, and he snatched the hand I extended to haul me onto the dais and into his arms. I laughed, wrapping my legs around his waist when he picked me up and holding his face for a lengthy kiss that was continually disrupted by our smiles.

“I almost forgot what you looked like,” he teased, pushing our foreheads together. Our pose, somewhat unseemly for a royal and her partner, nevertheless charmed the assembly and drew a few shouts. We both turned scarlet and hid our faces in each other’s shoulders, then Davic returned to his seat, taking me with him.

“I missed you, too,” I murmured, settling against him and twining our fingers together. Soon I felt the heat of someone’s gaze; I turned and exchanged a warm nod with my father, then took his hint that I should move to my own chair. I kept Davic’s palm snug against mine while I scanned the empty seats, making note of who else was missing—Zabriel, the long absent Prince of Chrior; and my cousin Illumina, the orphaned daughter of Queen Ubiqua’s brother.

Leaning close to Davic, I asked, “Where is Illumina?”

Though I could have guessed his answer from his resigned look, I waited for him to confirm it.

“She only stayed for an hour, maybe less. At least she was here for a while. Let’s not dwell on her tonight.”

I nodded, for Illumina’s lack of participation was not unexpected. Quiet, studious and easily overshadowed, she avoided crowds to whatever extent possible. Still, I would have liked for her to be here. Not only was she a niece of the Queen, she was also heir to the throne due to the Prince’s defection, and learning to connect with the people was an important part of her future.

Davic and I did not have much opportunity to talk during the festivities, and we were glad when Ubiqua called her Court to a close and we could fly to the branches of the Great Redwood where I made my home. Davic also had an alcove in the mighty tree, though his family had no interest in Court life and lived far on the other side of Chrior. There was only one section of the Redwood that was unoccupied, a place where the branches were dry and dead and could hold little weight. The destruction was viewed as a tragedy and rarely discussed, but from what I understood, a fire had defiled our people’s ancient refuge.

My residence was a small place, but practical. Davic walked the perimeter of the main room, focusing on the energy inside himself as he ran his finger along the love-carved indentation to spark and ignite it. Finished, he fell onto the sofa, putting his hands behind his head. The house warmed at once, and I curled up beside him, breathing in his familiar scent, musky with an undercurrent of Tanya flowers, which only grew on this side of the Road. The whole evening I hadn’t given a thought to how truly tired I was, but now I relaxed, the heaviness in my limbs a reminder of how little I had slept the past few days.

“Well?” Davic asked after a bit. “How was the human world this time?”

“I made it to Tairmor before you called me back,” I replied, offering him a smirk. “You’re impatient, Davic.”

He brushed my auburn hair behind my shoulder and kissed my forehead. “How long would you have been gone if I hadn’t called you?”

“I wanted to see Sheness, the port city. A few more weeks.”

His countenance grew wary, lips pursing and eyes slightly widening. He was the worrier of the two of us, and his expression was endearing in its predictability.

“Anya, your father has warned against Fae traveling that far west. He says there’s been a resurgence of piracy over the past year.”

“I’m aware of my father’s warnings.” I gave his hair a playful tug, making it difficult for a scowl to emerge. “But pirates surely don’t lurk around every corner in Sheness, waiting to attack. They have their business, and I would have had mine. I do know what I’m doing out there. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I didn’t go near the port.”

“You’re not invincible, you know.” He was looking at me sideways, not yet pacified. This was a variance we’d had before—he meant well, but he had a hard time trusting anything if it was beyond Chrior’s borders, including me.

I chuckled. “Of course I’m not invincible, but Fae are more powerful than humans, and we have our elements to protect us. Anyone who tried to hurt me would be swept away by a wall of water before they could blink, while I flew away to the rooftops.” My point stood even though that wasn’t exactly how Fae connections worked. We had to rely on physically present matter that we could move and manipulate rather than conjuring our elements, but for me that matter could include blood and mist as easily as rain or river water, leaving me with a lot of power at my disposal. “Try not to be such a killjoy when everything is, at present, perfect.”

He rolled his eyes, but I felt his body relax against mine. I plucked at the fabric of his shirt, nervous about the confession I was about to make. “I was a little worried, though, that something might be wrong when I felt your call.”

Davic and I had been promised by a mage, the same mage who had wed my aunt and her husband, and the aura that bound us let us reach out to one another no matter how far apart we were. I’d felt the tug from Davic in Tairmor, the capital of the Warckum Territory, and had started home at once.

He chewed his lip, looking adorable as he made a bid for clemency. “Are you annoyed? I was thinking about you, and next I knew I’d signaled you before I’d even decided whether or not I should. If you’re upset with me, I’ll say I’m sorry it happened. Really.”

“Aww, you’d say whatever I’d like to hear to save your own hide? You’re so sweet.” I shoved him, not upset in the least. Our bond was still fresh, and it would take time to adapt to its intricacies.

He let out a relieved breath, then played with my hair. His thoughts traveled over his face in what he believed to be a private course, though his ultimate expression told me he had landed on the matter I’d hoped he’d leave alone until the morning at least.

“Do you ever get homesick out there? I mean, you stay away for so long. I just wonder if...you don’t like coming back.”

Without fail, this conversation followed my returns and preceded my departures. Unlike me, Davic was content in Chrior, with no interest in journeying. He hadn’t even been on his Crossing, the traditional rite of passage for young Fae. Following my Crossing, I’d developed a taste for the human world, a wanderlust that not even my promised’s pleading could overcome, and certainly one that he had trouble understanding.

“The fact that I enjoy being in the Territory doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy being here.”

“You spend more time in the human world than you do here.” Preempting my response, he added, “I’m not trying to stop you from traveling, but it seems to me that spending time with me and your friends, with your father, is something you just tolerate until you can leave again.”

Why couldn’t we have a pleasurable reunion and leave it at that?

“It’s not being away from you I enjoy, Davic. It’s seeing what’s out there, what’s different about how the humans live. How the politics move and shift.” I frowned, lost in thought. “For instance, there’s something different about the mood in the Territory right now. I don’t know what exactly, but I was seeing more Constabularies and military units. Maybe the Governor is just cracking down on crime. If he keeps it up, my father won’t have much to warn about in a few months.”

Governor Ivanova, elected conservator and custodian of the Warckum Territory, was known for the strict and swift enforcement of his laws. He was also known as King Ivanova by his detractors, because the governorship had been in his family for so long it was practically an inherited position, with no sign of change on the horizon.

“Then perhaps you should wait for the all-clear before you head out again. All right?” He kissed my forehead, then sought my eyes. At my grudging nod, a tease at last entered his voice. “You know, it sounds like I called you out of potential danger. Doesn’t that mean I deserve a thank-you?”

“No, it means you’re off the hook for cutting my trip short,” I laughed, and he rolled over, trapping me beneath him.

“In that case, I should probably tell you that I didn’t do it for me. The Queen asked when you’d be back and seemed disappointed in my answer. She didn’t actually tell me to interrupt your travels, but it was clear that was what she wanted.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows, Davic scrambling back to accommodate my sudden movement.

“Why?”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

“It must be urgent.” My heart was thumping a little faster as I tried to imagine what could have led Ubiqua to summon me.

Davic shrugged. “I doubt it. She didn’t try to talk to you at Court tonight.”

“I should still go to her. At once.”

Davic’s brows shot upward, and he bent closer again.

“Or you could wait.” He pressed his lips lightly to my neck, and, against my better judgment, I allowed my mind to cloud with the sensation, slipped my hands into his hair and slid back underneath him, indisposed to argue.

* * *

Davic and I slept in longer than we—or rather I—intended. Though he awoke when I rose and we spoke briefly, he was asleep again by the time I left, laying there still dressed from the night before. There was something about him that was angelic. Yes, he frustrated me when our differences came head-to-head, but my trust in him ran deep. He was solid and predictable, like a form of gravity. He would never hurt me, and his arms would always hold me whether my behavior was rational or nonsensical.

In the light of a new day, the snowfall had stopped, and everything was bright and glistening. Though it was cold, the air was crisp and fresh, not like in the human world where the people destroyed and polluted in the conduct of their lives. Many Fae feared that same pollution would seep like a dark fog across our borders and ruin our way of life. I figured if it came to that, it wouldn’t be right to blame those who lived in the Territory; instead, the fault would be ours. The only chance for the humans to befriend Nature rather than dominate it was through us and our elemental connections, and we’d locked their race out of our Realm. They had to survive somehow. That was what Illumina and the others who were part of the Anti-Unification League overlooked: the humans’ right to live.

I flew to the palm—the large knot that made a landing pad before the Great Redwood’s main entrance—then hovered up to my aunt’s private dwelling. I waved to the guards on the ridge, making sure they recognized me before I softly dropped to my feet.

Like closely stitched netting, thick green vines composed the floor of this part of the tree. To most looking up, this netting was the ceiling since no one passed beyond it without invitation. I took delicate steps, for the vines had give to them; despite our gift for flight, uncontrolled falls could be as deadly for Fae as for humans. Still, I knew the netting could hold more weight than it appeared; resiliency was strength, not weakness.

The Queen’s companions were sitting around her throne, which was set back and framed by tied-away willow and lavender-leaf curtains. Catching sight of me, Ubiqua dismissed her Court, her smile and voice gentle. The last to rise was Illumina, her long black hair limp and sallowing her face. Still, her features were delicate, and her eyes, green like mine, were cheerless but sharp. She looked me up and down on her way by, and I had the feeling she was searching for changes in me since I’d been gone.

When the Queen and I were alone, Ubiqua motioned me closer, and I sat at her feet where her entourage had been. Silence hung between us, and I began to worry something was seriously wrong. Though decorum suggested I should wait for her to speak, I took the initiative and opened the conversation.

“Davic told me you were the one who wanted me to come home.”

“I asked Davic not to make that known. I thought he might hold out longer than this.”

We both knew my promised well enough to laugh softly at her remark. Davic had never kept secrets from me.

“I hope he didn’t alarm you,” Ubiqua went on, the blue of her eyes mesmerizing, like a calming tonic. “That wasn’t my intention.”

I searched her face for some clue to where this conversation might be going. “Aunt, if there’s no cause for alarm, why am I here?”

“Because there is something I must tell you, and under the circumstances, sooner is better than later.”

She smiled, although a deeper emotion seemed to be roiling within her. Her silver hair was loose in wispy curls, though here and there were braids—she treated the children of the Court like her own, and allowed them to play with her long locks. On such a glorious day, what could be troubling her?

“This Great Redwood I call my home has been alive much longer than I have, Anya, and it will outlive me by millenniums. We are friends. I talk to it, and at times it whispers back to me. And in its great wisdom, it has whispered that the end of my life is approaching.”

“What?” Her statement rolled over my skin like a shock wave. I studied her in a daze—yes, she was aged, but her skin glowed like a young girl’s, and her mind had lost none of its brilliance. There was no indication of illness about her.

“But that—that can’t be right,” I stammered. “You can’t be dying.”

“No, no, I’m not dying.” Ubiqua placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, where it settled without discernible weight. “Not now. For now, I have all the strength in the world. But soon it will forsake me, and there must be someone to whom I can entrust my legacy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course. You know I’ll help Illumina in whatever way I can.”

The Prince’s defection from the Realm had transferred the line of succession to the lineage of the Queen’s eldest sibling, Illumina’s father, making Illumina next in line to the throne. But knowing this didn’t negate my reservations about my younger cousin. I hesitated, wondering if I should speak my mind. While I expected Ubiqua would take my opinions in stride, it was nevertheless perfidious of me to raise them.

“I’m sorry, Aunt, but I...I don’t think she’s ready for this. She needs more time. She doesn’t yet appreciate the value of peace with the humans.”

To my surprise, no rebuke was forthcoming.

“I agree with you and am glad our thoughts align. Illumina will not succeed me.” My aunt settled farther back on her throne, letting her words resonate between us, their meaning well within my grasp had I been disposed to embrace it. “I speak of an heir of my choosing and not just my bloodline. Someone who will honor my legacy and not pervert it. Someone who will finish the work I have begun, and bring humans and Fae together.”

The Queen brought her blue eyes to bear on me, full of conviction and faith, and I was seized by an urge to run, not wanting to hear her next declaration.

“Will you accept this responsibility, Anya? This honor? Will you continue along the path I have set even after my death, just as you have followed in my footsteps during life?”

It was hard to hear her over the pounding of blood in my ears. Thanks to the order of my mother’s birth, I had been allowed to live a privileged life without the real responsibility of being royalty, but that was about to come to a clamorous halt. It was true I had struggled in the aftermath of Zabriel’s departure to accept the fact that, despite her idiosyncrasies, Illumina would be next to wear the Laura, the crown of laurels. But though the idea of her ruling had made me nervous, it had also been a relief. It meant no demands were placed on my future. Now the air around me felt charged with expectation, and my stomach burned as I felt the course of my life changing.

Coming to my feet, I crossed the room, as though that would permit me to escape the question. When I neared the edge of the netting, I paused, looking down at the spiraling ridge, my thoughts likewise twisting and turning in silent debate. I was sixteen, only two years older than Illumina, and not much better equipped than she to ascend the throne.

And what of my travels? Despite what Davic believed, I didn’t just enter the Territory in search of adventure; my crossings were of assistance to my father, sojourns to gather information about human activities. But a queen couldn’t be gone for months at a time. I would have to stay, and sit, and watch, and listen, always the voice of wisdom and the hand of equanimity. I would be domesticated...trapped in this city, charged with the responsibility of guiding an entire people to happiness regardless of my own.

Then there was, Nature forbid, the prospect of another war. I did not want to be accountable for deaths before I was even old enough to bring life into the world. No, the Laura would not fit me as it did my aunt.

“How soon?” I asked hoarsely, forcing myself to look into the Queen’s face. “When are you supposed to die? Can we stop it?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she responded, her eyes boring into me, uncovering my fears, their roots, and how deeply they coiled. But she persisted, for she put her people and her Realm before all else. “I believe the Redwood’s prediction, but whether you choose to or not will make no difference in the end. I will die one day, and when that day comes, I have to know that someone...someone with a strong and pure heart will be stepping up to rule in my place.”

“What makes you sure I have a strong and pure heart?” I put a hand against the Redwood’s wall and tightened my fingers, its heartwood sliding under my nails. “I understand your reservations about Illumina—I have them, too—but Aunt, I want my life.”

Though I felt childish saying these things, her eyes were sympathetic, and she reached out to me, summoning me to her side.

“There is only you, Anya. Only you share my ideals. Only you can continue leading the Fae toward peace with the humans.” She took my hand, lightly touching the white gold band with a ruby center that I wore around my right middle finger. She held it up to catch the light, reminding me of who I was, for the ring signified that I was a member of the royal family, the ancient Redwood Fae. “On the one hand, you deserve your life. On the other, the Faerie Realm and the human world deserve your dedication. What is your answer?”

I tugged on a strand of my hair, trying to ignore the warmth and compulsion in her eyes, trying to concentrate on the question and not on the prospect that she might be dead in what—a few years? Months? Mere weeks? The possibilities were enough to break my heart.

“Who else knows?” I asked. “About what the Great Redwood told you?”

“No one. I wanted to resolve things with you before I told your father or the Council.”

“Then you will talk to Illumina.” My spirit settled into a state of numbness and resignation. I had a duty to fulfill that was of greater importance than my own desires. “You will tell her...that I am going to be your successor.”

Ubiqua smiled gently, pleased by my decision but more compassionate than ever. “Yes, today. And I will immediately send the news to Cyandro.”

Although my father was her Lord of the Law, I couldn’t fathom the reason it was imperative to tell him so quickly. But the Queen continued to lay out her plans, not permitting me time to dwell on the question.

“I would like you to bring Illumina to me, and to stay with us when I inform her of my decision.”

I agreed, despite the fact that this was not a conversation I wanted to witness. My nerves were already raw, and I didn’t think I could handle hearing Ubiqua’s news a second time. While no one, including the Queen, was immortal, she had held me after my mother, her sister, had died following a long illness. She had helped my father to carry on. She had given me reasons to smile when I’d thought there were none. I loved her deeply, and the thought of losing her was devastating.

I went to find Illumina in accordance with the Queen’s request, taking my time for the sake of my churning emotions. My cousin also lived in the branches of the Great Redwood, though she more so under the guidance of our aunt. She was fourteen, an orphan of just two years. Having experienced the death of my mother, I felt for her, but my empathy did not stop me from recognizing that the girl was strange.

Illumina’s small shelter was sprinkled with books, odd items she had collected, and blankets, all of which were acceptable enough. But the walls were splattered red and black with whatever images or limericks entered her mind to paint, and sheets of parchment with beautiful but macabre charcoal drawings were strewn across her table. When she found or concocted a message she especially liked, it was no secret that she would use a small knife to carve it upon her body. Her arms were scarred; across the crest of her right breast was engraved: Keep silent your screams and never look back. When she wore a corset dress, she made no effort to hide this particular disfigurement, as though the sentiment would impress others. In my case, it only turned my stomach, and pushed my thoughts toward the sad horror that she had once sat alone with her tool of choice to work her art, blood dripping down her chest, ignoring the pain, and felt proud in the aftermath. Sometimes I tried to envision committing the act myself, the dedication it would take, and the idea kept me awake at night. Illumina frequently disappeared, probably to some hideaway in the Balsam Forest where she found the privacy she needed to mutilate herself, and I wished I knew where, in the hope that I could stop her.

“Hello?” I called, opening the door, then adding a firm knock upon the wood.

“Anya,” my cousin responded, coming into the living area from her bed chamber, which was set off by a curtain of leaves. She had such a high, sweet voice, and once she’d pushed back her black hair to reveal her face, I could tell she was delighted to see me. She was a true study in contradictions.

“Aunt wants to meet with us both,” I told her, my hand still on the door.

“Yes, of course.” She dropped the book she had been reading, and it landed on the floor with a thump. “She’ll want to tell me herself that you’re to be Queen.”

She went to a cupboard for a bark cup, still seeming happy. After sprinkling herbs into it from a small container, she extended it to me, and I obligingly ran a finger around the rim, filling it with water I derived from the air. Illumina blew on the liquid, amplifying her body heat until it began to steam.

“You’re not upset?” I asked, thrown by her dispassionate attitude. To my knowledge, Illumina had always aspired toward the throne in her own way. She was a lonely girl; to her, the Laura would have been a constant companion.

