The Frey Saga Book IV Read online

  That didn’t mean Chevelle had to like it.

  “Get your head in the game, Vattier,” Liana told him.

  He didn’t spare her a glance. Anvil and Rider had gone to gather men, taking a direct route south of himself, his band of sentries, Liana, and a poorly-healed Grey. “Span out,” he commanded, scanning the field that stretched before them. The men did so without question.

  They’d been in a full run from the castle until they reached the low blades of grass that commenced the protected ground that brought them to the boundary. Chevelle was glad, for once, they had someone fey with them. Liana would be able to feel the bindings the ancients had laid in place. Something had gone wrong before, some fey trickery or broken magic that had allowed the lot of them to be trapped by Keane and the others.

  He didn’t know how they’d managed it, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “Find us a route and we will follow.”

  Liana narrowed her gaze on him, eyes going white before ghosting to steel gray. She preferred the color for battle, and it was no secret she was ready to play. “The entire boundary line has fault. There are components here I have no control over, circumstances beyond my not-so-meager limitations.” She glared across the open field. “This will need to be resolved, but it will not be done before the fates dance.”

  “Enough with the riddles,” Grey told her. “Where do we cross?”

  Liana managed to look annoyed, despite having expended all that effort into her battle face. “It isn’t my fault your mind is incapable of seeing the truth in simple words.”

  Chevelle stared at her.

  They waited.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Follow eight beats behind me.” She pointed at the sentries. “And keep them on this side until the trade.”

  She strode toward the barrier, feet soundless on the bed of rock, and Chevelle counted eight before starting behind her. Her steps did not splash into the running water, finding purchase instead on small bits of sand and silt as her magic parted the flow momentarily with each stride.

  It should have been impossible, even for a changeling.

  Chevelle kept his gaze on Liana when a shadow shifted among what was left of the fallen trees. Freya had destroyed so much of it. The power within her tore free stronger than she intended and faster than she realized on a good day; nothing in range stood a chance when she was angry. Distracted, that was what she’d been. Distracted and angry and trapped.

  The landscape went silent, suddenly void of even the rustle of leaves, and all present took notice. Liana’s boots came to rest on the fey side of the ancient earthen barrier. “Show yourselves now,” she told the debris-strewn landscape. “We have no time for folly.” One hand rose, gesturing toward a clouded sky. “Not with the fates’ dance upon us.”

  The clearing was eerily still. Chevelle had wondered at it before; the fey were not exactly friend to the wildlife, but how had they managed to keep the forest devoid of fauna altogether? He knew why: Frey. They understood what she could do with beasts, the way she used them to subvert magic and spellcasting. To break through protected boundaries. He glanced at the ground beneath their feet, dismounted his horse.

  “Liana,” he started.

  She put a hand into the air to still him without looking back, shoulders tense, ears tilted toward a sound he could not hear. “We have the key,” she told their surroundings. “The prize one might steal a halfling or an elven lord for.”

  Grey’s horse nickered.

  “We will not cross this boundary,” Chevelle said to whoever might be listening. “The trade happens here.”

  The sky flickered. It was not the flash of lightning, not glint of sun. This was something else, something unsettling that put pressure on his chest and an ill feeling in the pit of his gut.

  “The ceremony,” a voice said from the other side of the rock bed. “It has begun.”

  The figure had not been there moments ago, Chevelle was certain of it. It was a changeling, one he was not familiar with—though with a changeling fey, it was difficult to be sure.

  Liana took a step back, positioning her body toward the thing. It was not a friend then, despite the manner with which it spoke. Was it taunting them, reminding them that the flicker had been Veil’s power, that even here it could be felt, that on his own land nothing was out of the fey lord’s reach? Or was this creature here to get away from such danger, keeping its distance from the court ceremonies for precisely that reason?

  No, he thought. Because Liana turned to Chevelle then, letting the undiluted fear show on her face. Her true face.

  “Run,” she said. But it was too late. Winged beings had burst into the atmosphere, sudden and entirely, engulfing them with darkness and rapid wingbeats and a stench that could only mean one thing.

