His Plan
“Lord Aedan!” Auberon whirls. “Get your bannermen here and arrest
Malleus. My son as well. And then we will deal with the human-loving
peasant mob outside.”
Aedan lifts his chin. “I think I prefer to stay out of this, Your Majesty.
Like the Dream Stalker, I have a great aversion to unnecessary death.”
As he speaks, I recall the poisons in his bedroom with a shudder. Man
loves his poisons.
Auberon pounds the table. “My son thrives on death. What is the
meaning of this?”
Aedan stands. “I tend to agree with Prince Talan. The kingdom has been
mismanaged, and that is the cause of the unrest now.”
Every word planted in his brain by Talan long ago.
“This is treason!” Arwenna’s father, the Marquis de Bosclair, gets to his
feet. “You will do as our king demands.”
“I will not.” Aedan looks resolute. “It is time to take a stand.”
The marquis’s cheeks turn pink. “Once we’ve dealt with the
commoners, I will march my own armies against any noble who refused to
obey His Majesty. The king is correct. Any commoners marching on the
king are trying to aid our enemies. They’re working for the filthy humans
who spread the famine. They’re our enemy within our kingdom, and we
must deal with them the way we do any threat to the crown.”
“That’s nonsense.” Ker-Ys’s shrill voice rises. “They’re not helping the
humans, and they’re not demi-Fey. They’re just starving. I stand with Prince
Talan.”
And here before me, each strand of Talan’s plan weaves together in
perfect precision.
Months of whispering dreams into nobles’ ears, of sowing thoughts like
threads—now, his schemes stitch themselves into place, a tapestry worthy
of Elaine of Shalott’s loom. He’s even managed to construct it so that KerYs has looked like his enemy. For months, he’s been controlling Ker-Ys to
oppose him. Now, I realize, it
What did you get into
The torchlight dances in his dark eyes as he stares down at me. “Let’s
start with your name.”
“I’m Severine.”
“No. Your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
He cocks his head, and a lock of ebony hair falls before one of his eyes.
“If I desire, I can wrap you in a dream, girl. And in that dream, you will feel
compelled to say your real name a thousand times. You will say it for days,
for weeks, until you starve half to death, until the word no longer has
meaning. So, let’s try this again. What’s your name?”
Thunder rumbles outside, rattling the diamond-shaped glass panes.
I feel it then, a touch of his velvety power, brushing at the edges of my
mind. Threatening to wrap around me, to envelop my reality. He really will
do it unless I act fast. The shield in my mind isn’t strong enough. There
wasn’t enough time to practice.
Lying works best when it is laced with truth. I can give this evil fucker a
crumb.
I narrow my eyes at him, jaw tightening.
I should be acting like a meek girl, intimidated by the crown prince. But
Raphael’s words still echo in my mind, and the state of his ravaged, tortured
body burns my thoughts like a brand.
“Fine, it’s Nia.” I spit out the words. “Vaillancourt.” My words come
out sharper than they should, while my mind is whirring, making up a story
that would work, that would convince him I’m not worth his time.
“So, Nia. What are you doing here?” His voice is so uncannily familiar,
and the sound of his deep, velvety voice as he speaks my name sends a
strange rush of heat through my blood.
My pulse is racing out of control. Some Fey can hear a heartbeat while
standing nearby. I wonder if he’s one of them.
I lift my chin. “My family and I are tenants on farmland we don’t own.
Bazı hikâyeler tam tahmin ettiğin gibi ilerler. Bazılarıysa son sayfada tüm bildiklerini sorgulatır. 🤯
Ters köşeleri seviyorsan, seni sonuna kadar merakta bırakacak 3 kitap önerisini keşfetmeye hazır ol!
The Gods, The Dead and their children
“Hold on.” She didn’t touch the vial. “Tell me what’s going on before I
hurl my spirit into the abyss with you. Which god are we visiting now?”
“Not the gods,” he said. “The dead.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Altan? Did you find him?”
