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The violent thoughts are driven from my head by the banging of the dining room doors. A Low Fae runs in, visibly out of breath.
“What is the meaning of this racket?” hisses a fae lady sat nearest to the panicked servant.
“My lady, Lord Zastel has been attacked.”
Chapter 11
Though these fae barely batted an eye at Galaphina being executed in front of them yesterday, a ripple of concerned muttering travels through the dining hall now. Ruskin’s chair makes a loud scraping noise as he stands up, his imposing frame like a pillar of strength in a room awash with anxiety.
“Bring him in to the side sanctuary. Fetch the healers,” he orders.
I only catch glimpses of Lord Zastel at first as he’s hurriedly carried through the far trees of the orchard into the side room Ruskin mentioned. I know it must be bad, though, because fae close enough to see all clutch their chests and gasp.
Ruskin follows the servants and I rise to follow too, assuming that after his speech about keeping an eye on me, he wouldn’t want me left alone with the court. Hell, if I’m honest, I don’t want me left alone with the court either. Halima appears at my back—though I’m not sure where from—and we troop into the sanctuary.
I’ve seen my share of horrible things in the last few weeks, but the state of Lord Zastel might be one of the worst. His tunic is torn open, his chest a mess of mangled flesh. Large puncture wounds litter his body, pooling with blood. One must be in his lung, because he doesn’t cry out like you’d expect from a man who must be in pure agony. Instead, he lets out low, bubbling breaths, so shallow I wonder if any air can be getting to him at all.
Two fae, a man and a woman, march into the room. They look to be High Fae, but they’re certainly not dressed like the nobility we were surrounded by in the dining hall. Their robes are plain, loosely cut, and in an unassuming shade of green, light enough that it almost looks like eggshell.
“What happened?” the woman asks, smooth and calm.
The Low Fae who first alerted us stands by, looking pale at the sight of Zastel’s wounds. I know how he feels, my gut giving a funny lurch.
“I don’t know, my Lady. He arrived on his horse like this. It’s a miracle he managed to stay on.”
The male healer nods. “He is strong. His family magic is in fertility—life force. It would’ve helped keep him alive long enough to get back.”
Halima speaks up from behind me. “Heal his lungs first; it sounds like one’s been punctured.” She glances at Ruskin. “But it will also allow him to tell us what did this.”
The healers nod at this idea and Ruskin shifts closer to us.
“Ever practical,” he murmurs under his breath.
I haven’t seen healing magic on this scale before. Wounds this dire can’t wait for market day to come around. I stare with envy as the healers lay their hands on Zastel and his breathing quickly eases. How simple things are for these people—how easily death is brushed aside. I think of my mother and wonder, if we had access to power like this, whether she’d still be alive now.
“Whatever it was missed his heart,” the woman comments, and then, as if she can hear my thoughts, “That would be one of few things we couldn’t undo.”
Zastel opens his eyes. He’s still bleeding, but he’s sucking big breaths in like he’s emerged from underwater. Ruskin goes to his side and the anxiety in my own chest eases a bit as I watch his face soften while standing over the wounded man. This was the Ruskin of yesterday, coming to offer me medicine at my bedside. During the dinner, he’d switched that side off so well I’d already forgotten what it was like.
“Zastel, what happened?” He speaks steadily, but I sense something in his tone, an edge of what almost sounds like fear.
“I was riding in the forest,” Zastel gasps. “A…a unicorn, it charged me.”
“A unicorn did this to you?” Halima asks. I guess that her skepticism has nothing to do with unicorns being the stuff of legend in Styrland. My suspicions are confirmed when Zastel goes on.
“It was manic. Something was wrong. It had wild, glinting eyes, and foamed at the mouth like it was…”
“Rabid.” Halima finishes the sentence for him, and she and Ruskin share an intense look.
“Keep at it,” Ruskin orders the healers, before ducking out of the sanctuary to return to the dining hall. I follow like a lost puppy, hating the way I have to trail after him, but aware that otherwise my safety isn’t guaranteed.
In the hall the High Fae have clearly been busy gossiping. Ruskin has no sooner sat down than one of the few older-looking fae, a stately man with silver hair, speaks up.
“Your Highness, was it another animal attack?”
Ruskin eyeballs him before answering, and I see the subtle shift in his outer countenance—the imperious tilt of his neck and curl of his lip as he surveys his court. It’s mesmerizing in its own way.
“It was, Lord Castand,” Ruskin answers. “A unicorn, he says. But Lord Zastel will live.”
