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Prince? Palace?? I did believe that Ruskin was more powerful than other fae, but I hadn’t thought to connect that to royalty. Maybe because royals in Styrland hardly concealed their status, and Ruskin was nothing like King Albrecht. Except perhaps for a shared cruelty. I shudder, thinking of how easily he dispatched the guards.
It explains why the treaty doesn’t seem to apply to him—why he’s powerful enough to hear anyone, anywhere, speaking his rhyme.
Some things make less sense, though—like why he needs me.
“I’m Eleanor,” I say to my escort.
“Halima,” she replies begrudgingly.
“And what did you call this place? The See-ley Palace?”
“Seelie. You’re in the Seelie Court, can’t you tell?” She looks at me like I’m a buffoon.
“Right, so that means…there’s other courts?”
The look has evolved. Now I want to check if I’ve sprouted another head.
“Two,” she says. “Us and the Unseelie.”
“Catchy,” I risk, and she just shakes her head and taps an irritated tempo on the very large sword at her hip. I decide to give it a moment or two before asking more questions.
The palace is like nothing I ever could have imagined. Most of it seems to have simply sprung up, blossomed into being. Ivy and the branches of climbing plants wind their away along the walls. Benches and tables of twisted branches are dotted about, but so, too, are crafted pieces of furniture. I think to the futon and chair in the room I’ve just left and realize that they appear to be human creations. So apparently, this is what fae do with all the physical things they trade for—put them in their palaces to become overgrown with flowers and moss. I wonder if it’s some kind of status thing—showing off how many unsuspecting carpenters and upholsterers and weavers you’ve lured into a deal for their workmanship. Obviously the fae can grow beautiful things with their magic—the evidence of that is here too—but I suppose there are limits to that. Even if they stole a human’s talent for woodworking, I wonder if it still wouldn’t occur to them to pick up a saw and plane. More likely, they would just try to channel that creativity and skill into the magic they use to craft their creations.
Occasionally, we pass other people, but Halima’s strides are long, and moving fast to keep up means I don’t get to look at them properly. I recognize some of the better-dressed fae from the market, and note that most of the ones that have clearly inhuman features, with moss for beards or skin like dried leaves, are in uniform.
“The fae in uniforms, are they all…?” I don’t finish my question, not knowing how to phrase it in a way that avoids accidentally offending her. Related? Cursed? Different to the ones I’ve dealt with most at the markets who looked like idealized humans?
“Low Fae,” Halima grunts, making the first word sound particularly distasteful, but I can’t tell if it’s the people themselves or the label she dislikes.
At one point I even glimpse a human down another corridor—in plain servant’s clothes and with noticeably round tops to his ears. I feel a jolt a of recognition, even though he’s not someone I’ve ever met, and I know I’m certainly not the first human to get trapped in Faerie.
“In there.” Halima eventually stops and throws a hand towards two trees with their upper branches twisted together to form an arch.
I look at her with a question in my eyes.
“Food!” she says with utter exasperation. “Keep to the stuff laid out on the left of the stoves and you won’t get in the way of the staff.”
“Right.” I move quickly towards the arch so I don’t inspire a pointier, stabbier type of impatience, but before I step through them, I feel a prickle up my spine. There hasn’t been a sound to indicate someone else has joined us, but instinct tells me to turn. And when I do, he’s there again. The tall, dark figure of Ruskin, gliding forward like a serpent waiting to strike, or perhaps a bird of prey. He moves with a kind of menacing purpose that makes my stomach churn, and I freeze in place at the entrance to the kitchens.
Has he changed his mind? Decided that leaving me to stew isn’t enough, and that he’ll try torture next to get me to do what he wants? The terms of our deal wouldn’t prevent that.
His eyes sweep from Halima to me, and I can’t help but meet his gaze, pulled to it like a magnet. Halima is big and stocky in a way that’s clearly intimidating, but Ruskin’s strength is more subtle. More frightening. You feel it like a promise, the absolute knowledge that in one casual move he could have you pinned to the floor or thrown across the room. And you’d never see it coming.
“What is she doing here?” he asks Halima. He doesn’t sound angry exactly, but his tone demands an immediate response.
“I was hungry,” I jump in, wanting to make sure he knows this is my doing. Halima hasn’t been kind, but still, I don’t want her to get in trouble just for making sure I don’t starve.
His eyes flicker to me for a moment, then back to Halima.
“Did you tell her where to find the food?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Halima replies.
I can’t decide whether I’m pleased to have his attention off of me or annoyed by the way he speaks about me like I’m not here. Prince or not, I could never stand arrogance, and this fae has it in spades.
It’s like he feels the heat of my aggravation, because he turns to me then.
“Is there something you’d like to say, Gold Weaver?”