“I’m not,” she said, now blowing on the drink to cool it. “Honestly, I couldn’t have expected it to be any other way. The line of succession has been a bit irrelevant in our family ever since my father was passed over for the throne and Aunt became the heir. And just like then, you have more to offer than I do, at least in the Queen’s mind. You’ve always been a step ahead of me.”

I couldn’t disagree, and the moment that followed was one of the longest of my life.

“I’ve become quite addicted to this tea,” Illumina resumed, her soft giggle inconsistent with the seriousness of her words. “I can hardly make it a day without a cup. Just let me drink this, and then we can go.”

I waited with her in stilted silence, trying to figure out what went on in her head. Her upbringing had been unusual; that was inarguable. Having been under the influence of both a generous, peace-loving queen and a human-hating father, I could understand the confusion with which she went about her daily life. But sometimes she reminded me of a boulder rolling down a mountain, bounding this way and that, no one quite sure where she would land at any given moment.

Finished, Illumina set down her cup and flew with me to the palm, then up the ridge to the throne room.

“Aunt was keen for you to return,” my cousin remarked along the way. “I knew it had to be official business. But why now? And why so urgent?”

“The Queen will tell you that herself.”

It wasn’t my intent to be short with Illumina, but I didn’t want to talk about the Redwood’s prediction, for telling another person would somehow make it more real. And if it was real, then my life was careening toward inalterable change.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WINTER SOLSTICE

The news of Ubiqua’s impending death was as much a blow to Illumina as it had been to me. Perhaps more of one, after the loss of her parents, her mother in childbirth and her father so recently. She fell to the ground at our aunt’s feet and cried, gripping her hand. It was painful to watch; I didn’t want to be present and didn’t know why I was.

At last, Ubiqua motioned for Illumina to stand. “You must be strong, child. I am not leaving you today. And Anya will need your help in time to come, when she rules.”

Illumina took a few gasping breaths, then her green eyes darted to me.

“How am I to help Anya? Unless it is that you doubt her.”

Ubiqua’s eyebrows drew together, mirroring mine. “I have never doubted your cousin in anything. She will be a great ruler.”

“Then you must doubt me. You want me to be an aid to Anya so that I’m not left to my own devices. Is that it?”

“No! I want you to be an aid to Anya because the two of you should stay close, always.”

“We have never been close.” Illumina sounded sad now, though an underlying tone of suspicion lingered in her voice. “You know we’ve always disagreed on important issues, issues that, in your opinion, make me unfit to rule or be any sort of aid. Don’t patronize me, Aunt.”

She turned her back, seeming so hurt by the end of her speech that I would have called out to her had Ubiqua, her voice unexpectedly stern, not done so.

“I am not patronizing you, Illumina. In fact, I have a task for you, if you will accept it. One that more than proves my faith in you.”

The Queen’s words triggered a warning inside my head, but I did not speak out. It wasn’t my place to question.

“I’m sending you into the human world to find someone for me. Someone very important.”

Like an angry wind it hit me—what the Queen was going to ask of my cousin—and my lips parted in shock, my poise shredded. A task to preserve Illumina’s dignity was one thing; one that endangered her life was quite another.

“I need you to find my son and tell him about the Redwood’s prediction. Ask him to come home, if only long enough to say goodbye. I want to see him one last time.”

Other than the initial efforts to locate Zabriel after his flight from the Faerie Realm, no attempt had been made to track him. My father’s ambassadors in the Warckum Territory would have kept their eyes and ears open for news of the Prince, but the risk of alerting the humans to his identity and presence had been considered too great for any other action to be taken. Ubiqua had thus been forced to accept that her son’s destiny lay in his own hands. If he returned, it would be of his own volition.

Illumina appeared awed by the Queen’s request, her eyes wide and unblinking, but she quickly acquiesced.

“I’ll do it, Aunt,” she said, voice solemn as if she were taking an oath.

“Thank you. I’ve already told the Lord of the Law to expect you. He will advise you about matters relevant to your journey. But I must caution you in one regard. Above all else, you must remember not to speak of your quest to anyone associated with Governor Wolfram Ivanova. He will not be a friend to you in this endeavor.”

Illumina’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t Ivanova for Fae rights? He outlawed hunting. He wouldn’t want Zabriel hurt.”

“The Governor will not be a physical threat to either of you, but he may nonetheless be an enemy. He doesn’t know he has a grandson, and I fear he would not easily relinquish his progeny if he found out.”

My cousin processed this information in silence. I was already privy to the knowledge that Zabriel’s birth had been kept secret from his deceased father’s family. He had learned of the decision his mother had made shortly before his departure two years ago, and had confided in me, needing to express his pain and confusion. I suspected her long-concealed action had been added to his list of reasons to leave Chrior.

“I won’t seek help from the Governor or those who work for him,” Illumina promised. “I can find Zabriel without help from the humans. When shall I leave?”

“When can you be ready? Time is of the essence.”

“I’ll report to the Lord of the Law at once.”

Her purple-and-pink wings aflutter, Illumina ran to the edge of the netting and took the jump to seek out my father. She was in a hurry to claim this most vital of responsibilities, and our aunt was in a hurry to give it to her. I now understood the reason the Queen had immediately notified Cyandro that I was to rule, and anger bubbled inside me. I couldn’t help feeling deceived, manipulated—Ubiqua had not forewarned me of the request she intended to make of her younger niece. With a sense of sisterly protectiveness toward Illumina, I turned to my aunt.

“What are you doing?” Though my tone could be viewed as inappropriate, I made no attempt to disguise my disapproval.

The Queen stood, her shimmering dress swishing across the vine floor. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t die with an estranged son.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You shouldn’t be sending Illumina on an errand like this.”

“Should I instead let her feel useless?”

“Of course not. There are plenty of arrangements to be made in preparation for a new ruler. Give her something she can handle. Send me after Zabriel if you want him to come back.”

“Anya, I doubt anyone will succeed in convincing my son to return, so what difference does it make who I send? Illumina’s odds of success are no worse than anyone else’s.”

I rubbed my hands over my face in exasperation. “I know Zabriel. We were friends before he ran away. He’s far more likely to listen to me, and I’m already familiar with the human world. I would at least have a chance.”

“So does Illumina. She knows the precautions to take, and she’s of age to go on her Crossing. She’s cleverer than you’re willing to acknowledge. Besides, I believe if I don’t give her a purpose now, she may never be your ally.”

“That’s a lost cause, Aunt. She’s hated humans all her life. It’s the way your brother raised her.”

“Don’t bring Enerris into this,” Ubiqua snapped, and I wondered what nerve I had struck. She came forward, standing over me so that her superior height was apparent.

“Then send me,” I reasserted, not about to be intimidated.

“I think perhaps you are envious of an opportunity to travel without having to appease Davic over your absence.”

My eyes narrowed. First she reprimanded me for involving Enerris in our argument, then she dared to suggest a strain in my relationship with Davic. A rush of defensiveness came over me.

“Fine. Let Illumina go. But if she fails to return, you and no one else will be to blame.”

I stalked off and leaped from the edge of the vines, twisting and turning my way down to the palm. Floating was a favorite sensation of mine, letting my wings battle the air and seeing what shapes my shadow made while I fell. Today’s shapes were as broken and disjointed as my thoughts, and as convoluted as my loyalties, which were torn between my aunt and my own heart.

I knew Davic would be waiting, his curiosity piqued, exactly where I’d left him, in the main room of my alcove. But if I stalled a bit longer, he would understand the message—he was good at reading my mind—and return to his own place. I couldn’t yet discuss Ubiqua’s decisions with him, for it was his reaction I dreaded most, perhaps because I suspected he would be happy. And why shouldn’t he be? We would be together in Chrior, we would have a life and a future laid out for us, and it would provide the stability he craved. But until I had come to terms with these changes, I was afraid I would see his happiness and resent him for it.

Instead of going home, I slipped through the branches of the Great Redwood to land above my father’s dwelling, the nook of the tree where I had grown up, and waited but a few minutes for Illumina to depart with a bounce in her step. She thought she was ready for the outside world, but she was too naive to even make that judgment. And she couldn’t pass unnoticed, not with her scars and her outspoken opinions, not unless she made an effort to disguise her appearance and her character, something she had never been willing to do. Though I made the argument to Davic that the Warckum Territory was safe for Fae, it was really only safe for Fae who could pass for human.

I fluttered to the stoop once my cousin was out of sight and crossed the threshold without knocking. My father was an Air Fae like Ubiqua, so without my mother, who had been a Fire Fae like Davic and Illumina, he had to light the house manually. This wasn’t difficult for him, but it was dispiriting for the rest of us to watch. In her absence, he was forced to think about things he’d never had to before, and even though the sunken border of fire tracing the alcove walls was bright, the house felt a little colder for that reason.

My father, his hair graying but his beard dark, was rolling maps at the wooden table in the main room. At my entrance, he looked up with a weary but genuine smile. I vacillated near the doorway. While it was expected that those who traveled in the human world would make a report on their experiences and observations to my father, the task often made me ill at ease. Cyandro was known throughout the Realm for his kindness and fairness, but the sorrow that had entered his eyes upon my mother’s death three years ago had not faded. And my resemblance to her led him to avoid me at times, making me less reliant on him and more independent than most Fae my age.

“I’m glad you’re home, Anya. I worry when you’re away.”

He carried his armful of maps to the cupboard where they belonged, hidden from me when I was a child but not so well hidden that he could not enjoy watching me struggle to remove and replace them when I thought he wasn’t near.

“There’s no need to worry,” I said, compelling myself to step forward. “I’m always careful.”

“Ah, but that young man of yours.” My father’s voice was tired, as if it had spent too many years talking. “He worries.”

Having cleared the table, he took a seat and motioned for me to join him. I obliged, perching on the stool across from him.

“Davic doesn’t worry,” I said with a grin. “He pouts. There’s a big difference.”

My father wagged his head in amusement. “You may have a point. Still, there’s no denying he has a good heart. There isn’t a young man I would trust more with your life than Davic.”

“You ought to see him when he’s with his friends. Your opinions might change in a hurry.”

He laughed. “Regardless, I know him, perhaps better than I know you, my dear.”

The relaxed atmosphere that had briefly existed between us flitted away, and I looked down at my soft leather boots. As my auburn hair fell forward, I wondered if my father were wishing for a glimpse of the green eyes that were identical to my dead mother’s. The resemblance was painful for him most times; other times he considered it a gift; at present, I only desired to hide my face from him.

“Anya...” There was a touch of longing in his voice, and I counted the awkward moments that trickled past. Then he cleared his throat. “Illumina is happy about her assignment. So am I.”

“Why?” I demanded, irritated with him and Ubiqua for being so eager to see my cousin off.

“Come, you must know the answer to that. She’s young, but...so are you. I would rather Illumina be at risk than my own daughter.”

It was a blunt statement, and rather heartless. I hated the sad truth it suggested about Illumina. Had there ever been someone who’d wanted to keep her safe above all others?

“When will she depart?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“She’s not ready for this, Father. I’m afraid she won’t make it back. And this is an especially bad time to send her. The human world feels more unsettled than usual.”

“Maybe that’s part of Ubiqua’s plan.” His tone was matter-of-fact, and I squirmed in my chair. “Illumina shows more similarities to her father than anyone wants to admit. You knew Enerris, and have some idea why he was passed over for the throne. And you know what his fate was, in the end.”

I swallowed with difficulty, wishing Davic was here with his skill for language to interpret these words for me, to find a meaning in them that was less awful than what I imagined. Perhaps Ubiqua was willing to put Illumina in harm’s way out of a belief that when she returned, she would have a better appreciation for humankind. Or maybe my father was implying exactly what I thought he was, and the rarely revealed harsh side of Ubiqua had made a decision for the betterment of her Realm.

“Now tell me about the human world,” my father invited, fulfilling his duty to gather information from those of us who traveled. He reached for his record book in preparation for taking notes. “What do you mean when you say it’s unsettled?”

“It’s more a feeling than anything else. But there are certain signs—humans lock their doors earlier at night, and I heard rumors of children going missing. There are also more patrols in and around the outlying towns. I don’t know how to explain it, but the atmosphere in the Territory is tense, more wary.”

“Perhaps piracy is to blame? The criminal they call Pyrite has been making a name for himself in Sheness. Other Fae who’ve returned tell tales of him and his crew.”

“I’ve heard nothing of him beyond mutterings in public houses. I’m starting to think he’s just a myth. A story to tell children at night and keep them close to home.”

“That’s not what Governor Ivanova believes. My ambassadors write that the murder of a government employee has been credited to Pyrite, which suggests that the influence of piracy on the coast has started to move east. I don’t like what that could mean for Fae in the Territory. Right now there are a number of our people who are late in returning from their journeys.”

His brow furrowed, my father scratched a few notes in his book with his quill. “I’ll bring your observations to the attention of the Council. There are precautions we can take. Perhaps Crossings should be temporarily postponed.”

At last he returned to the problem before him—me.

“Be all of that as it may, Anya, the atmosphere you’re describing provides more than enough reason for you to stay here. You’re the Queen’s chosen heir, and that means your safety is more important than Illumina’s. But I won’t pretend I’m upset about that.”

It was clear I would not sway my father on the issue of my cousin any more than I had Ubiqua, so I took my leave, the thought of Illumina navigating the human world on her own weighing on my mind. Equally disturbing, Ubiqua’s actions seemed to contradict her assurances to both Illumina and me that she had much time to live.

Instead of returning home, I spent a restless, thoughtful day wandering the city, seeing it in a new light. Most of the Faerie population lived in the sprawling city of Chrior, although our Realm included a large section of the Balsam Forest, where we hunted and kept a few animals; gathered berries, nuts, and medicinal plants; laid to rest our dead; and held celebrations. The idea that I would be expected to rule these people and this land was paralyzing. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be so difficult to adjust to the responsibility of being Queen, that I could embrace the new lifestyle that role would entail. But I couldn’t shake the portent of trouble that gripped my heart, the same portent that gripped me when I thought of Illumina. Neither of us was ready to undertake the tasks the Queen had set before us.

When darkness fell, I went to visit my cousin, needing to see for myself that she was packed and ready. Though the hour was late, she was not asleep. How could she be with such a daunting mission resting upon her shoulders? Instead, she was going through the scant things she intended to take with her—she would have been told not to carry much—and checking her weapons. The travel satchel beside her was imprinted with the royal seal, and was identical to mine, for they had been gifts from Queen Ubiqua.

“I expected you eventually,” she said, looking up from her seat in the corner, where the heating furrow that ran along the walls created an especially cozy space. “I know you’re not happy with Aunt for giving me this charge.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” I pulled up a deadwood stool of my own and sat opposite her.

“I thought it might be that you don’t want Zabriel to come home.”

My eyebrows drew close, narrowing Illumina’s view of my eyes. “Why would that be?”

She shrugged, running a polishing rag over her long-knife. “Well, once he’s here, he’s the rightful heir to the throne, isn’t he?”

This hadn’t occurred to me. Zabriel seemed so distant lately, more of a dream than a person, that I hadn’t really contemplated his claim to the Laura. I shook my head, dismissing the thought before it had the chance to morph into a hope.

“Zabriel doesn’t want to be King of this place. His actions have more than established that. He has a wanderer’s spirit, not a politician’s. Aunt says he takes after his father in that way.”

“That human Aunt married. That’s what she gets for involving herself with them.”

My gaze darkened. “Just so you know, not only did Aunt love William Ivanova, it broke her heart when Zabriel left. She tried to make him feel connected to our Realm, to see that he belonged here, but Fae like you drove him away. Watch what you say, for Nature’s sake, Illumina.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, adding a few medical supplies to her pack.

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, releasing my irritation.

“Anyway, I came because I wanted to see if you had any questions, any concerns. It’s your first time in the human world. Things are going to be different from the way they are here.”

Illumina smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Anya. I can always trust you to look out for me, can’t I? But no, I prefer to learn from experience.”

I bowed my head, no longer in the mood for conversation. If she didn’t want my help, I couldn’t very well give it to her.

“Then I’ll merely wish you luck.” Vaguely dissatisfied, I stood and moved toward the door. “Don’t forget to bring Sale with you, but keep it well hidden. It’s illegal to have in the Territory. And watch for hunters. The human world can be dark for Fae.”

“I’m not naive, Anya. My father schooled me better than you know.”

I ignored my cousin’s comment and departed, stepping onto the branches of the Great Redwood and into the freezing air. But the chills that assailed me weren’t only related to the temperature—whether with purpose or not, Illumina had mentioned something I had ignored, and that was Zabriel’s right to his inheritance. He was the Prince. And prior to his exodus two years ago, he had been a good one, a compassionate young man who had been born with wings but no elemental connection. After struggling for fifteen years, he’d decided he belonged in the human world, put up his shroud and run away, across a Road that had been cursed by the Fae to end the war and separate the races; a Road that might have killed him because of his paternity.

If he could be persuaded to come back, he would make a better ruler than I would. He would be a better bridge to the humans since he shared blood with them. He would not feel like a usurper, like the Laura didn’t belong to him. The line of descent said he should be given the option of claiming the throne.

Illumina might not want to give it to him. I trembled at the conviction I felt—she could calmly reconcile herself to my ascendance to the throne, but it would be another thing for her to see the Faerie Realm under Zabriel’s authority. He was an outrage in Illumina’s eyes, his right to rule illegitimized by his human heritage. Sending her after Zabriel was a bigger mistake than even I had appreciated, for if she found him, she would not want to bring him home and risk that he might take back what was rightfully his.

* * *

My cousin left without fanfare the following morning; I only knew she was gone because she was absent from the Queen’s Court as we went about our business.

The day marked the official start of winter, and in anticipation of the approaching solstice, there were festivities throughout Chrior. Ubiqua’s Court toured the sights, I beside Davic, clutching his hand for warmth. It was hard to feel frightened about the future when I was with him; the challenges of the world seemed far away. Up ahead walked my father, his wizened wings deep blue and glimmering in the sun, while the younger members of the Court surrounded my promised and me. Davic’s friends laughed and jostled him, while I exchanged amused glances with my soft-spoken best friend, Ione. She was stunningly beautiful, but lacked confidence—she assumed the worst of people’s stares when in truth they merely could not look away.

“Where is Evangeline?” I asked, referring to our mutual friend who had for years lived with Ione’s family. Evangeline’s home life was unhappy at best, her parents among those who made me thankful for my father’s kindliness.

“She hasn’t returned from her Crossing yet,” Ione revealed, tying her long blond curls around her neck like a scarf. “I thought she’d be back around the time you left on your trip.”