  Spells.

  Chevelle reached for his pocket, the black beasts biting and clawing at every inch of exposed skin. He grappled for the pouches, unable to see, to hear, to sense anything but the spikes of wings and dark chaos. He reached a leather binding and pulled, not knowing if it would be the right concoction to help. Powder spilled across his fingers, burning and bubbling when it mixed with his blood. It was the madness of an uncontrollable fire blast, the stinging beasts like being blinded in a midnight hailstorm. He could do no more than breathe and grasp for more of the concoctions tucked away in his vest.

  This one felt spongy, tied together with string, and the bird-things ripped at it, knocking the package free from his ragged hand. He reached for his waist, drawing a spelled blade up and through the cloud, but there were more and more and nothing could keep them at bay. Words came to him, ancient and powerful and just as useless as everything else. Two more pouches were in his bloody palm and he cut through again to meet hand-to-hand. He sliced both packets open, throwing their powders together into the cloud. The mass of things screamed and sizzled, and returned at him tenfold to bite and sting.

  He screamed more spells, drawing the last of his potions from a pocket near his belt. This was the strangest, the most foreign of mixes he’d found among the castle supply. And it did nothing.

  Not nothing, he realized, for the air was sweet and his ears began to ring. He cursed. Heat rose from his feet, burning within his boots and higher, scorching flesh and cloth alike. Was this real? Was the powder consuming him or was—a high-pitched squall cut through the ringing in his ears, a light like the sun searing through the blackness from earth to sky, parting the spelled beasts, splitting their wings to fall, feathered bits that floated ceaselessly to the ground.

  The birds were gone.

  The air was clear.

  And Grey was nowhere to be seen.

  29

  Frey

  The festivities had carried on throughout the night and into the second day. The sun rising over Veil and his court on the dawn of the fates’ dance was the most stunning thing I’d ever witnessed, and it had done nothing to prevent my stomach from being braided into knots. The dread of the coming night was worse with every instant that passed, every act by these brutal fey. I knew my Seven would be arriving, knew they would reach us eventually in the light of day. Veil had called the fates to decide my bid against Keane, and Keane’s against me, but it was bigger than that and each of us knew it. No one would miss what would take place with nightfall.

  But when the first of my guard did arrive, I had to still myself. I fought the need to call out, to go to her.

  It was Ruby, bruised and dirty, her hair a tangled mess. But alive. Ruby. A tall changeling fey walked beside her, his skin ablush with spring. The men who followed had Ruby tied with braided hemp, three of them holding tight to the rope ends. Spellwoven, then, I thought, and I wanted to punish him for this offense. She was not his prisoner. She had been stolen.

  From my home.

  I stood. I shouldn’t have stood, but I had. It was too late to change that now, too late to do anything different for any of us.

  Pitt continued his
entrance, smiling and nodding at the attending fey. He wasn’t unaware of me, he was working to offend. He planned to keep Ruby, and an outburst by me could only help him secure his prize. The best result for Pitt would be my premature death. I stared at him, the pompous beast.

  He wore plain clothes, a pale robe that masked his slender frame, a woven ivy cuff upon his wrist. His feet were bare, unnaturally clean, and his right hand held a jeweled ivory staff tipped with the largest crimson stone I’d ever seen. A ruby.

  My eyes shot to Ruby, recognition plain, but her gaze remained straight ahead. The stone was my ruby, the one I’d taken from my family vault in the village so long ago. The one Chevelle had traded to Ruby in her Camber home before I had ever been restored to the throne. This was too deep, it went too far back. The fey had seasons upon seasons to plan this, and I was incapable of catching up.

  I was blind, unable to stop it. I could not use my magic here, could not risk leaving it to their kind. I was bound, again and again.

  Veil touched my hand, and the gesture brought awareness of the heat there. I glanced at him where he sat beside me. He did not need to warn me that I shouldn’t lose my temper. I knew that. But it was a reminder of how deep we’d been thrown in this mess. “For Ruby,” I told him.

