Page 89 of Crown of the Courtesan

Time seems to slow.

Valora pulls me to my feet. The woman grabs both of my arms to steady herself, her jagged nails digging into my flesh before she collapses.

Frantically calling for the guards, Valora pulls her broadsword. The grounds are thick with morning fog rolling between the stone buildings, but that doesn’t stop her from immediately scouting the area.

The bloody woman speaks in the flowing language of the Dead-Fae, but I’m unable to comprehend what she’s saying. Not until I hear the word: king king king over and over as the whispers join her deep voice.

Before I can think or move, the Witch-King is at her side. Sweeping relief courses through me at the sight of him as he helps her stand, responding with that same strange, fluent tongue that I’ve heard all my life from the male priests of the Spirit-Fae Cathedral. His silver eyes meet her silver eyes like a thread binding them together—a wound trying to heal.

Footsteps in the courtyard grow closer as guards from every outpost gather to search the area, their armor clanking noisily.

Valora barks, “Where?”

“Ten miles north of the border. They’re headed south,” Ashland translates. He hands the older woman to a nearby healer who has just arrived. “Make sure she gets some food.”

The healer nods before half-carrying the woman inside. I watch in silence, my throat too tight to speak.

Ashland turns to Valora and orders, “Inform the other generals to move their units out.”

“Gladly.” She cracks her knuckles and stretches her neck. “Anything else you need?”

“Have the stables prepare the horses for a journey. Pack extra food. Make all the necessary arrangements. We’re going after them.”

“Right away.” She strides away with purpose and speed, not a backward glance at us, her duty taking every ounce of her concentration.

He finally addresses me. “Dress warm.”

* * *

We leave the castle with our bags packed, wagons loaded, and horses saddled. It mirrors our initial ride through the village, as I’m not allowed to control the reins of my horse. Ashland orders the attendants to tie the white mare, Pearl, to his black stallion, Salt, while his shadow hounds flank me on either side.

He won’t tell me where we’re headed. My only clue was uttered in the hall a few hours ago: “Ten miles north of the border, going south.”

The crisp air tingles my lungs as we travel down a long, muddy road and pass through ramshackle towns. Despite Ashland’s silence during the ride, I notice his lingering attention, which sends a shyness to my gaze. He’s thinking something, but he isn’t putting the words to his mouth—a mouth that now boasts a split lip from the oversized novel I threw at him last night.

Just as the sun sets, we finally reach our destination. A spattering of silver-topped ivory trees clusters around a ring of behemoth-sized, flat gray stones rising high into the sky. I look to Ashland with growing confusion, but he dismounts from his horse, casually declaring, “We’re here.” He hooks me by the waist, helping me descend from my horse before I can protest.

The fifty or so soldiers we brought with us assemble campfires and build tents in the valley next to the towering boulders, all while Ashland focuses on sharpening a gleaming, iridescent ax. I tighten my cloak as the wind nips at any unprotected skin. It’ll be winter soon.

The shadow hounds sit at my feet, watching their master retrieve an ivory log like the one he sang on during the Celebration of Return. Despite the chilly air, a squire helps Ashland remove the top half of his complicated set of armor, including his vambraces, cuirass, and underclothes, leaving him in just his leg armor.

With a graceful arc, he swings the ax, bringing it down with a deafening crack. The strike sparks with glittering magic as the ax splinters the wood. After he’s piled the pieces, he gathers the fallen silver leaves from the ivory trees and places them in the center of the stone circle.

Sweat drips down his bare chest.

It’s then that I realize I’ve been staring for far too long, so I turn to leave and find Valora.

“Wait.”

That one word binds me to the spot. With my arms folded, I obey him, but doing so leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Valora comes over and bumps shoulders with me. The wind blows her pink braids around her face until she wraps her cloak’s hood over her head.

“What is he doing?”

“A Fire of Sight.”

I frown in confusion. “What is that?”

She pauses, clearly considering. Finally, she says quietly, “It’s an ancient ritual to see into the Otherworld—to seek guidance.”