“She’s probably enjoying her newfound independence in the world outside Chrior. She’s always been a bit adventurous. Remember when we were younger and she would disappear into the woods overnight? And the scary tales she’d make up about her encounters with mystical creatures like Unicorns and Sepulchres? Well, her Crossing is a chance to come home with some genuine stories, and she’s going to chase after them long and hard.”

“Some Fae don’t come back, you know.” Ione cast her eyes downward in ill-supported dejection. “Some choose to stay in the Territory.”

“Evangeline wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m not so sure, Anya. What reason does she have to return?”

“She has more than enough reasons. For one, everything she owns is here. And her family is here—her real family.” I took Ione’s hand with my free one. “Your parents, and friends like us. And the human world is much bleaker than ours, even considering Evangeline’s troubles at home.”

I looked around me at the tall trees, their boughs curved like drapes from the weight of a healthy snowfall, meeting each other in a pretty pattern that framed the street. We were in a paradise, where soft lights twinkled at us from houses and businesses on all levels of the city without effuse. Slender catwalks constructed out of deadwood denoted the roadways above our heads, fittingly resembling the rings inside a tree, as far as could be seen. The city of Chrior was taller than it was wide.

“We’re a more contented race than the humans. They quarrel and compete with each other, hoarding money and possessions. The Warckum Territory is an interesting place to visit, but it isn’t home. For most of us, it never could be. So don’t worry. Evangeline will be back.”

Ione smiled, reassured, and joined me in surveying the beauty around us. But my father’s words from the previous night crept to the forefront of my mind. A number of our people are late in returning from their journeys. Could Evangeline be in trouble? Could some injury have befallen her? Humans hunting Fae for sport was a danger in the Warckum Territory, despite Governor Ivanova outlawing the practice, and there were always the perils posed by wild animals and unknown terrain. But these were risks we always ran when entering the human world; they were no greater for her than for anyone else. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to heed the words of comfort I had just offered to my best friend.

Our tour continued, though it was interrupted several times by spontaneous revelry about which we could hardly complain. When a line of Fae came dancing in front of us wearing booties with curled toes, loud laughter erupted. The shoes were a stereotype taken from the artwork of humans, with no basis in reality. My fellow Fae looked ridiculous in their matching outfits, chanting drinking songs and tossing elemental gifts into the air. A gust of snowflakes, harmless embers, and leaves that ought to have been dead this time of year came floating around us. Queen Ubiqua, smiling unreservedly, was the first to applaud. Davic chuckled and kissed the back of my hand, then pulled a leaf out of my hair.

A deafening crack interrupted the crowd’s exultation, and gasps traveled like a wave through the assembly. Davic pulled me closer and I instinctively looked up, thinking that a tree branch had broken, or a rare winter thunderstorm had taken over the sky. Instead, the sea of people parted from a focal point ahead of us. I glanced at the Queen and saw her face darken, her shock replaced by malice.

In the center of the walk was a scarecrow, a vulgar mannequin dressed in a human military uniform and smeared with crude oil. As the wind snaked its way down the street toward the Queen’s party, it carried with it the acrid smell of the thick black substance, one of the resources the humans used to power their factories. A Faerie stood proudly before the effigy he had built, while others tossed hand-sized boxes in an ever-steepening pile at its base. In the leader’s hand was the cause of the sound we had heard—a flintlock pistol pointed at the sky, reeking smoke.

Words like sacrilege and atrocity were murmured around us, and I made to storm forward to Ubiqua’s side, only to be yanked back by Davic.

“Don’t,” he warned, turning to shield me with his body. “Your father will handle this.”

I clenched my fists around my promised’s jerkin, knowing he was right. The Lord of the Law was already holding his right arm up to signal the Queen’s Blades, Fae who were trained to use conduit blades to concentrate their elemental magic in defense of the Realm. A dozen gathered round, wearing the colors of their elements, three each dressed in green, red, blue, or white. My father awaited the Queen’s directive, for she had yet to speak.

“Falk,” she called, addressing the man with the pistol. “Surrender yourself at once. Spare your children this shame.”

“The shame lies with you!” he screeched in return.

The high and grating pitch of Falk’s voice helped me to place him. He was an outspoken member of the Anti-Unification League—commonly known as the human-haters—and had historically been more of a nuisance than a problem. The AUL was an extremist group, not able to curry favor with the average citizen, the majority of whom trusted and supported Ubiqua whether their politics stood here or there. The men stacking boxes around the effigy were Falk’s sons, allies by blood, and they scrambled to the sidelines when their work was done.

Falk brandished the gun wildly, causing the Blades to tense and the citizens of Chrior to scream and cower.

“You call this an atrocity? You’d best accustom yourselves to the sight of it! Accustom yourselves to savagery, barbarism, and all manner of destruction, for they are synonymous with humanity, with the scum our Queen would welcome into this city!”

“Get rid of him,” Ubiqua snarled to my father, and he nodded at the men and women who stood ready to carry out her orders.

The Blades advanced, and Falk, a Fire Fae, thrust out his hand, shooting a burst of flame from his palm at the effigy’s head. The straw caught, and fire spiraled in a furious rush to follow the track of crude oil down to the bottom.

“Unification will be the end of the Fae!” Falk shouted, over and over until the Blades wrestled him to the ground. Then the onslaught began.

A hundred more cracks rent the air, only this time something was different—this time, people at the front of our ranks were falling, and people near me were on the ground. And blood was spilling onto the snow.

Despite the chaos that surrounded me, my brain organized what I knew about human weaponry, the details clicking into place like swords slotted into their sheaths. In the boxes were bullets, and the bullets contained gunpowder, gunpowder that had ignited, sending the bullets flying. Oddly, this realization sent a momentary burst of hope through me as though fate might reward my intellect by putting an end to the carnage. Then the hottest burn I’d ever felt ripped through the muscles of my upper arm. I cried out and clamped my hand over the offending area, staring in fascination at the blood weeping through my fingers. My hand slipped over the wound, and the true searing set in.

A battle cry heralded a tremor in the ground, and the crashing of water overpowered the sound of exploding bullets. Torrents washed over the crowd, knocking a number of us into the rapidly forming mud, but the shots ceased. When the volume of water slowed to rivulets, I looked toward the remains of Falk’s prideful effigy and saw one of the Blades in blue kneeling with her head bowed, but it wasn’t in deference to the scarecrow. She had thrown her hands upon the ground to call upon her elemental power, and had summoned the water to save us.

Only soft crying and the lowing of grief remained of the commotion. The boughs of nearby trees were bent across the street; Mother Nature had heard the call of an Earth Fae and hunched close in an effort to shield her children. Several of the Blades—those who had been closest to Falk—did not stir from their facedown positions on the ground. Falk himself lay still beneath the body of one of the Queen’s men. I drew in a cold, ragged breath, but my lungs refused to work properly and forced the air back out, making me gasp. Vertigo flitted around me like an insect. I pushed myself to my feet, the mud’s suction fighting to restrain me. It clung to my celebration dress, adhering the fabric to my legs and making it difficult to walk.

I searched the ground for Davic, and found him not far off, struggling to stand. Turning my head in frantic motions, my icy wet hair whipping across my face, I sought out Ione. She was also nearby, sitting on her bunched skirt, coughing and spitting out filth. My gaze went to the Queen, who had been protected by her Blades, their remaining number having moved her away from the site of the incident. My father broke through the guards and into my line of sight, his eyes manic.

“Anya! Anya!”

“Here!” I shouted, voice hoarse.

He rushed to my side, pulling me into a fierce embrace, and I yelped, my injury more serious than I’d realized. As he ripped open my sleeve to take a closer look, Davic and Ione joined us. Soon medicine mages and more Blades arrived on the scene to deal with the damage and the injured. Though it was clear the peril had passed, my body was levied with tremors. I tried to sit down, but my father picked me up with the ease of a young man, jerking his head for my friends to follow. I rested my head against his shoulder, for once content to let him care for me.

CHAPTER THREE

THE QUEEN’S ANLACE

Ubiqua was an emblem of righteous anger. There had been only three casualties besides Falk as a result of the previous day’s protest, a miracle considering the number of bullets that had been fired, but that was three too many. The solstice celebration was supposed to represent a new beginning, not signal the end of lives. It was supposed to be joyous, and yet even now thirteen Fae, including me, lay injured in various states of severity.

My arm had required stitches, but not much fuss beyond that. While Ubiqua paced before her throne of roots in the Court Room of the Great Redwood, I sat at a long table with my father and the members of the Queen’s Council, a group of eight who kept their ears to the walls and floors for rumors and mutterings in the Realm. They knew the people’s thoughts, feelings and plans, and made sure my aunt stayed ahead of whatever turbulence might be brewing. Unfortunately, foreknowledge of an attack like the one we’d endured yesterday, which the people had taken to calling Falk’s Pride, was hard to come by.

I sipped a mug of Sale, its primordial warmth coursing through my body with every swallow. The heat would seek out my wound and strangle the potential infection as one might wring water from a rag. The fresher the wound, the more acute the sensation—when I’d begun drinking yesterday, I’d had to breathe through the pain; now it was more of an annoyance, a tingling sensation like I’d hit my elbow. I would heal in hardly any time at all.

“The culprits?” the Queen snapped, her clasped hands white behind her back.

“Falk died during his own assault,” my father replied, shuffling some documents on the tabletop. A ceremonial fire pit crackled and hissed at his back. “One of his sons was a fatality, another has been arrested, and the third is missing.”

“A search is being conducted for the third?”

“Of course, but I have little hope of finding him. The bedlam across the city after the incident would have granted him more than enough opportunity to disappear. In my opinion, we won’t hear from him again.”

Ubiqua nodded solemnly, jaw and lips tight. She was regal in her simple brown gown, worn to honor the dead in their return to the earth, but beneath her composure roiled an anger the like of which I’d never seen in her before. It was cold and hard, the will of Nature that might at any moment quake the ground.

“Question the young man in custody,” she ordered. “Find out where the missing brother may have gone. Do not stop the hunt until he is located, arrested, or driven from our Realm. So help me, I will never see innocent blood on the streets of Chrior again.”

Respect emanated from everyone at the table. I watched Ubiqua closely for emotions and subconscious expressions, clues about how she was coping on the inside that might help me become as fit a ruler as she. Aside from granite conviction, I detected very little.

“The people look to us for guidance,” she continued. “They are gathering at the palm in accordance with my request?”

Tthias, Envoy to the Public, confirmed this. “They await the Queen, the Lord of the Law, and her Court.”

“Good. We shall meet them.”

Ubiqua descended her dais and all stood. Abandoning my Sale, I followed her and the members of the Council to the ridge, only pausing once when my father placed his hand on my shoulder. I turned to him, my gaze traveling upward to meet his blue eyes, and he pulled me aside.

“You’ve hardly spoken since you were injured.”

“There hasn’t been much need.”

He nodded, though his furrowed brow told me it was not due to agreement. “I don’t care who you talk to—me, your aunt, Davic, or Ione. But open up to someone, Anya. Talk about what happened yesterday.”

I ran my fingers over my mending injury. “Father, I’m fine. This is hardly a wound at all.”

“It’s not the physical I’m referring to, my dear. When mortality rears its head, no one emerges ‘fine.’ No one.”

He squeezed my good arm and stepped past me, and I watched him go in bewilderment. I truly did feel fine, on the inside as well as the outside, but he evidently did not expect that to continue.

The Court joined us at the palm and we sang to honor the solstice and comfort one another, reinterpreting the melodies and verses of our ancestors’ joyous holiday cants to infuse lamentations...eulogies. Some of us could not carry a tune, but the observance was not about perfection; it was about embracing the imperfections in each other and in our world, imperfections that had been shown in sharp relief the previous day.

The citizens who had gathered on the walk below bowed their heads until we were finished. Then, in accordance with tradition, the Queen removed the Royal Anlace from its sheath at her hip and moved to the trunk of the tree, where love-carvings from every occasion surrounded the entrance. She would add something now to honor this solstice and remember the dead. But she stopped before touching the blade to the wood, contemplated, and looked to me.

“Anya,” she said, extending the Anlace. “You do the love-carving. This year, I feel it should be you.”

The Court, the Council and the citizenry were all still, waiting for my reaction to color their own, but I could muster none beyond a blank, stupid stare. No one but Fae rulers had carved the Great Redwood in the past—no one but Fae rulers had ever held the Anlace. But its ruby-studded pommel winked at me, expecting my fingers to close around it and shield it from the wind. I wanted to back away, but I couldn’t refuse the Queen’s offer, no matter how many centuries of tradition it shattered. Superstition aside, this was a distinction bestowed upon no other. Ubiqua was telling her people to follow me, to believe in me, alas before I’d been given the chance to decide if I believed in myself.

“Anya,” Davic murmured, a subtle prompt, while Ione reached out to touch my hand. Their presence gave me courage, reminding me that I would not be alone in facing my new future.

Ubiqua was compelling me with her eyes, and the Anlace still glinted in the bright winter light. Bolstered, I went forward and accepted it. In my hand, it felt diseased, as though the queasiness spreading through my body was punishment from the knife itself for seizing this power before it was due to me. Nonetheless, I went to the trunk and left my mark: half a snowflake, the top obscured by the crescent moon. The winter solstice was a long and frigid night that broke unto a fresh dawn, perhaps one with no more fear and no more needless death.

“Thank you,” Ubiqua said with that tender smile of hers.

The look she received from me in return was less than friendly. She had, without warning, put me center stage in what was sure to be a controversy. I hadn’t even adjusted to the idea of taking the throne; I didn’t need all Faefolk discussing the possibility, wondering what the Queen’s gesture meant. I held out the Anlace to her, wanting it gone, but she wrapped her hand around mine, trapping the knife in my fist.

“Keep it,” she whispered.

A painful throbbing began behind my eyes, the tension spreading its tendrils to my temples, and then, like a thorned vine, to my heart, squeezing slowly. Ubiqua gave an address, but I couldn’t make out a word. I left as soon as I could, not wanting to be in the presence of so many questioning gazes, not wanting to feel the anxiety and pressure they created. The Council especially was examining me, seeming to wonder how this daughter of a youngest child had risen to wear the Queen’s dagger on her hip, to pilfer it away from its owner and from Illumina, its rightful inheritor.

With the sun setting, I withdrew to my alcove and closed the door behind me. Though I wanted to believe I had shut out the world, even here I could not hide from the burden my aunt had handed me in the form of a gold-pommeled Anlace.

I stalked back and forth across the main living area, covering my mouth to keep near-hysterical gasps from razing my throat. Instead, they came short and fast through my nose, and dizziness threatened to overtake me. My life was no longer mine to control. By a single deed, I had become something more than I wanted to be in the people’s eyes. My aunt had known that I was, consciously or unconsciously, keeping a back door open, and without hesitation she’d closed it.

My desire to protect my voice lost out to frustration, and I screeched—one long, harrowing note that threatened to shatter mirrors and glassware, as well as my own eardrums. With a forceful but ill-conceived sweep of my arm I knocked the nearest object from the tabletop. I drew up short as it shattered, and, suddenly subdued, tiptoed around the table, glass crunching beneath my boots. Fragments in white, scarlet, and gold sparkled at me, and I slipped to my knees to survey the wreckage. The ruined decanter had been a gift from my father upon my betrothal to Davic; it had also been a much-beloved possession of my mother’s, the blown red glass matching the sinuous patterns in her wings.

“No,” I moaned, cradling a piece with golden inlay. I wanted to blame Ubiqua for inciting my temper, or my father for entrusting the piece to me in the first place, but my heart refused to accept excuses. I alone had broken this precious keepsake.

Filled with remorse, I had a sudden urge to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. Recalling Illumina’s comments about Zabriel, my self-pity transformed itself into grim determination. I could not let this change happen in my life until I had exhausted all other options. The broken decanter was an omen of the dreams that would be lost to me if I stood passively by.

I hurried to the bedroom, pulled out my leather travel satchel and shoved in the essentials—a small flask of Sale, jerky, a change of clothes, herbs, bandages, and other minimal medical supplies, an extra blanket for warmth, and my money pouch. I stripped off the brown dress I’d worn for the memorial in favor of warm leggings, a woolen tunic and my heaviest jerkin. The last thing I grabbed was a cloak. Looping the strap of the satchel across my chest, I started for the main room, but my eyes fell on the Anlace I did not want lying atop my dresser. I halted, allowing my gaze to linger. Without understanding why, I picked it up and pulled my long-knife from its sheath, replacing it with the Queen’s weapon. After adding my own blade to my pack, I stepped through the doorway.

“I knew you’d be doing this.”

Davic was sitting on the sofa, having come in while I was preoccupied with packing, tacit disapproval written on his face. I sighed and grabbed my bedroll, my mind searching for words that might appease him.

“I know you don’t understand, Davic, but I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere—unless you believe there’s nothing worth staying for in Chrior. For Nature’s sake, you’re hurt, and you just got home from your last trip! Why won’t you let us help you? You ought to be here with your family, with me, for more than a few days. Or is that notion so insufferable?”

“This isn’t about you,” I snipped, wishing he wasn’t between me and the door. Deciding this wasn’t the time to argue with him, I made my voice more placating and tried again. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’m not stupid, Anya.” He stood and crossed his arms over his chest, toeing the mess I’d made of my mother’s decanter. “It’s obvious Ubiqua overwhelmed you today. But is it too much to hope you might try to make sense of it around the people who love you?”

“Is it too much to hope you might trust my judgment?” My spine stiffened in irritation. I wanted his boot out of the broken glass. I knew he wasn’t doing any more harm than I’d already done, but I couldn’t reason myself out of an irrational reaction. Instead, I pointed at the shattered pieces.

“Stop it. Leave the decanter alone. I’m going to fix it. I’m going to fix it, Davic!”

He withdrew his foot and watched me with more concern than ever.

“I’m going to fix it,” I repeated more calmly, enunciating clearly. “When next I’m home. There’s just something I have to do first. I want to be with you, but there’s something else I have to do.”

Now that I sounded less crazed, he rolled his eyes. “Sneak out in the dead of night without telling me or your aunt or your father where you’re going? Stay away for Nature knows how long? Is that what you have to do?”

“No!” I dropped my pack at my feet, its thump indicative of how angry I was at the assumptions he was making. “I’m going because Queen Ubiqua is dying.”

The lines in his face fell away, and he paled. “What?”

“Yes. She’s dying. And she didn’t send Illumina on her Crossing, she sent her after Zabriel. Only Illumina doesn’t have a chance of finding him—it’s her first time in the human world, after all. She’s essentially been set up to fail. I’m going to find him instead, bring him back here if I can and remind him what it means to be the Prince. That throne is Zabriel’s, not mine. It shouldn’t be mine.”