  And that quickly, the deal was done. With just those words. I would keep the humans at bay, whatever the strange sorcery was that subdued the base magic within their range, and Veil would enter the fight for me. To secure Ruby and get us all out of this mess.

  I turned back to the audience, speculation bright in the eyes of those who’d been near enough to hear.

  They did not matter to me.

  “Pitt,” I said across the crowd. “You hold an elven high guard, one of my Seven, by means that are beneath you. I suggest you release her now.”

  Pitt continued his slow walk toward the dais, his false beauty on full display as he acknowledged those who acknowledged him. When he did eventually look at me, it was left plain he felt the only thing beneath him was this particular elven lord. “The halfling was gifted to me, which, by fey law, makes her mine by right.”

  “She was stolen,” I told him. “I will have her back, or you will pay the consequence.”

  Pitt shrugged. “You cannot harness the base energy. There is no one here who would fight in your name, no one who stands a chance—”

  Veil rose to his feet beside me, the sweep of his wings barely brushing my back. He would touch me now, here in his court and among these spectators, with my wardrobe stripped to leather and unable to burn him. He said, “I stand for Elfreda, Lord of the North and the Kingdom of Dark Elves.”

  The atmosphere went silent. Pitt stared. It was clear no one, not even those who had been spreading rumor of the fey high lord consorting with elves, had expected him to toss his bid into this ring.

  “Certainly,” Pitt said to Veil, “you do not intend to take such risk over a paltry crossbreed?”

  I would let that one go. Everyone could assume it had been a reference to my guard.

  Veil looked back at Pitt, said evenly, “I do.”

  The crowd erupted into laughter and cheering, pockets of them already placing bets on the night’s newest event. This would be the biggest show in eons. Not only the fate of an elven lord, but Pitt, the mightiest changeling who’d ever fought in the high court, against the court’s current leader, undoubtedly the most powerful fey present.

  I took a breath, tightening my trembling hands. Veil was formidable. He was no small adversary. But this was Pitt. Pitt, who’d been dubbed a stonemaker, the keeper of the stones. I didn’t look at the forms on the court floor. I’d seen them all before. Half, maybe more, belonged to this changeling fey. He had won them in his battles, his power overtaking every opponent he had ever come against in challenge. If Veil lost, come tomorrow’s sunrise, he could be frozen here, no more than eternal stone. And he wouldn’t be the only one.

  I hoped it was Pitt. More than anything I’d ever wanted, I needed this to work.

  I had made a deal with the fey.

  Ruby finally glanced at me, her eyes rolling down to the chain that pressed my neck. Both of us knew what rested beneath the leather at my chest. The pendant. Her clue. Ruby shook her head, annoyed. I stared back at her, unapologetic. If the clue was meant to be so effortlessly resolved, she’d clearly left me the wrong one.

  Veil threw his hands into the air, gesturing grandly to the riotous crowd. “Let the festivities resume!”

  They hadn’t needed his permission. The groups of fey exchanging stones and bets widened and split, a chain reaction rushing through the assembly. Fights and cheers broke out at random, the base power thrumming with each small battle, feeding on energy it hadn’t rightfully won.

  These creatures were not meant to die. The fey had found this connection, fed it, and created a ceremony of celebration and blood. They were stealing lives to feed the base power, and it was sickening.

  Pitt climbed the low steps flanking the dais and took a seat among the highest of high fey, leaving Ruby tethered, rope enough to stand on the open stone floor, level with the changeling’s feet.

  My jaw twitched with a suppressed growl.

  “Your halfling looks well,” Veil noted beside me. His tone was conversational, the complete lack of concern for what he’d agreed to almost entirely believable.

  “I would wager a lesser being would not have fared so well,” I answered, not quite as convincing.

  He smiled. “You know I do love a wager.”

  I glared at him. Several among our audience snickered. Someone screeched out in the arena, fey surging toward the noise and back again. The mass fell silent, the power ebbed, and then cheers as it returned stronger than before. My skin sang with it, a tingling, stinging rush that made me want to double over and heave across the finely polished steps. Let us pay the fates their blood. Veil’s words would stay with me, if I made it out of here alive. And I hated them all for it.

