Page 30 of The Fox Heir

When I glance up at the arched ceiling, I notice the carvings along the molding are more intricate than I first thought. Owls hunt mice as elk graze among maple trees. Hares crouch in thickets as fish swim through winding streams. An opossum hangs from a branch with its rat-like tail, and wolves prowl around carved boulders.

There are other creatures too, ones I don’t recognize. Fae, most likely. I can’t help but wonder if they still exist, all these centuries after the castle was built.

Along the western wall, the tapestries look different too. They still show the same gnarled, black trees, but the scenes around them have changed. Their roots and twisted branches are blanketed in snow. Red berries tempt birds in one tapestry, while a cruel wind blows branches nearly horizontal in another. On a third, a yellow-eyed fox stares out at me from the entrance of a burrow beneath a stump.

This is clearly the work of old fae magic.

Tristan walks a few steps behind me, like a perfect guard dog. Despite his icy temperament last night, his foul mood seems to have passed. He didn’t mention it this morning when he came to fetch me, but his sleepless night is etched all over his face. His skin is drawn and pale, and there are dark circles around his gray eyes.

Upon the dais, at the far end of the room, the Dead Queen waits. She’s sitting on the gnarled black wood and iron throne. It unfolds from the ground, as if it grew there from beneath the castle. The last time I saw it, I thought it was the work of a master craftsman. But now I’m beginning to recognize fae magic. It’s everywhere in Gwyllion, if I only take the time to look.

“Granddaughter,” the Dead Queen says. “I’ve called you here to request a report.”

“On?” I fold my hands in front of me like a polite court lady.

“Your training.”

I keep my voice light, almost cheerful. “I was nearly killed, if that satisfies your requirements.”

She nods slowly, her face hidden beneath her long black veil. “It does. There’s no surer way to gauge someone’s competence than to put them to the test.”

“And is that what it was?” I narrow my eyes at Tristan. “A test?”

He tilts his head from side to side. “Of sorts.”

The Dead Queen turns to her Wolf. “And what have you learned about our weapon?”

The word makes my skin prickle with irritation. “I am not your weapon.”

The queen and Tristan both ignore me, which only makes my irritation burn hotter.

Tristan clears his throat. “Her upper body is too weak to wield a sword. Or hold a bowstring for any length of time.”

I bristle. It may be true, but he doesn’t need to be quite so blunt about it. “I don’t need one of your bloody swords. I work better with a knife.”

The Dead Queen turns to me, just for a second. “If you want to kill the Fox King, then you’ll need more than a knife.”

I bite my tongue to keep from arguing further. She’s right, and I hate it.

The queen turns back to Tristan. “What else?”

“We’ve learned that she’s stubborn. And she pokes her nose where it doesn’t belong.” He gives me a pointed look.

“How disappointing,” the Dead Queen says. If corpses could breathe, I suspect she’d sigh at that. Her hand strokes the silver moth necklace where it hangs above her dead chest. This simple gesture makes me bristle.

To my surprise, Tristan shakes his head.

“Not quite.” He turns to me, his gray eyes meeting mine. “She is also curious, intelligent, and incredibly determined when she puts her mind to something. Admirably so. And she wields a knife as good as—if not better than—anyone in Annwyn. Even if she does fight like a scrappy fox.” Whether that’s an insult or a compliment, I’m not entirely sure. There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “She doesn’t shy away from danger. And she won’t give up. Possibly ever.”

The queen nods slowly. “I see.”

My heart pounds in my chest, and I have no idea what to say to this. I expected to be torn to shreds. Back home, I was called a failure so often that I expected the same here. But even after my tongue-lashing last night, Tristan has been more than fair to me.

When I look at him again, I see something I haven’t recognized before. Tristan is infuriating, yes. Grumpy, cold, and full of secrets. But he is also noble and honest. And in this world, those traits are not easy to come by.

Up on the dais, the Dead Queen stands. “Come. I have something to show you.”

When I glance at Tristan’s face, I see that he’s just as clueless as I am.