“You’re scared of it.”

“Is that so hard to comprehend? Is that so wrong?”

“No. But you should be realistic, Anya.”

He took a step toward me, and I backed away, troubled by his words. He halted, his arms falling limply to his sides.

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“How long might it take to find Zabriel? What are the odds he’ll even consider ascending the throne? I think you could better spend this time preparing for what’s coming. Maybe...once you understand your duty better...it won’t be so daunting.”

I took several deep breaths, trying not to show Davic my true reaction to his words, his sensible, oh-so-typical-of-Davic words. He always walked the easiest path, always let everyone around him dictate who he was and what he would become. It would be easy to succumb to the way things were, easy to surrender my hopes and dreams in the face of resistance. But fighting would show me how much power I had over my own life. Maybe, just maybe, I had enough power to alter my future. Fighting to find out now was better than never knowing.

“Give me three months. I’ll find Zabriel, and if he’s unwilling to be the heir, I’ll do as you say. I’ll accept it all.”

Davic studied me for a long time, aware of the finality in my tone, then released a humorless laugh.

“Three months. I know I can’t stop you, so if this is what you have to do, by all means go. But after three months, be ready to give up your travels. Please. Be ready to stay with me and the Fae as our Queen.”

I nodded once, then hoisted my satchel and went around him to the door. He stopped me with one last question.

“What should I tell Queen Ubiqua? Your father?”

“Tell them I needed time away. Don’t say what I’m really doing. And when you see Ione, tell her I’m sorry I had to leave again. I wish it were different.” I smiled wistfully, willing him to understand that this last message was for him as much as it was for my best friend.

I looked at the open door before me, then backtracked to touch his face, drawing him close for a kiss. This was the last we would see of each other before my fate was decided. His hands drew our bodies together, compressing us into one being.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered.

I pulled away and walked outside, about to begin the most important journey of my life.

Chrior was alight with lanterns, and the square where the massacre had occurred was decorated with gifts, elemental and otherwise. People were still assembled there, singing and seeking each other’s consolation. The Queen wove among them, taking her subjects’ hands, offering words of sympathy and encouragement, and acknowledging their respectful bows. With her silver hair flowing behind her, she was the living embodiment of a spirit of comfort. Keeping to the fringes, I bypassed the crowd, and, in my earth-toned garb, vanished into the trees.

It wasn’t long before I was alone in the darkened woods, with only faint echoes of music and voices reaching my ears. Much louder were the snapping of sticks and the rustling of bushes caused by animals that hunted at night, and animals that were hunted at night. Without daylight to show the sprawling landscape, the walls of the forest could have trapped and confused me like a maze. But this was the route I always took to leave Chrior, and I knew it well enough to trust my feet to follow the path, despite the unsettling thoughts that were chasing around in my head—Evangeline’s stories of the supernatural creatures known as Sepulchres, together with images of Falk’s missing son, who could be hiding in these woods, waiting to inflict vengeance for the deaths of his family members.

Snow crunched beneath my boots, and it was impossible to move quietly, which grew more vexing the closer I came to the Bloody Road. I had warned Illumina about hunters, a far more realistic danger than the ones I was envisioning. Just as humans mounted the heads of bucks on their walls like trophies, so had the wings of Fae become badges of accomplishment for some of them, and near the Bloody Road was a popular place for such brutes to stalk. I could put up my shroud, but if I were seen crossing the Road, any hunter who happened to be looking would know I was no human. Humans could not survive the Road.

My heart beat faster than normal, and it was futile to try listening to logic instead of my darkness-fueled imagination. This was the reason I tried not to travel at night. It was good Illumina had departed in the morning; hopefully, she would not have been plagued by such fears.

Fed up with the way my footsteps reverberated, I took off my cloak and shoved it in my pack. With my wings uncovered, I flew to a branch, opting to hover tree to tree in silence until I had passed the Road. I looked down on the battle site as I went, seeing how pure and undisturbed the snow was, and listening to the wind. It always whistled strangely through this part of the forest. I scanned the area ahead of me, my Fae sense of sight, like my hearing and smell, heightened in comparison to the abilities of humans. Observing no signs of danger, I dropped to the ground, relieved to be past the crossing. Now I could leave the forest and its secrets behind.

The next instant I would relive for years to come. Had I adopted my shroud and hidden my wings before falling, things might have been different. Had I been quicker, or less eager, I might have been spared.

I heard the whipping of an arrow and turned toward the sound an instant before the weapon pinned my wings, both of them in one sharp strike, to the tree I had just vacated. Gasping, I tried to tug free, succeeding only in tearing the membrane of my wings. As excruciating pain seared through me, I shrieked and braced against the tree, trying to keep the strength in my legs. If my knees buckled, I would hurt myself further. My vision was darkening, filling with spots, but then fingers gripped my chin, turning my head, and my eyes focused once more. I was staring at a human, a broad, grimy, stringy-haired man. “Got one,” he muttered.

There was movement behind him—more humans, one woman amongst four men, her feminine aspect revealed by her manner of dress and her slight silhouette in the moonlight.

The man holding my chin pushed my head against the tree. He fitted something made of leather around my wrists and snapped it tight so I couldn’t move my hands. My arms felt weak under the immobilizing pressure of the shackles. Then he nodded to one of his comrades.

I knew what they were going to do. Frenzied, I tried to draw on my elemental connection to the water, asking the snow, the ice, the sap in the trees, the water in the earth, to rise up and shield me. But unlike the waves that had rushed to the aid of the Queen’s Blade to extinguish Falk’s Pride, no response was forthcoming. Usually, a Faerie’s pain and distress alone summoned an elemental reaction, but I had nothing. Not a single bead of sweat answered my call.

I cowered, waiting for the second man to deliver fortune’s justice. I was helpless, so completely helpless in that moment. All the independence I was so proud to possess, all the dignity and potential others saw in me was gone. I was no one in the eyes of these humans, and I could not stop them from degrading me, defiling me, robbing me of what made me Fae.

A halberd the comrade carried.

A halberd he brought down on me not once, not twice, but three times in order to sever my wings from my body. Cutting through the bone near my back to make sure he didn’t miss a shred of the light and delicate but fiercely strong appendages.

I didn’t feel the pain especially. I was numb. Shocked. Agony was like an echo, loud and close, but strangely detached from its source, strangely detached from me. I fell to the ground, staring at the Road I had been so careful about navigating, aware that the hunters were leaving with their prize. Someone was wailing; no, I was wailing. The woman approached and I rolled away from her, not knowing what else she could do to harm me, but clawing at ice and snow in an effort to avoid her. She leaned down behind me and stroked my hair.

“Shhhh,” she whispered in my ear, and then she, too, departed.

I was bleeding. Nature, I was bleeding. Not only from my back, but from my chest, my arms and my bound hands. Magic was seeping out of me, black and excruciating. I could see it drifting away. The magic that would let me pass the Bloody Road to reach home again.

Leaving dark red smears in the snow, I kicked and flailed, trying to catch the intangible substance, my one unrecoverable hope. But only unconsciousness came to me, and when it did, I prayed it would hold on to me forever.

CHAPTER FOUR

TRAPPED

“Zabriel, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I suppose you woke up with your wing torn like that.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Just because your father was a human doesn’t mean you can lie to me.”

Whether the Queen had intended it as an insult or not, it was clear from Zabriel’s stormy expression that the comment had stung. Fae nature was complex: we could confuse, evade, and conceal the truth, but we could not tell an outright lie. It was the price we paid for our magic. Dishonesty was a trait reserved for humans.

The medicine mage had already departed, having stitched the wing, leaving Zabriel hunched on the edge of his bed, his arms wrapped around his legs, hugging them against his bare chest. I sat on the floor in the corner of the room, wishing to be invisible. But I couldn’t leave, for I was the one who had brought this injury to my aunt’s attention. I was the one who had been frightened.

“Mind what the mage said, Zabriel,” she warned, watching as he rose to find a shirt. “You’re not to fly for two weeks.”

“I don’t care.”

He shrugged on a tunic, wincing as his bandaged wing found its way through the fabric.

“Well, I do,” Ubiqua responded, tone biting. “For Nature’s sake, Zabriel, what is wrong with you?”

My cousin’s dark eyes shot to his mother. His eyes were his father’s, but he had the unusual silvery-blond hair with which Ubiqua had been blessed when she was younger, only his was wild, reflective of the apathy of a lonely soul.

“What’s wrong with me?” He laughed humorlessly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?”

Zabriel slammed the door of his clothing cabinet shut, the color high in his cheeks. “You married a human! That’s what I mean. How could you do that to me?”

Ubiqua was taken aback, and her incredulous laugh showed it. “Is that what all of this has been about? Love, if I hadn’t married your father, you wouldn’t even be here!”

At Zabriel’s volatile silence, she abandoned sarcasm and continued, “I loved your father. And I was—and am—trying to bring two cultures together. That is why I married him.”

“Selfish reasons. Political reasons. Did you ever think about what kind of life I would have? Growing up with no father, belonging nowhere?”

“You belong here.”

“I belong nowhere. And certainly not here.”

My eyes widened as he headed for the door, but Ubiqua summoned a great wind using her connection to the air, and the door slammed shut before her son could storm out.

“I knew life would not be easy for you,” she seethed, her jaw tight in an effort to suppress her anger. “I knew controversy would follow you, and no part of me thinks it’s fair. But there’s a greater purpose at stake here, and you represent that cause. It’s what your father wanted. It’s what all the people want, even the ones who are afraid. You have to be brave enough to face that!”

Zabriel swung around, his eyes burning. “Brave? You don’t think I’m brave? I was brave enough to try cutting off my wings, Mother. I would have succeeded, too, if Anya hadn’t been so afraid to see me in pain.”

Ubiqua’s mouth opened in horror, and I cringed in my corner though she wasn’t looking my way. But Zabriel was unrelenting. He was fifteen, no longer as intimidated by a parent’s power, and his gaze bore into hers, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m tired of it,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m tired.”

Ubiqua, still stunned by what she had learned, didn’t immediately respond. But it soon became clear from the straightening of her shoulders and the tilt of her head that she would react as a Queen, not as a mother.

“You don’t have the luxury of being tired, Zabriel. You have sacrificed so little compared to what I have done, and what your father did for you. He died trying to cross the Road to be with you. He wanted to raise you in a land where he would have been a foreigner, an enemy. He would have endured all that for this cause, and for the love of you. Have you no respect for his memory?”

“I don’t remember him, Mother. There’s nothing to respect. He died before I was born trying to reach an empty throne in a place he never belonged. This Realm was not his, and it isn’t mine, because I am not a Faerie. Nor do I want to be!”

“Zabriel! Zabriel!”

He was gone. And I didn’t think I would ever see him again, because I knew he had decided. He’d talked about leaving for long enough, and now it seemed the time had come. No ties of blood or of magic could keep him here, just as even the wedding mage’s aura had not been able to see Zabriel’s father safely across the Bloody Road.

And that aura had been stronger than the one Davic and I shared.

Without magic in one’s soul, one could not enter the Faerie Realm.

Now the hands of the lonely and the angry that had caressed me harmlessly so many times would take hold if I went near them.

Davic could not bring me home.

Ubiqua could not bring me home.

Unless I found Zabriel, Illumina would rule. And her hatred of humans would be fiercer than ever. With men like Falk as her lieutenants, she would bring us once more to the brink of war.

Everything we peacemakers had accomplished would be as waste, and the Faerie people would be corrupted.

* * *

I woke with a gasp, one side of my face pressed into something soft and wet. Disoriented from the vision, from memories and reality forced upon me in sharp relief, my breath came fast. Clarity, unfortunately, did not.

At first I lay motionless. My head ached, my body burned and I didn’t know where I was or how I had gotten there. Slowly I comprehended that I was in a room instead of outdoors: a room with a wardrobe, a bookshelf, a rocking chair, and a bed; a bed on which I was resting. And my pillow... It was wet with tears.

I never cried—when emotional, I broke decanters and argued with people and ran away from the things that scared me. I hadn’t cried since my mother’s death three years ago. Yet the proof was in front of me.

Unable to get my bearings this way, I pushed myself up, lifting my chest and stomach from the mattress. The movement set torture upon my back, and it all returned to me—the attack, the halberd striking me again and again. I was feeling the pain now that had felt so distant then.

I collapsed, a moan slipping through my parched lips. The sound drew someone’s attention, and the door into the room opened, light breaking in like a beacon, but with my hazy vision I couldn’t make out the person who entered. I fumbled to protect myself, hoping to somehow go unseen, only there was nowhere to hide, and no way I could run. The person’s weight depressed the mattress, and I heard a female voice.

“Mother, she’s roused!”

Dropping her volume, she whispered to me, “You’ll be all right. We’re taking care of you.”

Unable to fight the pain, I lost consciousness, once more wandering in fevered dreams.

* * *

I stood at my mother’s side, her body already prepared for the funeral pyre, and said one last goodbye. Her red hair was as beautiful as ever, and had far more life than the rest of her. Slowly I reached out to touch her hand, then squeezed it hard enough to bruise, not believing she couldn’t feel it. When she didn’t respond, I lost the grounds to protest her burning. She’d been a Fire Fae in life, and it was fitting to return her to the element that had chosen her. She was wrapped in a white cloth so the assembly wouldn’t have to watch her skin blister and slip away from her skull like petals spreading from the heart of a flower. I knew it was happening anyway. I’d once accidentally burned myself, and the sting had remained far longer than any cut. The licking of flames against flesh was agonizing.

My lips were dry with cold as my father put his arm around me, blocking the wind, and led me back to the Great Redwood from the assembly’s gathering place in the distant woods where we Fae said farewell to our dead. Our party was quiet, Ubiqua walking in front, her hand on Zabriel’s back, Illumina and her father behind us. My cousins and I were now equal—there were three parents between the three of us. We had each lost one.

When the bittersweet reception was under way in the Redwood, I left my father’s side to sit alone on the ridge, watching Faefolk below console one another with food, drink, and warmth. Before long, someone came to sit beside me—someone with whom I could talk.

He handed me a mug of hot Sale, as usual having none himself. He wasn’t allowed to drink it. I took his offering gratefully, the gesture enough to bring tears to my eyes on a day when tears desperately wanted to come. But I sniffed, bit my lip, and dried my face of the few that escaped.

“I know,” Zabriel said, leaning against the bark wall behind us with one arm resting on his knee. “You’re not supposed to be sad. You’re supposed to be strong for your father. Being sad will make things worse for him.”

I nodded, not stopping to digest what he’d said. Thinking was what gave birth to self-pity, and self-pity served no purpose.

“That’s stupid, Anya,” he said, and I turned to him in instant agitation, one powerful emotion easily transforming into another.

“And what would you know about it?”

He hung his head, thick hair falling forward. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He was a year older than I was, and the heir to the Faerie throne. For these reasons and more, he deserved my deference and respect. But rather than put me in my place, Zabriel’s big dark eyes met mine of green and he scooted closer to embrace me.

“It’s okay to be sad, Anya. It’s okay to be angry, even at your mother. People leave us when they have no business leaving. And your father can handle himself. He’s got the Queen, the Council, and his friends to look out for him. He doesn’t need you to be strong.”

I tucked my head against my cousin’s shoulder. Maybe he was right. Maybe for just a minute I could let the weight of my own loss settle suffocatingly on my chest. Maybe I could take a moment and gasp and sob.

I gazed ahead, my eyes dead like my mother, tears leaking down my face and onto Zabriel’s jerkin.

“What’s it like to only have one parent?” I stammered, my emotions inhibiting my speech. “I want to know before I wake tomorrow.”

“The rest of the world doesn’t change. Only your world. And you wonder why this happened to you and not to somebody else. For a while, people will treat you like you’re a puzzle with a missing piece, until they realize the piece missing was just part of the background, not part of the actual picture.” He rested his chin atop my auburn hair, and I waited, hoping he would say more. “You don’t need that background piece to be what you’re supposed to be, Anya, even though it looked nice and everything. You’re still whole. Even though it doesn’t feel like it.”

Struck by a realization, I sat up and gazed into his face.

“Then you don’t feel whole, either?”

He was silent for a long time, his thoughts unreadable.

“No, I don’t. My father shouldn’t have died. If he loved me so much, he shouldn’t have risked his life by trying to cross the Bloody Road. He should have known I would need him, and taken better care of himself. He should have known that without him, I’d be alone here in the Faerie Realm, singled out as the only person with human blood. But you, Anya, you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

I clung to him and believed his words because I needed to, not caring whether or not they were realistic.

And now I’d become one of those people who, like Zabriel’s father, should have known better. But that insight had arrived too late, leaving me at the age of sixteen trapped outside my home, wingless, broken, and very, very alone.

* * *

I was calm when next I broke through the fog of my misery and came to full wakefulness; perhaps my subconscious mind remembered the pain that movement had caused me earlier. I glanced around the room, still lying on my stomach, again taking in the simple, almost meager furnishings. Hand-knitted throws and pillow covers were the only bursts of color, and the blankets that warmed me were threadbare in places.

It took me a moment to notice the young woman sitting in the rocking chair near the foot of the bed. She looked to be about my age, her dark brown hair tied into a ponytail with a ribbon of navy blue to match her tunic. One leg was tucked up beside her, and she was holding a book, its cover obscured by a paper wrap. I wondered what she was reading—and from whom she was hiding the title.

“What are you going to do with me?” I rasped. I didn’t know how long I’d been slipping in and out of awareness, but the dryness in my throat and mouth suggested I hadn’t had a good drink in days.

My visitor startled and looked up.

“Nothing, unless you have something to suggest?” With a wry smile, she stood from the rocker and approached, nestling her book in the crook of one arm. “How do you feel?”

“Like you’re lying.”

I couldn’t afford to be civil. The human world was a notorious place, and for all I knew, she could be the woman who’d stroked my hair, condescending to offer me comfort after my wings had been taken.

“My father found you when he was hunting,” she patiently explained.

“Is that the story he told you?”

My eyes darted toward the door. It was evening, and faint light drifted through the cracks between it and the frame. This young woman’s father might be waiting for me in the next room with his halberd. I tensed, yearning for the Anlace, for the power I felt when I held it. But my body was so weak I doubted it would have provided me with a viable defense.

She laughed. “It’s not just a story. My father hunts deer and rabbits. For food.” Noting my glare, she sobered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make fun.”