  The sun was lowering in the sky, throwing color across this spectrum of fey. When the throng moved again, the dark, sharp figure of Keane became visible. He moved like a panther, swift and clean, and at odds with the nightmare of his form. He had a mob, I could see, a large group of dark-clad spiders formed up to walk in rows. Keane made his way into the arena, letting the other fey disperse as he watched me with a grin. I could taste the bile. I hated this place. My magic wanted to end him. It wanted, so badly, to be set free.

  The spiders split, dark tattooed faces impassive as they displayed their prisoners. No, my mind screamed, but I held the words in check. Something worse was about to happen.

  Fire exploded at the steps of the dais, Ruby’s spellwoven ropes fighting everything she threw at it. I had seen Ruby angry, I knew what her power could do. They had prepared for this, they had wanted her to show her strength in front of every fey.

  It made her a bigger prize.

  I pressed my lips, unable to intervene. My bargain was made. Veil had agreed to fight for Ruby and I had taken on Keane. But this was worse, this was Pitt’s men arriving with Keane. This was cooperation between two high fey, this was competition for Veil, an actual, verifiable threat.

  And in the center of those men stood Rhys and Grey. Keane preened, shifting to afford Ruby a better view.

  Rhys was bedraggled and beaten, but it appeared he would live. Grey, though—oh, Grey. I did think I would be sick, but Veil’s power brushed me again, changed from stinging to heat, to the rays of a noonday sun. It didn’t burn me. The burning had been all Grey, and Ruby. Ruby was fire brought to life.

  “I will end you,” she promised. “You will scream and beg my name.”

  Keane tittered. It was especially unpleasant.

  Liana must have ministered to Grey, for his skin was oiled to a sheen, but the damage was unmistakable. He would be scarred, even if Ruby had a chance to help him by the light of tomorrow’s dawn.

  Veil’s heat subsided, and I was unsure if it had truly been meant to se
ttle me, or if it was his penned anger, boiling within as my own did now. He had made a deal to save his realm, but now it appeared he’d also be risking his position at court. He’d pledged to fight on behalf of an elven lord. A halfling. These two fey were working together, and that could only mean they intended to displace him.

  But which one?

  Pitt, obviously, for he was the most powerful. But he was a changeling. Changelings didn’t serve as fey lords. So the question remained, what had Keane promised him?

  My gaze traveled to Ruby, to Grey, to the tremble in my own hands. It stayed there, seeing the grip tightened into itself, nearly drawing blood at the very idea.

  A pixie flitted in above the chaos, landing on the shoulder of one of Veil’s men. He listened, flicking the tiny thing away once it had said its piece, and then signaled to Virtue. She swooped in, listening to the news with an intensity I’d only seen among her kind. She wore her best fey armor, deep lavender to complement her skin, and an array of thin wooden spikes at her belt. She had come to kill, just like the rest of them, but she had a job to perform first.

  She moved quickly from the man to Veil’s side, speaking low into his ear.

  When she departed, returning to the air as sentinel, Veil looked displeased. I waited, wondering how hard it might have been for his heliotropes to be around an assembly this large, if it would hurt them the way the mass of humans affected me, and if that was why they preferred to fly just out of range, away from the thrum of anticipation. Eventually he said, “Why must you make everything so difficult?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “this was all because of me.”

  His wing twitched irritably. He rose, addressed the crowd. “Joining us for tonight’s festivities, upon my invitation.” Veil gestured toward the trees, thick foliage being blocked by a thicker crowd. My stomach dipped. What else?

  I watched, the fey parting effortlessly, and was alarmed to see Anvil leading a pack of men from those trees and onto the stone court floor. I scanned the newcomers, recognizing a few of them as Camber men, as more and more followed behind. Rider came then, wounded but seemingly able, ahead of the largest band of rogues I’d seen in ages. They were dressed in battle gear, painted upon breast and face, hammers and spikes in hand. They too were killers, their methods nearly as brutal and violent as the fey’s.