“No.” A shadow of discomfort flitted across Chaghan’s face. “He’s not—
I’ve never—no. But she is a Speerly. Most spirits dissolve into nothing
when they pass. That’s why it’s hard to commune with the dead; they’ve
already disappeared from the realm of conscious things. But your kind
linger. They’re bound by resentment and a god that feeds on it, which
means often they can’t let go. They’re hungry ghosts.”
Rin licked the tip of her index finger and poked it into the vial, swiveling
it around until soft, downy powder coated her skin up to the first joint. “Are
we speaking to Tearza?”
“No.” Chaghan took the vial back and did the same. “Someone more
recent. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
She glanced up. “Who?”
“Hanelai,” Chaghan said bluntly.
Without hesitation Rin put her powder-covered finger in her mouth and
sucked.
Immediately the Ketreyid campsite blurred and dissolved like paints
swirled in water. Rin closed her eyes. She felt her spirit flying up, fleeing
her heavy body, that clumsy sack of bones and organs and flesh, soaring
toward the heavens like a bird freed from its cage.
“We’ll wait here,” Chaghan said. They floated together in a dark expanse
—a plane not quite pitch-black, but rather shrouded in hazy twilight. “When
I found out you were marching to Tianshan, I went searching. I needed to
understand the risks. I know there’s no one alive who could push you off
the path you’ve chosen.” He nodded toward a red ball of light in the void, a
distant star that grew larger as it approached. “But she might.”
The star became a pillar of flame
Lyäri Nōhcra
She strides confidently forward, stopping right in front of the
creature.
I have no fear, and neither does she. Both of us know it won’t hurt
her. She’s as much a part of me as this manifestation is.
Her ribbons curl in front of her armor-clad chest, lifting up to stroke
the creature’s maw. Everyone seems to hold their breath as it blinks,
watching her.
Then the dragon lowers its head as a subject might bow for a queen.
I’m reminded suddenly about what my father said—about how if I
manifested a dragon, I would be king of the skies.
But he was wrong.
Because my dragon drops in supplication to her. She’s the one who
rules, and I couldn’t be more fucking proud.
The sight affects the Vulmin and the Lydians too. They all stand in
gaping awe, watching this golden Turley stand here, as a dragon, the most
ancient of powers, bows to her.
I climb down its back, leaping off the last few feet, my boots kicking
up dust from the decayed soil. I go to her, and the two of us share a look
before we turn back toward the city’s arch.
Where everyone suddenly drops to their knees, repeating one thing.
Lyäri Nōhcra.
No longer the golden one gone, but…
The golden one who rules.
Traitor
I have other questions for him.
I glance down at the wrinkled leather vest he’s wearing. Open at the
front, a muddy brown color.
“Do you tan your own leather?”
Brennur frowns in confusion at my change in subject. “What?”
I jerk my chin. “Your vest. You were wearing one before too. I’m
just wondering if you tan your leather yourself.”
“Yes, I tan my own leather,” he answers with a scoffed impatience.
“What of it?”
My fingers twist around a nugget of gold as I spin it on the table.
“You use oak bark, is that right?”
The question is simple. My intent behind it is not.
And even though I keep my face expressionless, my tone easy, I’m
coiled so tight I could spring at any moment because I recall what happened
when he took me through the fairy ring, just before Una stole my memories.
I remember…remembering.
Brennur hasn’t caught onto the rage that’s simmering beneath my
skin, because he looks impatiently to Wick. “What is this about?”
I lean forward slowly, and I can feel the flame from the lantern
casting off against my face as I draw his gaze back to me. “It’s the scent.
The taste,” I say, my tone gone dark. “It leaves an impression when
someone shoves a piece of polishing cloth into your mouth to shut you up
as you’re being kidnapped. That oak bark was very distinct, and you still
reek of it.”
His eyes widen. Only a fraction, only for a second.
But it’s enough.
“It was you.” My voice is low. Even.
Full of terrible rage.
“You were the one to kidnap me from Bryol and take me into Orea.
It didn’t matter that the bridge of Lemuria had been destroyed for hundreds
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