She was looking at my back, though the blankets and the light fabric of a nightgown hid my skin. The humans must have removed my jerkin and shirt to cleanse my wounds. Where were they now? Where were the Anlace and my satchel?

“I’ll get you some water.” The young woman turned to the bedside table and filled a glass from a pitcher, and I gingerly propped myself up, though water wasn’t the drink I desired. What I needed was Sale. “You must be hungry, too.”

I didn’t have much of an appetite, taut as my nerves were, but I let her think what she wanted. I downed the water, however, which felt like sand as it made its way through my constricted throat.

“May I have a look?” she asked, taking the glass from me. She meant at my back, where my wings had been, and she was hesitant about her question.

“Why? Curious?”

“No. My mother and I have been caring for you since my father dragged you home.”

She was curt, and I lay down again, feeling rebuked. After setting her book on the table, she peeled back my coverlet, lifted the nightgown and removed a bandage moist with blood, pus, and, from the smell of it, alcohol.

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” she announced, not a hint of revulsion in her voice, slightly increasing my confidence in her skills as a healer. “Let me get a new bandage.”

She left the room, but I hoped she would return and light the lamp on the bedside table. The sun was setting and would soon leave me in darkness, something I didn’t want to face, not with my heart and body feeling so unwieldy. I clenched my jaw as apprehension filled me, bubbling toward panic at my circumstances, and I sat up, not wanting to suffer the pain but needing something upon which to fixate. While the hot flare that shot through my body was enough to make me gasp, I was thankful to discover that this time it did not bring me close to tears. My caretakers knew what they were doing. Grasping the blanket, I held it in front of me to cover my breasts, and consciously slowed my breathing.

The moments ticked past, and I glanced at the bedside table and the book with the paper wrapping. I picked it up, lifted the paper cover and glanced at the title: Crime and Punishment in the Warckum Territory. Not what I’d been expecting, and probably “borrowed” from the man of the house. For some reason, humans tended to view women as less capable than men, while Nature—and by extension Fae—made few such distinctions. Hearing the creak of the floorboards as someone approached the room, I replaced the cover and returned the book to its former position.

When the young woman entered with a basket of medical supplies, she was not alone. A girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, carried an armful of wood, which she stacked next to the hearth. She wore a constrictive dress that was not conducive to such work, reaffirming my previous thoughts on human conventions.

“My name is Shea,” the older of the two girls said to me. Their matching brown hair and brown eyes left no doubt they were sisters. “And this little helper is Marissa.”

Marissa smiled at me as she stirred the flames back to life...flames that Davic could have summoned to his palm in an instant, that would have glowed before his sharp features; added hints of gold to the silvery color of his eyes; created a halo around his head of black hair. Hair through which I loved to run my fingers. Hair that I might never touch again.

“If you’re feeling well enough,” Shea resumed, oblivious to the deep sense of loss that was coursing through me, “we can wrap these bandages around your chest and you can join us for dinner. What do you say, um...?”

“Anya.”

“Anya. What do you say?”

I needed to eat before I withered away. With the depletion of my magic, my body felt heavier, more cumbersome, and even this short period of alertness had sapped my energy. But I shook my head, huddling against the wall.

“I won’t go out there. And I’ll hurt anyone who enters this room aside from you.”

Marissa froze, then finished her work by the fireplace and scurried out the door. Shea examined me, eyes dark as flint.

“I understand you have no reason to trust me, but no one in this house wants to harm you. You would be dead if it weren’t for my father, Anya.”

She said my name like a challenge, and we continued our staring contest until she broke eye contact to set down the basket, her hard words and attitude in stark contrast to her youthful appearance. She lit the lamp at last, illuminating the side of the room where I sat, then pulled up a chair and silently rewrapped my wounds. The alcohol stung, but thankfully the process was short.

“I’ll bring your meal to you,” she offered, coming to her feet. Before I could decide on the right words to thank her, she retrieved her book and departed.

The room was somehow colder without her, and lonely, even though it was only minutes before she reentered to deliver my food. Still, I did not ask her to stay. The humans didn’t need to know that I was mentally as well as physically weak.

Shea left to join her family, and I ate. Then with the feeble burst of strength the food provided, I stumbled to the wardrobe. My footsteps felt thunderous, and every time my body swayed, its momentum felt impossible to stop. It yearned for the floor, and a near-silent moan of misery escaped from me. Catching the door of the wardrobe, I hauled myself out of my hunchbacked posture, my arm smarting where Falk’s bullet had struck me. It was by far the lesser of my injuries, but it felt like barbs hid beneath the skin regardless.

I swung open the wooden armoire door and fell to my knees before my pack. Reaching farther back, I found what remained of my bloodstained clothes. Beneath the washed but warped cloth lay the Queen’s Royal Anlace, solid, sharp, eight inches long and easy to conceal. I took it with me as I crawled to the bed, dragging along my satchel, and I tucked the blade under my pillow. Then I sorted through my possessions to see what supplies, if any, the humans had left untouched. Except for my travel papers, which I would need to venture farther into the Warckum Territory, everything was in its place: my jerky, my medical supplies, my long-knife...and my flask of Sale. I held it in a shaky hand, watching the firelight take stabs at the small container’s metal exterior as if attempting to drain what it contained. Sale—the drink that rejuvenated my people, speeded our healing and made us warm inside and strong out. I struggled with the cork, then put the bottle to my mouth, ready to endure whatever it took to regain my vitality. But at the last instant, I stopped and frantically scrubbed my lips clean of the amber liquid. Sale killed humans. The elemental magic of the Faerie drink overpowered their systems and poisoned them. Without my wings, was I now human? Would Sale kill me, too?

Wanting to test my nature, I held my hand over the pitcher on the bedside table and concentrated my life force, reaching for the water it contained, trying to connect with it; but there was no kinetic tingle in my fingers, and no accordant ripple on the water’s surface. If it weren’t for my eyes, I would have believed the pitcher empty.

“I’m right here,” I keened, my voice an urgent whisper. The liquid continued sleeping, as though I didn’t exist. Was this how it felt to be dead? Not a part of anything, cut off from your soul? Was this what it was like to be human?

Biting my lip, I buried the flask of Sale in the bottom of my pack, trembling at the possibilities it held. That drink could either heal me or leave me dead, and I wasn’t yet willing to take that bargain.

I lay down in bed, my fist clenched around the hilt of the Anlace in readiness to attack or defend. The vile thing—it was the reason I’d left Chrior. It had frightened me away. Hot tears stung my eyes. I never cried. I never cried.

I needed to return to the Road, now stained with my blood as well as the blood of the humans and Fae who had died in that final battle. I didn’t know how many precious drops of magic might still be inside me, but I had to try to get home before all of it was gone.

* * *

I woke after only a few hours with a pounding head and a body-wide ache—even in sleep, my muscles had been tensed to fight. I unclenched my jaw, rubbing my cheeks and temples, and scanned the humble room. Everything was gray in the morning light. It was so early even the colors were asleep.

A clock was ticking somewhere in the house, but there were no other noises. To all intents and purposes, I was alone. Reflexively, I tried to unfurl my wings to hover to the wardrobe, only to be met with intense pain—the nerves in my back were reaching out to make contact with appendages that no longer existed, and the resulting spasms, while they could probably have been called phantom pain, felt as real as the stabs from any blade.

I stepped softly, not wanting to wake anyone. My balance remained uncertain, forcing me to concentrate on my footing as though I were a young child. Teasing open the wardrobe door, I shuffled through the clothing stored inside—dresses of wool and linen in bland colors hung side by side, none of which would do for traveling. I knelt and slid open a drawer to find leggings and warm woolen tunics.

I threw off the nightgown the humans had lent me, thinking too late of my injuries as my shoulder blades protested the movement. Nausea undulated through me, and I swallowed hard, closing my eyes and steeling myself to vomit. Luckily, not enough remained in my stomach from the previous evening’s meal for me to suffer this indignity. I heaved a few deep breaths, then stood before the mirror to get dressed.

Bandages still swathed my chest and back, bandages I nervously unraveled before the looking glass. Part of me thought it would be wiser not to know, but the dominant part wanted to see the evidence, to see what those hunters had done to me, as though my fortitude in facing the reality of their actions might be some revenge against them. But at the first glimpse of my stitched and broken skin, the sickening proof of an involuntary amputation, I hurriedly rewrapped the wounds. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it now. Getting home was all that mattered.

I put on the clothes from the drawer, assuming they belonged to Shea, for they fit me reasonably well. She was shorter and stockier than I was, but my boots came far enough up my calf to cover the few inches of bare skin left by her leggings, and the bagginess of the tunic was negligible. After gathering my weapons and my bag of supplies, wincing away the ache of every minute addition of weight, I crept out the bedroom door.

In the main room of what I had deduced was a simple house, the ticking I’d heard was amplified. The tall clock that stood across from me was made of rough wood, but it had been carved with care, and had probably been built in the same space it occupied. Chairs sat before a barren fireplace, a rickety table took up most of the room and a kitchen crowded the only available corner. The floor was of raw wood, uneven beneath my boots.

The light outside was growing warmer, and I hastened to the front door. This was my best chance to return to Chrior. But before I could touch the handle, the door swung inward and a cold wind gusted over me, it’s prying fingers finding every fault in my woolen armor while it ushered in a man so tall he cast me into shadow. I could smell blood on him, blood and gunpowder, and the memory of Falk’s Pride flashed in my head as though I were in the square again, shaking in the mud, counting the fallen. I cowered and stumbled away from him, losing the more feeble balance I had without my wings. As my shoulder hit the wall, my back revolted, and I screamed. I would not pass out; I would not give up this opportunity to reach my homeland.

The man was growling something in a deep voice and coming closer, looming over me. I fumbled to protect myself, and my hand fell upon the Anlace just as his fist closed around my arm. I lashed out, and his yowl told me I’d made contact. Taking advantage of the moment, I scrambled to my feet, abandoning my pack. My heart was rising into my throat, and I gagged as I lurched through the door. There were more voices emanating from the house now, and I thought I detected the sounds of pursuit. Without looking back, I fled for my life in a direction I hoped would lead me to the Bloody Road.

CHAPTER FIVE

BLACK MAGIC

I ran and ran, winter birds cackling above my head, the snow turning my hands and wrists red with cold every time I stumbled and collapsed. My eyes fought for clarity as the pain in my shoulder blades stretched and intensified, but I pushed on through the maze of trees and the pristine white ground. There was pressure in my skull, and a persistent buzzing that after a time muted my hearing and reminded me of how little I’d eaten in the past— What had it been? A few days? A week? Nature forbid it had been more.

When I recognized a cluster of saplings, my energy was renewed, and I pulled myself up a slight incline, certain I was going the right way. Footprints soon marked a path, and that path led me to the eerily vacant Road, bookended on either side by walls of inhospitable thicket. I stopped, panting heavily, listening to the wind as it whistled a warning song through the hollow tunnel of trees.

My blood, perverting the snow, was the sole aspect of the landscape that was not gray or white or muted green like the needles of the trees, making its color all the more horrific. In a frozen, crimson grin it engulfed the base of the balsam against which I’d been pinned and stained the trunk, leaving me to surmise that it could not have been long since I’d been injured. Not the weeks I had feared, at any rate. It hadn’t snowed since I’d been attacked.

I dropped to the ground and gazed across the Road, squinting into the heatless sun. I saw a glimmer on the other side, a haze of beauty I would have called an illusion, except that magic was visible to those with a sharp enough eye. This gave us an advantage in recognizing one another in the Territory, for even a Faerie’s shroud was not imperceptible if one looked closely enough—light reflected from the supposedly empty space at Faefolk’s backs. Rarely could a human identify us, not with their diminished senses, but a few were gifted enough to spot the signs. What I saw across the Bloody Road were the lissome currents of Nature’s purest creation, currents of magic I longed to feel against my skin.

My heart seemed to pitch forward, and I stood, allowing my feet to follow. I lurched onto the Road, concentrating my thoughts on Davic, urging whatever magic remained in my body to trace the path of our promise bond and bring him to me. Although something fluttered under my skin, it was trapped there, stretching its fingers but unable to claw free. My bond with Davic may have still been in existence, but it floated without direction, just as my steps took me no closer to that beguiling sunrise in which everything was discernible—Ione’s diamond-blue eyes, my father’s gentle, reserved voice, the halo of righteousness that Ubiqua wore like a crown, Davic’s easygoing smile. My body was weakening, my hope and resolve with it, and the very essence of my being wanted to emerge from my chest. How easy it would have been to let it, to sink into obscurity and give myself back to the earth and its elements.

Then a tingling sensation invaded my arms, beginning in the tips of my fingers and growing in strength. It wasn’t painful, even as a similar sensation conquered my legs, and I watched in awe while my hands fell away like sand slipping through an hourglass. But when the sensation invaded the core of my being, striking me with the weight of an anvil, fire roared up my throat. I threw myself backward, but I was too far from the human side of the Road. I would die here on the frozen ground, and though I had contemplated death moments before, facing it in truth now was the surest proof that I wanted to live.

Through my terror, I felt pressure under my arms, and then, miraculously, the burning receded, and I was left a shuddering heap in the snow. Magic, black and cloudy, leaked from my pores, called back to the Road and its home in Chrior. I looked up to see Shea sitting beside me, examining her hands as the elusive substance slithered between her fingers, her disgust and confusion unmistakable. She tried to wipe her palms in the snow, her pallor a reminder that she, too, would have felt the retribution of the Road.

“It’s magic,” I murmured, watching the inky film evaporate from her skin. “It’s leaving me. Forever.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” she erupted, startling me with her vehemence as she snatched my collar with both hands. “You can’t go home. If I hadn’t followed you here, you would be dead, do you understand that? Home is gone, Anya. There’s no going back.”

Her dark eyes were red rimmed, and she pushed me away to swipe at them. Underneath her cloak she was in her nightclothes, and she was shivering uncontrollably despite the sweat beading on her brow.

“Why do you care?” I bristled, crawling to my knees, guilt spurring my raging emotions. “Why would you risk your life for me?”

“Maybe I’m stupid! I mean, I don’t even know you. But you must be important to someone. Or at least, someone is important to you. You kept saying his name in your sleep.”

“Davic,” I whispered.

“No. The name you said was Zabriel. Now tell me, would he want you to do this?”

Shea stood and offered her hand to help me up, and the heat of shame blazed across my face. How could I have forgotten, even during these dark days, even for a moment, the reason I had left Chrior? Ubiqua’s throne was not mine. Now it could never be, and the need for Zabriel to be found was greater than ever. With no way to communicate the new urgency of the situation to my friends and family in the Faerie Realm, the task was mine and mine alone. I had to locate Zabriel and convince him to return or else intercept Illumina and enlist her aid.

I trudged through the snow behind Shea, the two of us no longer speaking. Despite the pangs that afflicted my back, I dreaded our arrival at the cabin. The man I had injured was probably Shea’s father, and he would likely not be pleased at my return. He confirmed this the moment I walked in the front door. Half a foot taller than me, he made me feel insignificant as he gripped me around the arm, tightly compressing the abrasion left over from my bullet wound. I winced but said nothing. He escorted me to the bedroom I had been occupying, his lined and weathered face wearing a glower that warned me not to challenge him. With a shove, he sent me inside before closing and locking the door.

Rooted in place, I listened to his footsteps recede. My breath came fast and short, swirling about me in the stagnant room, and I resisted an urge to hammer on that door and break it down. I wanted Shea’s father to know I was a fighter, and not anyone’s prisoner. The irony was that my own actions had made me a captive—this morning, the lock had not been in use. Dragging my feet, I paced, ignoring the ache in my back and the hunger pains in my belly for as long as I could. Eventually, I noticed my satchel near the wardrobe—thankfully the man of the house had let me keep it.

I stuffed myself with jerky and stale bread, then, overcome by fatigue, I dozed for a bit. When I woke, I resumed my pointless pacing, on occasion considering the window as a way of escape. But I ultimately discarded the idea; I was not yet well enough to be on my own. If this morning’s misadventure hadn’t served as enough proof, I could feel sticky discharge—blood, pus, I couldn’t be sure—fighting through my bandages. I needed to recover here for several more days before I’d be ready to travel. Then I could run far away from that man whose dubious intentions fed the wellspring of dread in my chest.

As the day crept toward night and the shadows lengthened, the bedroom walls seemed to close in on me. Just when I thought I could stand the isolation no longer, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing the man I had injured. He considered me, then moved aside, inviting me into the main room with a sweep of his arm. I stepped past him, the heavy, appetizing smell of cooking meat combating my wariness, though I remained conscious of every shift in my host’s formidable form.

An entire family sat around the table, attired in pristine dresses. Their soft murmurs of conversation fell away at my approach and all eyes came to rest on me. There was Shea, of course, her chocolate hair pulled away from her face, and Marissa, the little girl who’d brought firewood to my room. There was another girl, a middle sister, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman whose fork and knife shook from the tension in her hands. Her lips trembled, but no words came forth, giving the appearance of extreme cold despite the heat from the fireplace and stove, which made the house almost overly warm. The raven-haired man, who was no doubt her husband, stepped around me to retake his seat, the strength he radiated more than enough to make up for any frailty in her.

Shea stood, her chair grinding against the floor. Her tightly fitted blue linen dress struck me as impractical, although a pouch and knife at least hung securely from her belt. Motioning to each family member at the table in turn, she made introductions.

“Anya, this is my sister, Magdalene. Marissa, you remember. And these are my parents, Thatcher and Elyse More. Everyone, this is Anya.”

I forced myself to smile, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural, as though the corners of my mouth needed to be oiled. This was not surprising, considering the day’s events and the dearth of friendly greetings I was receiving. Marissa gave a tiny wave, but it was clear from her wide, watchful eyes that she still thought I could hurt her, and Magdalene glanced between her parents as though she might get in trouble for acknowledging me. Elyse wouldn’t meet my gaze, while Thatcher, the only one among them with probable cause to distrust me, stared at me unrelentingly. I was grateful when Shea dragged an extra chair into place at the table—standing made me feel overly conspicuous, a target for fear and hatred. I sat down, perched on the edge of my seat—ironically as if I could take flight.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” I said, catching sight of a bandage wrapped around Thatcher’s thick forearm, his crisp white shirt rolled above it.

I concentrated my attention on my hands, not pleased with the timidity my discomfort was breeding. When no response was forthcoming, I braved raising my eyes to his. They were dark like Shea’s, though there was movement within them, calling to mind rolling fog, his traveling thoughts practically visible. It might have been wise to show deference to him, but I sensed a test to see if I could be intimidated. Pride swelled, and I refused to give ground. I was royalty, and fortitude was inbred. He could stare forever, and I wouldn’t look away.

At last, Thatcher More smiled—not widely, but it was a smile nonetheless.

“It’s all right. I might have done the same in your position.” He shifted his gaze to his food, stabbing some venison with a knife, his manner a touch too nonchalant. “That’s an interesting weapon you used against me. It burns as much as it cuts.”

I braced myself, his reference to the Anlace making me uneasy, although the rest of the family obliviously began to eat.

“An irritant of some sort, I presume,” he went on. “Derived perhaps from poison sumac or ivy?”

I neither confirmed nor denied his assumption; I couldn’t have addressed it even if I had been disposed to do so, for I wasn’t sure of the answer. The blade could have been infused when it was forged with the sap of a poisonous plant—Fae knew how to construct weapons in that manner. But the secrets of the Queen’s Anlace were known only to the Queen, and I did not occupy the throne.

“I should also thank you for saving my life,” I said, redirecting the conversation to insert a small test of my own. “Although I’m not sure why you did.”

“You needed help, and I was in a position to give it. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject. You can stay with us until you’re well enough to travel. I assume you had some destination in mind at the time you were ambushed?”

“Yes, I did.” I glanced around the table. Shea alone showed interest in our exchange, reading my expressions and her father’s with subtle looks. The rest of the family was engrossed by the food on their plates, the younger daughters mirroring their mother’s behavior. At risk of pushing my luck, I forged ahead with Thatcher. “But I won’t get far without my travel documents.”

Thatcher cocked one eyebrow, then reached into the pocket of his coat and tossed the leather envelope containing my passport onto the table in front of me. I reached to pick it up, and caught him examining the ring I wore on my right middle finger. The likelihood was slim that he would recognize it as a royal ring, but it was obviously valuable. What if he demanded it in payment for his kindnesses?

“Forgive me for going through your things,” he said as I drew my hand and passport beneath the table. “It’s important for me to know who is in my house, so I took your papers.”

My eyes narrowed. “And did they put your mind at ease?”

“Yes, despite the fact that they’re falsified. The forger’s work was excellent, and those types of illicit documents usually come with prudent priorities.”

Everyone stopped eating, stopped moving, their forks poised in midair. Thatcher, however, merely reached for more bread, signaling that the meal should continue.

“Forgery doesn’t bother me, Anya, assuming that’s your real name. I expected it. The law may be pro-Fae, but that doesn’t mean the people of the Territory are. It’s safer for Fae to have documents that say they’re human, just like it’s safer for some humans to carry papers that don’t reveal their true identities or professions. Mind you, I’m not talking about criminals here. But the fact that your passport is such a good forgery tells me you’re well connected. And I can see now that you’re well-enough raised.”

I bristled at the condescension in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He settled back in his chair, one hand forming a mighty fist.

“Faerie.”

The word rolled off his tongue like a curse, and whatever tenuous trust I’d begun to develop in him vanished. Fae-hater, my brain insisted. But that couldn’t be the case. Not only had Thatcher’s family kept me alive, they’d been regarding me as a guest, providing me with a bed, fresh clothing, and food. Yet something in this man’s background made him mistrustful of my people. Though common sense screamed that I let the matter rest, I responded in kind, my tone a match to his.

“Human.”

Again the world seemed to come to a grinding halt, the only sound the clock against the wall, its ticking absurdly loud. Then Thatcher laughed, pushing back the heavy hair that fell to his cheekbones.

“Well, I’m glad that’s out of the way.” He raised his glass to me in salute. “Feel free to move around the cabin and join us at the table for meals. Shea can lend you some suitable clothing for dinnertime. But keep in mind, knives should only be wielded when eating.”

The jest broke the last of the strain between us, and though I still felt like an unexpected and not entirely welcome guest, the family’s usual dynamic emerged at last. Marissa and Magdalene, it turned out, were little chatterboxes who enjoyed sharing the events of their days. Thatcher doled out the next morning’s chores to his daughters as though they were gifts, and Elyse smiled and nodded politely along. Discarding caution, I ate hungrily, Shea sending encouraging looks my way. I was certain she had vouched for me with her father, and while I was appreciative, it did not erase the reservations I held. If she hadn’t endorsed me, how would he have dealt with me?

When everyone had eaten their fill, Thatcher rose from the table to settle into a worn-out armchair by the fire. As he packed and lit his pipe, Shea cleared the dishes, and Elyse herded the younger children to their bedroom. I stood uncertainly by until Thatcher took note and called for me to join him. I grimaced, thinking the interrogation that had started at dinner was about to resume. Nonetheless, I obliged, pulling a kitchen chair close to the fire.

“Did you get a look at who hurt you, Anya?” he asked, motioning toward my back.

My jaw tightened, his interest resurrecting my fear that he might be a Fae-hater. Perhaps he was worried I might be able to identify one of his friends.

“No, only that it was a group of five men and one woman.”

Thatcher took a pull on his pipe, considering. “I’ve on occasion seen a group of men in this part of the forest. I’ve never thought of them as Fae hunters, though. They do contract work for clients, but I suppose if the client wanted a unique trophy...” He trailed off and tapped the stem of his pipe against his chin. “I’ve never seen a woman with them. I imagine it could have been the client. Some want to experience the thrill of the kill, if you know what I mean. Fetishists and the like.”

My stomach churned at his choice of words. Were we Fae viewed as no more than animals on this side of the Bloody Road? How could someone take pleasure in the agony that had been inflicted on me? The notion was faith-shattering. Maybe the Anti-Unification League’s rhetoric that we should keep this kind of evil locked outside our borders had more validity than I had been willing to consider.

“I don’t know any of the men personally, mind you,” Thatcher continued, showing no sign he was aware of my reaction. “Not the sort of folks I choose as associates. But it is a group of five, related in some way, brothers or cousins, I think.”

Silence fell, for I did not know how to respond. His matter-of-fact tone sounded a hollow note against my painful reality.

“Dad,” Shea interjected, coming to lay a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can we talk about something else?”

Thatcher sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “Of course. I don’t suppose it does any good to rehash the past. But I am sorry, Anya, for what those men did to you.”

His expression was sincere enough, confusing me all the more. He was a difficult man to read, and I couldn’t determine if his inquiries came from a desire to know because he was somehow involved, or if he was trying to help. In the end, I remained guarded and on alert.

“Go on to bed,” he finished. “I’m sure you’re tired.” Meeting Shea’s eyes, he added, “I suggest you and your mother re-dress Anya’s wounds. Her outing this morning won’t have done her back any good.”

With a nod, Shea went to retrieve the medical supplies from a cupboard over the stove, and we walked together to the bedroom.

“This is your room, isn’t it?” I asked upon entering, drawing my conclusion from the clothing I had found in the wardrobe.

“Yes, I’m sleeping in with Marissa and Maggie for now. Dad thinks it’s best this way.”

“Afraid I’ll devour you in the middle of the night?”

“Good guess.”

“I was joking.”

“So was I.” She grinned and pulled out some fresh bandages. “Let me have a look at you.”

I sat on the bed, turning away from her so she could methodically re-dress my wounds. At some point, Elyse came in to observe Shea’s progress. After a few minutes, she set a vial on the nightstand.

“For pain,” she explained, not quite meeting my eyes. “Two sips should dull any discomfort you might have.”

“Thank you.”

A smile flitted across her lips. “You’re quite welcome. Now get some rest. It’s important to a speedy recovery.”

She gave her daughter a nod to tell her she was doing fine work, and departed.

“There,” Shea declared, coming to her feet. “Now be a good patient. Even with that juice from my mother, this is going to take a while to heal. Every time you tear it open, you set yourself back.”

“Got it. And thank you.”

She went to the door, then turned about with an impish smile. “Just so you know, I expect you to return every stitch of clothing you take from my wardrobe.”

I laughed, and she disappeared from sight, leaving me feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

* * *

I was awake early enough the next morning to hear Thatcher leave the house. I scrambled to my feet, dressing as quickly as I could given my sore muscles and ungainly movements. After grabbing my cloak, I passed through the cabin and out the front door, wanting to take a look around. My excursion to the Bloody Road hadn’t allowed me much opportunity to scout the area. Seeing tracks that led into the woods, I assumed Thatcher was gone, and trekked around the side of the cabin.

It was cold, the morning light so faint it appeared to cast a shadow. I stepped slowly, cautiously, the crunch of my boots resonant in the still woods. I rounded the corner to reach the back of the home and came to a stop, eyes on a shack nestled among the trees. It was roughly built, giving the impression it had been erected in a hurry; it stood as though its knees were drawing together. I approached, my senses on full alert. If Thatcher knew more about the hunters than he had revealed...what might be hidden inside? Were my wings or those of other Fae tacked along the walls?

The door was locked. Glancing upward, I saw a small window set below the eaves. Without thought, I flexed the muscles that would have unfurled my wings, but instead of rising off the ground, I doubled over in pain. As the agonizing stabs in my back diminished, I mentally berated myself. Straightening, I spotted a sturdy branch that overhung the building. If I could drop from it onto the roof, I could lay flat and lean over the edge to get a look in the window. Plan in place, I scaled the tree, gritting my teeth against the stretching and tightening of my back muscles. When I was high enough, I inched out onto the branch and swung down, hanging by my arms as I prepared to drop.

“What the hell are you doing up there?”

My fingers went to jelly and I barely managed to maintain my grip on the branch. Thatcher stood ten paces from the shed, holding a string of rabbits in one hand, his hunting gun in the other. His expression was a blend of incredulity and displeasure that made him look like he’d taken a drink of sour milk.

“I, um...I can’t fly, so I climbed the tree.” Unable to lie, I told the truth, although not the complete story.

“I see.” He rested the butt of his gun against the ground and rubbed his brow. “For what purpose?”

“To get higher?” My arms aching, I let myself drop onto the roof. I landed more heavily than I’d expected, gravity apparently the only element that had an interest in me, and I nearly tumbled backward into the snow below.

Thatcher snorted. “Looks to me like you wanted to get on top of my shed.”

I gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s a good view from up here.”

“A view of what exactly?”

When I didn’t respond, he hoisted his hunting gun so the barrel rested against his shoulder and took a few steps closer.

“In case you’re interested, that window’s too dirty to see through. So I’d suggest you get down. There’s nothing of interest for you here.”

Embarrassed, I slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground, wincing upon landing. As the cold wind erased some of the heat from my cheeks, I labored over what to say. Did I owe him an apology? Should I risk asking him about the things that troubled me?

“Just go back inside,” he ordered, stepping past me to unlock the shed.

I nodded, but didn’t move, trying to perceive his character, to understand his motives.

“Out with it,” he abruptly directed, hand on the door latch. “What is it you want to know?”

I bit my lip hard and met his eyes. “Are you or were you a Fae hunter?”

He laughed shortly. “I won’t hold that question against you, Anya, but no, I don’t hunt your kind. I find the sport, if you want to call it that, barbaric.”

I offered him a weak smile, for I believed he was being honest. “Thank you. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“No harm done.” He gave his string of rabbits a shake. “Now go inside so I can skin these.”

I headed back to the house, knowing I should feel better about Thatcher in the aftermath of our encounter. But something about his behavior still made me uneasy, and I finally realized what it was—he hadn’t opened the door of the shack while I was there.

Everyone else was up when I reentered the cabin. Shea cast me a quizzical look, but did not ask where I’d been, nor did I volunteer any information. I simply began to help with breakfast preparations. Human cooking wasn’t much different from Fae cooking, despite the ridiculous gossip in Chrior that they ate their food raw, drank blood and cannibalized one another when their hunger grew too great.

Thatcher came inside in time for the meal, and we all ate together, though I made no attempt to participate in the family’s small talk. When I was finished, I retreated to my bedroom and kept to myself the rest of the day, wanting to concentrate my energy on healing. I was recovering more slowly than I had from any previous injury, and I could feel the anxiety this bred building within my body. My attempt to cross the Road had made me acutely aware that I was in a race against time. I needed to find Zabriel and bring him to Chrior before Queen Ubiqua died; and I needed to do it before the last of my magic was gone. The Bloody Road would kill me—that much was certain. Likewise, the Sale tucked in my pack would kill me if my nature was fully human. But if I had a sufficient trace of magic left in my being, the healing power of the drink might be enough to see me safely back to Davic and the Faerie Realm. My plan was to find Zabriel, then consume the Sale, leaving my fate to the amber liquid in my flask.

In the late afternoon, after preparations for the evening meal were well under way, Shea took me into her bedroom and offered me a choice of two dresses to wear for dinner. While I didn’t have a problem changing out of my leggings and shirt, I wondered what was behind this particular convention.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Shea, why does your family change into fancier clothing for this one meal?”

“It’s my dad’s idea. He wants us to end the day in a more civilized fashion. And my mom says it’s a way to remind us of our manners and how we should behave in polite company.”

I stared at her in confusion, wondering what polite company they expected to encounter out here in the wilderness.

Ignoring my expression, Shea smiled and tossed me the dress at which I was pointing. “You might say it’s one of our little quirks.”

She returned the garment I had rejected to the wardrobe, selected a different one for herself, and headed for the door.

“I’ll leave you to change, and then you can join us. Don’t worry—you’ll get used to our traditions. Besides, it’s actually kind of nice to feel like a princess, however briefly.”

Shea departed, and I lay the dress down on the bed to examine it. It had more buttons and ties, ruffles and bows, than anything I’d ever worn before. Celebratory gowns in the Faerie Realm were loose and flowing, although they were often decorated with beads or bits of colored stone.

I scratched my head, not even sure which side of the garment was the front. Putting it on was sizing up to be more challenging than learning to read the night sky. Eventually I managed it, and I was pleased that my biggest worry hadn’t materialized—the dress wasn’t too tight around my chest. I’d pictured having to face the family the entire meal, maneuvering my body in order to hide the open back that was necessary to keep pressure off my injuries.

I went to examine myself in the mirror on the wall, and hardly recognized the young woman staring back at me. The hair and eyes were correct, but I looked more like a doll than a living, breathing person. I combed my fingers through my loose auburn hair, then entered the main room to take my place at the table.

This evening’s meal consisted of a delicious rabbit stew served with thick slices of bread. The younger girls talked animatedly, and the overall conversation was punctuated with murmurs of “please” and “thank you.” Maybe this custom wasn’t such a bad one, after all.

When everyone had eaten their fill, I helped Shea with the dishes, while Elyse did some mending and Thatcher drew his younger daughters around his fireside chair to entertain them with card tricks and shadow puppets. When Elyse rose to usher the girls to bed, Shea cast several glances at her father before finally posing a question that I sensed ran counter to her better judgment.

“Dad, will you be hunting again soon?”

“Yes, I want to fill the shack before the weather gets harsher. Why do you ask?”

“I want to go with you. We’ll bring back twice the game.”

Thatcher perused his daughter while he slowly exhaled his pipe smoke, and the tension in the room ratcheted upward. Knowing my presence was no longer needed, and likely not wanted by Shea’s father, I stole to the bedroom. I left the door open a crack, however, and peered out at the argumentative pair.

“You haven’t held a gun in months,” Thatcher asserted, giving Shea the same look I had received from him before he had locked me in the bedroom the previous morning: an assiduous stare that suggested something precious to him was being threatened. “I only taught you to use a pistol in case of an emergency. Besides, your mother needs you here.”

“She can get by without me,” Shea replied with a touch of belligerence, taking a few steps toward him. “Maggie and Marissa are old enough to help her with the cooking and the laundry. You can easily teach me to shoot a hunting gun— I’m tired of being in the house all the time.”

“The alternative would do more than tire you.” There was danger in Thatcher’s voice, and I had the impression he was no longer talking about hunting.

“It might interest me. But never mind that. What is it you always say? You can’t put a price on my safety. But you can put one on my freedom. You don’t have any problem with that.”

Agitated, Thatcher shifted position as though to get up, only to decide against it.

“Shea, you’re not coming with me. If you’re bored, I’ll ask your mother to find more for you to do.”

With a disgusted groan, Shea stormed toward the bedroom. Remembering at the last moment that I occupied it, she halted, her face scrunched with deliberation. Then she knocked upon the wood. I waited a few seconds before inviting her in, not wanting her to know I’d been eavesdropping.

She closed the door and strode to the bedside table, where she struck a match to light the lamp. I watched her carefully constructed expression for signs that I could broach the topic. Then I realized she wouldn’t have come in here if she didn’t want to talk.

“How much is the price on your freedom?” I ventured.

Shea laughed bitterly, the emotion not really directed at me. “I knew you’d be listening. I kind of hoped you would be, if I’m honest.”

“Then...what do you want from me?”

“I want to know if you’ve ever thought someone—someone who’s always been right before—was wrong. About a very important matter.”

I laughed more loudly than she had. Buying a little time, I went to my pack and unsheathed the Anlace, examining the blade. Had I ever questioned someone who was wise and powerful? Ubiqua had handed me her crown. Yet where was I now? Lost in the woods, lodging with human strangers, unable to return home. I should have trusted my aunt’s judgment when she had commanded me to stay in Chrior; I should have listened to my father and Davic. All of which made me the last person who should be giving advice on this subject.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Do you see anyone else I can ask?”

It was a fair point. The Mores lived an austere and solitary life. “Yes, I’ve thought that. It’s the reason I crossed the Road. It’s the reason I ended up that bloody mess your father found.”

Shea paused, digesting this information as she chewed on a thumbnail. “Where were you headed before the hunters attacked you?”

“Nowhere, potentially everywhere. I’m looking for a cousin of mine. He ran away two years ago, but his mother is dying and she wants to see him before she does.”

I stopped, deciding Shea didn’t need to know that the stakes were higher than this, that my cousin’s mother was the Queen and that the fragile politics of two races hung in the balance.

“What did she do to chase him away?”

It was a blunt question, and a rather bizarre reaction to my story. Shea assumed automatically that Ubiqua was to blame for Zabriel’s flight, while I’d never considered that the Queen might be at fault. Feeling it wasn’t her business, I didn’t respond.

“Sounds like an important task,” Shea continued, undisturbed by my evasiveness. “I hope your luck improves from here on out. Lord knows, this family has little to spare.” She laughed self-consciously, as though she had revealed something she should not. “But thank you for being honest, Anya. I haven’t had someone be straight with me for a while now. And I haven’t had a friend in even longer.”

I didn’t bring up the fact that, discounting the time I’d spent unconscious, she’d known me for a total of three days. But then, who was I to reject her offer? She’d saved my life but a day earlier, at risk of her own. There was hardly a better foundation for building trust.

“You can have your bed back,” I volunteered, thinking it no longer fair of me to inconvenience her. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“No,” she said, almost recoiling at the thought. “For one thing, you’re hurt. And for another, you’re a guest. Now let me have a look at your wounds.”

I carefully removed and hung the dinner dress, then let Shea care for my back. After her departure, I crawled into bed, though I left the lamp lit, suspecting she might claim the floor in here rather than her sisters’ room. I heard her come in a little while later, and allowed myself a tentative smile. The barriers between us were falling away. And maybe I needed a friend as much as she did.

CHAPTER SIX

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

Over the next few days, I joined in more of the family’s activities, helping with meals, playing with the younger girls, and assisting Marissa with her reading and letters. While I had never before spent such intimate time among a human family, I couldn’t help but think their lifestyle peculiar, even for their species. They lived far away from any human settlement, from any neighbors, ostensibly preferring to keep their own company. Thatcher, in particular, continued to make me nervous. From what I could tell, he hunted, cleaned, and repaired his weapons, chopped firewood and prowled the area around the cabin as though on alert for intruders. He appeared to have no livelihood, and even when he relaxed in his armchair with his pipe in the evening, his gun was never out of reach.

My initial assessment of Elyse as timid was a gross understatement, though the reason for her meekness remained unclear. I had assumed she was afraid of her husband, but he never raised his voice or hand to her. Instead, it seemed she was afraid of life itself.

Even though I was on the road to recovery, my body felt heavy and sluggish. I probably weighed less without my wings, but my inability to hover made me feel rooted in a way I never had before. It felt like the earth was working against me, like it was trying to prevent every step I took. This sense of discontinuity with the natural world was demoralizing, and never more apparent than when I bathed and was surrounded by water—water that, when I’d been in possession of my elemental connection, had hugged my skin gently and kept me warm like a silken coat. Now it pressed on me, pulling at me and making it hard to breathe. Before long, I dreaded submerging myself in the treacherous substance. With no ability to communicate with it, the water’s raw power was evident, and I feared the element that had once been my closest ally.

* * *

I was outside one afternoon with Shea, fetching firewood, when three sharp cracks punched through the air, startling us both.

“What’s going on?” I asked, clutching the Anlace that was sheathed at my hip. I scanned the trees, which hugged the More house almost constrictively, on alert for a threat.

“Gunshots,” Shea said shortly. “But not from my father. He doesn’t hunt this close to home. Something’s wrong.”

She patted the pocket of her coat as though to check its contents, then rushed into the trees. I sprinted after her, suspecting I would be more effective in a conflict than she would be—I wasn’t wearing a dress, and would be calmer if Thatcher was injured. Besides, she’d saved my life when I’d run off.

Shea was faster than I expected, or else I was slower, and again I bemoaned the loss of my wings for handicapping me. I caught up to her when she halted, confused about which way to go, for snow was falling and the footprints Thatcher had left on departure were gone.

“Follow me,” I said, mentally re-creating the gunfire in my head. The shots had so abruptly broken the quietude that I could still hear them ringing in my ears, and I thought I could guide us closer to their point of origin. Eventually the sound of a male voice reached us, and we jogged toward it, taking care in case there was peril ahead. We broke into a ring of trees, but heard no sounds other than the dull rustling of an animal in the distance.

“Dad!” Shea screamed, forgetting caution, and I rushed to quiet her, pressing my palm across her mouth. I’d already been attacked once in this forest. What if the voice we’d heard belonged to one of the contract hunters about whom Thatcher had told me? She tore my hand away, her eyes darting frantically about.

“What are you doing out here?”

Thatcher pushed his way through the underbrush and into the small clearing, dragging a dead buck. Close on his heels was a burly, bearded man with blank eyes and a hunting gun resting against his shoulder.

Shea pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I heard the gunfire. I thought something bad had happened.”

Thatcher’s heavy brows dove toward his nose. “And if something had happened, what were you planning to do about it?”

Her jaw clenched tightly, Shea withdrew a silver pistol from her coat pocket. “I came armed.”

Though I instinctively shied away from the weapon, I looked at her with new respect. I did not know how much skill she had with the gun, but at the very least she was willing to defend herself. Thatcher glanced at the burly hunter, who was stroking his beard as though he was bored or hard of hearing. Somewhat more relaxed, he then shook his head at Shea, although he did not otherwise address his daughter’s readiness to do battle. Instead, he motioned to his companion.

“I ran into Gray here. He was tracking this buck and I helped him. We’re going to split the meat back at our place. Let’s get going.”

Thatcher and the hunter headed off, Shea trailing without objection, but I hesitated. Our flight from the cabin had taken us in a direction opposite the Bloody Road, into a part of the forest with which I was not familiar, and a strong sense of apprehension stole over me.

I stood still, barely breathing, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck prickling. Glancing around, I soon found the reason for the feeling. Every tree in the ring that surrounded the clearing was scratched, as though marked by a wild animal. I pressed my memory, but couldn’t recall the markings being there when Shea and I had arrived, though my senses, lacking magical enhancement, didn’t pick up peripheral detail in the same way they once had. Even more disconcerting, each set of scratches was level with my head. Shea was shorter than me, Thatcher and Gray taller, and no scratches announced their heights. It was as if some creature had made me a crown.

A drop of icy water landed between my shoulders and slipped down my spine, and I jumped, breaking free of the trees’ bewitchment. Trying to will away my misgivings, I followed the trail of deer’s blood until I caught up with the others.

Once back at the More residence, Thatcher and Gray took their kill to the shack that stood behind the house. Shea and I went inside and sat before the fireplace in the main room, warming ourselves in silence, and I tried to assess the damage I might have done to my back with today’s exercise. While I couldn’t be sure, it felt like I was bleeding, and I wanted to scream in frustration at the sluggish rate of my recovery. Behind us, Elyse busied herself with dinner preparations.

“You two are quiet,” she said, and I jumped at the sound of her voice. She was so meek that I never really expected her to have one. With a huge sigh, Shea came to her feet, leaving her coat and pistol on the chair.

“It’s nothing. Just Dad. He wouldn’t take me hunting with him and now he’s angry because I followed him.”

Elyse nodded, curling her body around the stove as if she wanted to become part of it, to disappear entirely. What was it about this family? Shea was brash and defiant. Elyse acted like a horrible fate awaited her every time she spoke. Thatcher continually scrutinized me, presumably thinking I had an ulterior motive for being there, when he was the one who had saved my life. If all humans lived like this, they were a stranger species than even Illumina or anyone in the Anti-Unification League realized.

We washed and changed into dinner dresses, then ate without Thatcher, who was still helping Gray divide the meat. The younger girls had already been sent to bed by the time he entered, and Elyse hastened to prepare him a plate of food. But it wasn’t food that interested him. Waving his wife away like she was a buzzing fly, he called for his eldest daughter.

“Shea, grab your coat and meet me by the shack.”

Shea’s head jerked in her father’s direction as he once more left the house, and she quickly obeyed his bidding. Elyse, looking uncomfortable, went to check on the younger girls, while I retreated to the bedroom, leaving the door partway open in case father and daughter returned. I was determined to find out what was happening, and didn’t trust that Shea would tell me. Crossing the room, I carefully opened the window in the hope that my sharp Fae hearing would enable me to catch their conversation. I knew Shea was in trouble, but I wasn’t sure why.

At first, all I detected were rumblings; then Shea’s voice became strident.

“I want out of here! You can’t keep us locked up forever.”

“Locked up?” Thatcher’s voice rose ominously. “You think this is a prison? Try hard labor, Shea. Try servitude. Try paying back a debt to society.”

“A debt to society? No, you owe a debt to that government man. And I could respect you for fighting that debt. But you’re not fighting. You’re running, and you’re dragging your family down with you.”

“I will not have you speak to me like that! I have done everything to keep you safe—”

“Everything except own up to what you did.”

A long silence followed Shea’s acidic response, then I heard the cabin door open and Thatcher’s thunderous footsteps upon the floor. The door closed, telling me that his daughter had likewise come inside. I hastened to the other side of the bedroom, intent on continuing to eavesdrop, this time watching, as well, through the crack in the door.

Thatcher saw his daughter’s gun out of the corner of his eye, still lying on the chair. The fire at his back was feeble, and I could hardly see what he was doing as he strode across the room. Then he handed the silver pistol to Shea, the bullets clutched in his fist.

“You don’t need these,” he growled. “I’m letting you keep that gun because it was your grandfather’s, but don’t push me, Shea.”

“Take the bullets. Take whatever you want. That doesn’t change a thing.” Shea tore off her overcoat and flung the gun on top of it. “You’re not listening to me. I told you—I want out of here. Stop being a coward.”

Thatcher stared, openmouthed, and I tensed, thinking he might strike her.

Shea hoped he would hit her. I knew it the moment Thatcher chose to admit defeat, stumbling away from her, and her posture shrank with telltale guilt. Still caught up in her anger, she looked to be on the verge of tears, but managed to whisper an apology. Turning from her father, she strode into our room, opening the door so forcefully she nearly knocked me over, then closing it with purpose.

“Why doesn’t telling the truth feel better than this?” she demanded, gripping the handle with a white-knuckled fist, the slam of the front door in the background telling us Thatcher had left once more for the shed.

“What is the truth, Shea?” I thought I needed to know—both for my protection and for her sanity.

She bit her thumbnail, deliberating, then words poured from her mouth like a dam had broken.

“My father crossed someone in Ivanova’s pocket. It was a while ago, over two years now. When he ran, he made his family collateral—any of us can serve his sentence, seven years in the Governor’s service if we’re caught. My father sold our freedom to keep his own.”

“What did he do?” I asked, struggling to grasp the situation. What could anyone do to earn seven years of servitude? This explained why Shea had been eager to be friends with me—a family on the run had no chance to form bonds.

“It’s no secret that Ivanova is a narcissist. There are three social classes in Warckum—the Governor’s friends, the surviving, and the slowly dying. His friends sleep on feather beds and eat imported delicacies, while the lower classes waste away. We thought fortune was at last smiling on us when one of the feather beds commissioned work from my father. He was a woodworker in Tairmor, and all it takes is a smile from one of Governor Ivanova’s men to change your entire existence in that city. But then Dad objected to some part of the project and didn’t deliver. I’ve never known exactly what went wrong, but it’s obvious he didn’t make a wise decision.”

I remembered Illumina’s rants against humanity, and was filled with a new appreciation for my aunt. Ubiqua had never punished my cousin for disagreeing with her. She could have. Certainly Illumina’s words had never been welcome, and her father’s ties to the AUL had always been of concern. The Queen could have silenced my cousin’s opinions and objections, just like Thatcher More’s had been silenced.

“So your father was convicted of some offense against the government?”

“Not convicted, just sentenced,” Shea scoffed. “When we heard a warrant had been issued for his arrest, we fled to Sheness. We hoped to bribe our way onto a ship and leave the continent and the Warckum Territory for good, but the port city was handling an influx of armed forces. So we headed inland, all the way east to the Balsam Forest, where people worry more about crossing the Fae than the Governor’s laws. Here there are no patrols. But here there is also no life, at least on this side of the Road.”

She slumped to the floor on her makeshift bed, tossing one arm across her forehead.

“I can’t stay here any longer, Anya. You’re the first person I’ve seen who’s my age in over a year. You can’t imagine what that’s like. Stagnating. No friends, no community, no opportunity to grow up. I’ve been thirteen in my parents’ eyes for two years now. I feel sick here. I’d rather die than stay.”

I couldn’t blame her for resenting Thatcher. My thoughts went to my own father, the Lord of the Law in Chrior, not a man who lacked for courage. He wanted nothing more than for me to be happy, regardless of the cost to him; he’d said as much the night of Illumina’s departure. And yet I could find reasons to be bitter toward him. He’d distanced himself from me after my mother’s death. He’d supported Ubiqua in choosing me as her heir, even though he knew how I would react to it. He hadn’t been a perfect father. But he would never have forced me into isolation, into loneliness and inertia the likes of which Shea was describing.

“But exactly what punishment is your father fleeing?”

“My father’s never been open about his crime or the potential punishment, so I don’t know what they’d do to him if they managed to arrest him. But I can’t bear the thought of my sisters enduring punishment in his place.” Her voice was harsh, anger once more rising. “How can he claim he’s protecting us when his actions have made us all vulnerable to imprisonment?”

“I can’t answer that, Shea. He must think keeping the family together is the right thing to do.”

She sighed heavily. “Maybe with the right sum of money, the Governor would consider my father’s debt paid. But what do you pay a man who already has everything?”

A long screech interrupted our conversation, and we both jumped. Realizing its likely cause was a tree branch brushing across the window, we broke into laughter, as though that would prove there was nothing to fear. The diversion was welcome to me—I had no answer to Shea’s question. Could Zabriel’s grandfather really be so pitiless? Or did he just go along with whatever recommendations his advisers made?

As tiredness took hold of us, we prepared for bed, and I finally had a chance to examine my wounds. To my dismay, my back was once more crusted in blood. While Shea applied salve to the injury, I satisfied some of her queries about my life in Chrior. I described to her the way the city was constructed and told her how it felt to have an elemental connection: that the earth was your friend when you had none, that it was there to protect you and you it. I tried to bring Ubiqua, my father and Illumina to life with my words, leaving out the detail that we were royalty. The only person I didn’t mention was Davic, for I doubted I could speak of him. The ache in my heart was too great for words. All that was left of our promise bond was a curiously vacant sensation, a void in my chest that was ever growing, expanding, trying to fold me up inside it. Maybe Davic felt something, too, but he was safe in Chrior, and I didn’t think he would identify the feeling unless he attempted to contact me, something he had sworn not to do for three months. He was my best hope for help from my people, and he might not apprehend I was in trouble until a quarter of a year had passed.

A rattle of the window interrupted my ruminations, and Shea stood to check that the latch was secure.

“That’s odd,” she said, brushing aside the curtains and peering through the glass. “There’s no wind tonight.”

I went to her side and gazed into the darkness, scanning the trees and the shadows they cast. Everything was peaceful and still, the snow sparkling in the brilliant light of the moon and stars. There wasn’t even a whisper of a breeze to explain the noises we’d heard.

“You’re right. No wind. Maybe it died down.”

“That fast?” Shea’s voice was tight, and worry lines furrowed her brow.

“I don’t know.” I opened the window and glanced beneath it for tracks, but couldn’t make out much in the gloom at the base of the house. “I don’t see anything.”

“Do you think I should tell my father? Maybe that hunter—Gray—told the authorities where to find us.”

“It’s not someone coming after your family, Shea. Humans can’t cross the snow without leaving footprints.”

“A Faerie?”

Though my first reaction was to say no, for there was little reason for my kind to travel this far into an unsettled part of the Warckum Territory, I hesitated. Falk’s missing son, for one, might have a desire to leave inhabited areas behind. I squinted and leaned farther out the window than before, my eyes darting back and forth to examine the ground. Might he be stalking me? I was a perfect target for his revenge, which he was sure to be pursuing. Trying to banish the paranoia that roiled inside my chest, I reminded myself that Fae looking for medicinal herbs might likewise travel far afield. At last I answered Shea, who was watching me with furrowed brow.

“I doubt it was a Faerie, although it’s not impossible. Most likely it was just an animal. We can have a look around tomorrow if you want.”

Shea nodded, though the fear did not fade from her eyes.

“There are some Fae who work for the Governor, you know,” she warned.

After refastening the latch and tugging the curtains into place, we slid into our respective beds, and quiet descended upon the room. But try as I might, I couldn’t fall asleep, for an unexpected resentment of Zabriel was growing inside me. Why had he left the Realm of the Fae? How could he have voluntarily abandoned the things for which I was yearning, the things I would miss forever if I couldn’t get home? And since his decision to desert the Fae had at least been voluntary, why couldn’t it have been him to lose his wings and me to retain the option of returning to Chrior? Unable to reconcile the morality of these thoughts, I closed my eyes, my head beginning to ache. I wasn’t aware of falling asleep when a memory so vivid it felt like a living experience exploded across my mind.

* * *

The Great Redwood was filled to capacity with warm bodies and joyful noise, so full that not an echo could be heard despite the tree’s magnificent size. It was our beloved Queen Ubiqua’s birthday, and she celebrated with food and revelry for all Faefolk, preferring to give rather than to receive. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd, and she smiled graciously, nodding greetings here and there. But when her gaze landed on a particular individual, her smile became as bright as a sunbeam.

At my side, Ione tracked my aunt’s line of sight. We were holding hands, and she tugged at my arm to draw my attention to Zabriel. His grin was vivid and contagious; he loved celebrations, the opportunity to meet new people. His dark brown eyes were alive with the fever of excitement, and his presentation was exquisite. Some of the Fae doubted he would be able to command our people because of his lack of an elemental connection, but it was times like these I realized how wrong the naysayers were. To see him was to want to be near him; to speak to him was to fall under his spell. He needed no magic for that.

Ione’s face was flushed, but not from the warmth or the Sale. My cousin was trim, well dressed, and well-groomed, undeniably handsome with a crown of berries around his head, and Ione was in awe of him. In the spirit of the evening, I shoved her toward him; to her mortification, she bumped into his shoulder.

Zabriel steadied her, glancing automatically behind her. When he caught my eye, I winked, and he loosed his warm, rich laugh. He took Ione’s hand and spun her in a dance. Her halo of blond hair shone in the light. Girls watching whispered and fidgeted enviously.

A moment later, hands playfully covered my eyes, blinding me. A kiss to my cheek and an arm that spun me into an elegant twirl left no question who was responsible—in Davic’s hands, it was impossible not to dance well.

Dipped into a graceful back bend, I gazed upside down at the line of thrones and chairs against the wall of the Redwood. My father raised his eyebrows at me, and I giggled, pointing him out to Davic when he pulled me up and into his arms. My dance partner grinned shamelessly and sent a dramatic bow in my father’s direction. The Lord of the Law chuckled and waved a hand of dismissal toward us.

The chair next to my father’s was empty, though it had earlier been occupied by Enerris, Queen Ubiqua’s brother, who was probably mingling with the revelers. One more seat down, my cousin Illumina watched the party with wide, cautious eyes. She would not leave her chair, let alone dance.

“Anya!”

Immediately recognizing Ione’s voice, I took Davic’s hand, leading the way through the crowd to my best friend. Though she hadn’t been particularly loud, something in her tone had pierced through the gleeful noise and struck a chord in me. She needed me.

At first glance, everything seemed fine, but as I came closer, I saw that Zabriel was in conversation with Enerris. The Queen’s older brother was silver haired and wizened, taller and more physically imposing than my cousin, and his presence cast Zabriel’s untouchable glow of youth into shadow. I didn’t know what was going on between uncle and nephew, only that it was unlikely to be good.

“You’re not a boy anymore,” Enerris said to Zabriel in his deep rumble. “The people are beginning to remark upon your qualifications as a ruler.”

“I’m aware of that,” Zabriel replied, irritation in his voice. Enerris seldom let him forget.

“Then take the opportunity to show that you are one of us.”

Zabriel’s face grew suspicious. “And what would you suggest, Uncle?”

Enerris smiled and extended a bark mug to my cousin, and I knew with a seizing of my heart that Zabriel would not refuse. I glanced wildly about for someone who could stop him, then moved toward him myself. Extending an arm to ward me off, my cousin took the mug in his elegant, long-fingered hands. Before I could speak, he raised it in a toast and put it to his lips, downing the Sale in one draught.

“Zabriel!”

The scream cut through the celebrations, bringing the music to a discordant halt. Confused murmurs whirred through the Redwood, and a ripple began in the crowd as Faefolk made way for the Queen and her Lord of the Law. Enerris backed away from his nephew, but Ubiqua caught his movement.

“Seize him!” she ordered, and my father obeyed, twisting Enerris’s arms behind his back while the Queen hastened to her only child.

“Mother, I’m all right!” Zabriel averred, horrified by the scene.

Her eyes wild, Ubiqua struck him across the face with the back of her hand. Zabriel staggered, his dark eyes shocked and betrayed—his mother had never, never hit him before. But this time he had gambled with his life. Queen Ubiqua had forbidden him ever to consume Sale, afraid that with his human blood, the drink would poison him. In an hour, or two, or twelve, he could be dead.

Ubiqua clutched at him in a panic; then her wrath found Enerris. I saw in her cold expression that forgiveness of her brother would never come, and I leaned against Davic as his arms encircled me protectively. This night, the world had changed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NEVER LOOK BACK

I rose early the next morning with determination in my heart. I would drive myself mad with thoughts like the ones I’d had last night. If I didn’t give myself a purpose, I would sink into bitter despair, and there wasn’t time for that. Fully healed or not, I needed to leave.

I dressed in the dim light of the sunrise, knowing I would have to obtain two things for my journey from Thatcher More—food and a map. With this in mind, I approached the shack behind the house where he so often disappeared. The door stood ajar, and I could hear him moving around inside. Not wanting to give him a chance to deny me entry, I took a breath and crossed the threshold, steeling myself for what I might find. But nothing looked horribly amiss, and my fluttering heartbeat settled into a normal rhythm.

Thatcher stood at a wooden table littered with animal hides and bones, cutting venison into strips with a hunting knife. The table’s surface had absorbed enough lifeblood to emanate the sour odor associated with these activities, and yet the scent was vague, suggesting the workspace was frequently cleaned. A variety of tools hung on the walls, and a smaller table held what looked like partially finished carvings and other woodworking projects.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Are you turning some of that venison into jerky?”

Thatcher jumped and spun toward me, knife at the ready. My body automatically locked into a defensive posture, Anlace in hand even though I didn’t remember reaching for it. It hadn’t occurred to me that Thatcher might not hear my approach—I’d assumed my skill for silence had been lost with my wings.

“It’s you,” he growled, wiping newly formed beads of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

With Shea’s confessions fresh in my mind and annoyance bubbling in my chest, there were many retorts that sprang to my lips. But I bit them back and returned the Anlace to its sheath. Antagonism would get me nowhere.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you in private.”

An unremitting stare was his only response, and it felt like he was trying to push me out the door by sheer force of will. I stepped farther into the shack, doing my best to ignore his attitude.

“I’m planning on leaving soon. I wondered if I might have some meat for my travels?”

“When will you depart?”

“In a day or two, I hope.”

With a grunt that I took as a yes, he returned to work. I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for him to say something more, to ask how much food I’d need, where I would be going, anything that would ordinarily be asked, when my gaze fell on a pair of leather fetters that looked disturbingly familiar. Frowning, I picked them up from the smaller table and rubbed them between my fingers, only to have Thatcher snatch them away. When I looked down, the crusty, dark russet substance that stained the leather now stained my hand.

“Distinctive souvenir,” I said pointedly, my wrists stinging as though the straps still encircled them, immobilizing me for the halberd to strike—strike—strike. My surroundings grew fuzzy for an instant, my memory dragging forth that dark night, each deafening blow still able to create a throbbing in my temples.

“Not a souvenir,” Thatcher grumbled, clutching the cuffs in a thick fist. “You may not place much faith in me, but don’t do me a disservice. I just wanted to see what the hunters are using these days.”

“And what have you determined?” I asked, banishing the belligerence from my voice.

“They’re getting more sophisticated. And they’re well funded. See these studs?” He pointed to the manacles, and I nodded. Between bloodstains, the leather held bits of a shimmering black mineral. “That’s sky iron. Very hard to come by, and very expensive.”

I paled. From the Fae perspective, sky iron was what humans called an old wives’ tale. Said to fall from the heavens, it contained the only substance in Nature that was inherently harmful to my people. According to lore, it grounded us, taking away our ability to fly and to communicate with the elements. Its existence was laced throughout our histories, but with its earthly source unknown, the accounts were largely accepted as allegories rather than fact.

I was face-to-face with a myth, and I understood now why the water hadn’t answered my call when I’d been attacked by the hunters; but that wasn’t the most terrifying part. No, the most terrifying part was how many other myths I’d dismissed throughout my life, and how the tide slunk in over sturdy ground when I lent them credence.

“What will you do with the leathers?” I pressed.

“Sell them, if I can. Might bring a tidy sum, and I can use the money.”

Disgust washed over me. “You mean you’ll sell them to hunters?”

“This isn’t personal, Anya. I need the money, and I’m not interested in asking questions.”

“It’s personal to me.”

To my surprise, he laughed and examined the fetters more closely, as though realizing for the first time that the blood forming the stains belonged to me.

“Yes, I suppose it is. I guess I can afford to be poor a little longer.”

Without another word, he opened the base of the smoker and tossed the leathers into the fire.

“You’re a good man, Thatcher More,” I said, perplexed by his shifting priorities. “At least I think you are.”

“There aren’t many these days who would agree with you. But that’s neither here nor there. You’re welcome to all the jerky you want. There are plenty of deer in these woods. Anything else you need?”

“A map of the area, if you could draw one. I’m not familiar with this part of the forest.”

“Simple enough. I’ll have it for you in the morning.”

“One last thing. What about acquiring a horse?”

“You can rent one in Strong. It’s the closest town to us and it has a government-sponsored livery stable. If you return your mount to any of the company’s locations, they’ll refund half your investment.”

“Thanks,” I said again, resisting the urge to ask him about his problems with the Governor. He was being cooperative, and I doubted that would continue if I delved into his personal affairs. I didn’t have the right to pry, no matter how curious I was.

I turned to go, but Thatcher arrested me with a warning. “You’re not to take Shea with you.”

“What?”

“Shea is unhappy here, no point in pretending otherwise. I suspect she’ll want to go with you. But the outside world poses a threat to her that she is too young to appreciate. I want your promise you’ll turn her down.”

I gave my auburn hair a thoughtful tug. This possibility had not yet occurred to me. Then I gave him the best answer I could.

“It’s not my intent to take her with me. I’ll do my best to discourage her, but that’s all I can promise. She has the right to make up her own mind.”

Thatcher’s return expression was not in the least satisfied. He took a deep breath, gripping the edge of his worktable so that the muscles all the way up his arms flexed.

“Fair enough,” he grumbled, for there was little else he could say to me.

I left him alone in the shack, wishing there was something I could do to make the Mores’ lives easier. Perhaps if I found Zabriel and he took his rightful place on the throne, I would ask him to assist the humans who had helped me when I was at my most vulnerable.

Instead of heading to the front door, I walked around to the back of the cabin. It was so cold that the snow had crusted over, and I was practically able to walk on top of it, only occasionally breaking through. When I came to Shea’s window, I scanned the ground, not really expecting to see any tracks. The immaculate snow confirmed the likelihood that the noises we’d heard had been those of an animal—nothing heavier than a fawn could have passed here without breaking the crust. While a Faerie could have hovered, I would probably have heard the hum of wings last night. Fae wings in motion made a distinct sound recognizable by those whose ears were attuned to it. I also scrutinized the surrounding space for glimmers of magic in the air that might have been left by one of my people, but found nothing. Satisfied, I returned to the house to help with the day’s chores.

* * *

After supper that night, Shea and I put her sisters to bed, an activity I had come to enjoy, for the four of us would gather in the younger girls’ bedroom and share tales. Shea was the primary storyteller, although occasionally Magdalene took on the role. I knew from legends within my own land—and from Thatcher’s identification of sky iron—that old tales often had a core of truth, and hearing human versions might give me extra insight into their world. A few of the stories existed in the Faerie Realm, as well, and these I took to have more credibility than the others. If a fable commanded the belief of two separate races of people, it was bound to have deep roots.

“So you see, the woman destroyed herself by trying to become more beautiful,” Shea explained to Magdalene and Marissa, who were sitting on their beds, listening intently. “We’re made the way we are for a reason. You can’t go against nature.”

“Or you’ll end up uglier than before,” Marissa offered, and a round of giggles followed. The girls had been outside during the day, and the clothes we’d hung to dry by the fireplace fractured the light, casting eerie shadows across the floor and walls.

In the spirit of this atmosphere, Magdalene made a request. “Tell us a scary one, Shea. We know about ending up ugly.”

“You do,” teased Marissa, prompting Maggie to playfully smother her with a pillow.

“You don’t need to hear a scary one,” Shea said with a roll of her eyes. “You should go to bed.”

“No!” Marissa implored, breaking free of Magdalene’s assault. “I want a scary one, too. Please, Shea?”

“Fine. Let’s see.... Oh, I’ve got one. Have you ever heard of a Sepulchre?”

Marissa and Maggie shook their heads, while I sat up straighter on the floor. This was yet another myth the Fae shared with the humans; Evangeline had frightened me and our other friends with stories about Sepulchres when we were younger.

“Long ago, before the Faerie War, there were these creatures, these beautiful creatures. No one was sure if they were men or women or even what color they were, they shone so uniquely,” Shea began, separating the girls and moving to sit on Marissa’s bed. “The Fae were friends with them, and used to share their magic so the creatures could stay beautiful. But then the war erupted, and the curse of the Bloody Road stopped anyone who wasn’t Fae from crossing into the magical Realm. So the creatures, in order to survive, had to feast on the next best thing—children, the younger the better, because they were so pure.”

This was met with the expected gasps and shivers, and Marissa pulled her quilt up to her chin.

“It’s said that these creatures, called Sepulchres, slip through windows and cracks in doors and steal children away to their dungeons somewhere beneath the ground. No one knows what happens then, except that the children are never seen again.”

There was silence for a moment, then Marissa whimpered, “That’s not true, is it?”

“Don’t worry. Even if it is, Sepulchres never go after big girls like you and Maggie.” Shea tweaked her younger sister’s nose, drawing a weak smile.

“Shea,” I admonished. “Your sisters are scared.”

“I know that.”

“Then tell them the truth.”

“I did!”

I sighed, feeling presumptuous for challenging Shea in front of her sisters, but hating the fear in Marissa’s enormous dark eyes.

“Not completely.”

“Then by all means, straighten me out! What is the truth?”

I turned to the little girl, ignoring Shea’s tightly crossed arms, and told the story as it was repeated in Chrior.

“A long time ago, when humans and Fae shared the lands now occupied by your race, there were these creatures called Sepulchres. They were nourished by Fae magic, but they never attacked children. And when the Faeries left the human world, all the Sepulchres died. So, you see, it’s actually a sad story, not a scary one. There’s nothing to worry your pretty head about.”

Marissa grinned and curled up on her side. After kisses and good-nights, Shea and I returned to the bedroom we jointly occupied, my mind mulling over her version of the tale.

In Chrior, Sepulchres were just another story told to demonize the humans, who had viewed us as heathens, reprobates, and usurpers, and driven us out of their lands. The Sepulchres had been trapped on the human side of the Road and condemned to death without access to our magic. Humans apparently believed the creatures still existed, while the Fae believed them to be extinct, their species one massive casualty of the war.

“So you really don’t believe in Sepulchres?” Shea demanded as soon as our bedroom door had closed, hands on her hips. “Because I’ve heard of children going missing, back when we lived in Tairmor.”

“Tairmor is a big city, and I have no doubt children go missing. But I don’t think Sepulchres are to blame.”

“How can you be sure?”

I flipped my hair over my shoulders, exasperated. “I’m not sure. But I do know that as long as monsters and demons are taking the blame for kidnappings, they’re providing excellent scapegoats for real criminals. And I’m Fae, remember? I think I know more about magic and magical creatures than you do. Besides, Marissa and Maggie would have been lying awake all night waiting for some horror to slip through the window if I hadn’t told them what they needed to hear. Isn’t that what’s important?”

Shea scowled but said no more, though she prepared for bed with a vengeance. I could tell she was still irked, but I didn’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it. I was plenty irked myself. Children didn’t deserve to be scared. Illumina wasn’t much older than Shea’s sisters, and she’d lived most of her life in fear. It had led to her bizarre habits, her unpredictability, a desperation, perhaps, to be more frightening than the things that frightened her. It had taken more than a scary story to subvert Illumina’s mind in this way, but the thought of Marissa or Magdalene slinking into the woods to injure their own bodies the way Illumina did was enough to caution me against beginning the pattern.

* * *

Other than collecting the promised map and jerky from Thatcher, I went about my usual business the next day, occasionally ruminating on the best way to find Zabriel. My cousin, according to Queen Ubiqua, had his father’s spirit. I’d seen it in him, though I hadn’t known the human Prince of the Fae whom some had viewed as an interloper, others as a blessing. Zabriel had always been focused on the next thing, the lands he wanted to travel, the people he would meet or, in the interim, the worlds he invented in his mind. There was always that elusive adventure up ahead. Now I wondered if it had been a way for him to escape his painful present. In any case, the current day had never mattered as much to him as someday.

Ubiqua had been afraid to let Zabriel cross the Bloody Road in the aftermath of her husband’s death. Her son had no elemental connection, a deficiency that had been obvious from a young age. Most Fae manifested their element within days of birth and learned to communicate with Nature at the same rate they learned to talk, but young Zabriel had feared water, abhorred the dubious flickering of flames, and been helpless against the cold wind. There had been hope for an Earth connection, since he’d loved the feel of dirt under his nails and the sun on his skin, but an incident with poison berries dashed that hope. Even as toddlers, Earth Fae instinctively knew the difference between kind plants and cruel ones, and Zabriel was oblivious. It was normal in light of the evidence that Ubiqua should fear for her son’s life against the curse of the Road. In her zeal to protect him, she’d forbidden him to go near it, and had kept Zabriel’s birth a secret from his human relatives. She wanted no incentive for him to leave the Faerie Realm, no eager arms awaiting him on the other side of the boundary. As a result, he’d believed they didn’t want him, maybe even that they blamed him for his father’s death.

Had Ubiqua suspected Zabriel harbored these fears, she surely would have told him the truth sooner, but she hadn’t done so until he was fifteen, at which point chaos had ensued, and her son’s reckless abandon had steered him to brave a Crossing of his own accord. When he’d gone missing, the entire Realm had been searched; it was ultimately assumed he’d gone into human lands when not a trace of him was found, even on or near the Bloody Road. No news of him had since reached the Queen or my father’s ambassadors in the Warckum Territory.

Would Zabriel have tried to find his father’s family? It would have been an easy task considering their prominence, another fact I had not shared with Shea. She didn’t need to know of my cousin’s connection to the man she viewed as responsible for her family’s strife. I ultimately rejected the idea that Zabriel would have sought out the Governor—when he’d abandoned his claim to the throne, he’d been tired of expectations and being defined by the blood in his veins. He had no memories of his father, a fact he never hesitated to share with anyone who happened to ripple the surface of his deep-rooted bitterness toward the human for siring him. I couldn’t picture Zabriel pursuing a history and a legacy he did not want.

Where, then, would he have gone? A place where he would blend in, where he would be difficult to track. A large city. The capital? Tairmor was busy, but it was also the seat of the Governor’s power, and offered little excitement once one adapted to its curiosities and pace. Sheness, however, brimmed with foreigners, trade, new technologies, and adventure, or so I’d heard, and the port city was as far from the Balsam Forest as the continent allowed. It was more likely Zabriel would have traveled there. After all, he saw himself as an abomination, neither human nor Fae, and one was likely to find many abominations in Sheness.

A shudder passed through me at this thought. Was I now an abomination, too? Shaking off the notion, I forced myself to concentrate only on Zabriel, settling on Sheness for my destination. Two years had passed since his disappearance, and I had to start somewhere.

I waited until evening to tell Shea of my decision to depart, when we were together in her room. A significant part of me wanted to just steal away, avoid goodbyes and potential trouble with Thatcher, but Shea and I had become friends, and I owed her an explanation. She would be lonely without me, and the resulting guilt I felt was more intense than I had anticipated. I was prepared, however, to deal with her disappointment. To my consternation, when I finally forced the confession past my lips, I encountered resolve rather than disappointment, and I realized how well Thatcher understood his daughter.

“I’m going with you,” she proclaimed, a stubborn set to her chin.

I shook my head, but Shea wasn’t put off.

“What are you going to do, Anya? You have to find a way to live among the humans now. Do you think that’s going to be easy? Maybe in your Realm people respect teenage girls, but they don’t here. We’re bothersome and in the way, too young to be taken seriously and too old to be innocent. The world doesn’t want us, and if we don’t have each other, we have nothing. I need to leave this place, and you’re going to want a friend out there in the Territory. You might even need one.”

I rubbed my temple, my feelings aligning with hers—I didn’t want to be alone. But how could I say yes when I’d promised Thatcher that I’d turn her down?

“What about your family?”

“They’ll be fine without me. I haven’t been here in my heart in a long time.”

“Your father doesn’t want you to leave.”

Shea slowly blinked her chocolate-brown eyes, pondering the meaning of my statement.

“Did my father talk to you?” She read the answer in my expression, and her eyes narrowed. “He has no right to forbid you from taking me with you. This isn’t his decision, it’s mine.”