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Julianadidnotrememberthe curse being cast. She was there, of course, a small child of only one. Too young to have any memory of it. But the story had been told to her so many times by so many people, she felt as if she had been there. She’d gathered together all of the details over the years, stitched them together like a tapestry, a constellation of memories.
Alia, the court bard, told her the sounds the guests had made, the quiet mutterings, the screams of terror, the clang of steel.
Eoghan, the jester, told her the words that were spoken, each line of the curse, committing the horror on the Queen’s face to poetry.
Cedany, the court painter, told her every shade of the room, each shadow and shape, her tongue describing what her paint could not.
Her father told her the most, how her mother had bravely defended the Queen and had cut down a dozen Unseelie creatures whilst holding Juliana in her arms.
Juliana often wondered what tale her mother would have told, if she had ever had the opportunity to ask her.
From her patchwork story, Juliana knew this:
It was the day of Prince Hawthorn’s naming. He was a much longed-for prince, born a century after his mother’s reign began. Faeries were infertile by nature, but a century was a long time to wait for an heir, especially when the parents were ‘trying so hard.’
But finally,finally, the child had come. All Faerie births are celebrated with aplomb, but none more so than a royal one. A ball was hosted in his honour, and although Juliana knew it was statistically impossible to fiteveryonein the kingdom inside the grand hall, it apparently seemed like everyone was there.
Well, all of the Seelie court, anyway.
The Unseelie were not invited. They never were. Only a few lived within the capital—the occasional tame werewolf, a nixie who’d deserted her sisters, a minotaur guard admired for his strength—none were invited in numbers, as if their presence would sour the crowds.
The great hall was strung with banners of white and gold. Blossoms bloomed in the enchanted vines that inhabited most of the Acanthian palace, weaving through walls, over stones and ceilings. Musicians fluted and piped, the music sweet and harmonious, the great feast much the same: mountains of honey cakes, thick, creamy cheeses, dense breads, custard apples, dragon fruit tarts, pastries in the shapes of flowers and crowns.
It was, according to Alia, a scene as soft as rosebuds and the feathers of a day-old duckling.
“Not a smile was painted on that day,” Eoghan reported. “People wore joy like medals. It was as bright as pure summer sun.”
At least, Cedany added, to begin with.
Midway through the celebrations, before anything had gotten too chaotic, and while Juliana was hiding under one of the tables eating honey cakes, the main doors to the palace had burst open in a cloud of black, shimmering smoke. It drowned the lights, shrouded the windows, expunged the music and plunged the room into a grey-black sea.
At the centre of the room stood Ladrien, King of the Unseelie, proud and tall as a griffin, with skin like shimmering moonlight and long black hair darker than night. Two long, towering horns grew from his temple, and two dark leathery wings sprouted from his back. He wore a crown of thorns and robes woven with raven’s feathers, and carried nothing else but a gnarled staff cut from the core of an elder tree.
According to all onlookers, his eyes were pale, like sunlight sheathed in mist, and he was all at once elegant and terrifying.
So terrifying, so regal in his wildness, that even Juliana’s own father, one of the bravest knights in the kingdom, didn’t dare pull his sword.
“It would not have been wise,” he would tell Juliana, years after the event.
A few of the palace guards raised their weapons. The Unseelie King laughed, and held up his hands. “Come, come, now,” he said. “There is no need for that. I only come to offer a gift to the young prince, on this most auspicious day.”
In Faerie, refusing a gift could bring on all kinds of trouble.
“Of course, King Ladrien,” said Queen Maytree, rising from her throne. “If you come in peace, you are always welcome here.”
To mark the occasion, the Queen wore a gown of white lace and rose petals. It drifted down the stone steps like a cape. Juliana could remember nothing of the day, but that picture formed clearly in her mind’s eye, the steely gaze of the blue-eyed queen facing down the Unseelie King, her chestnut curls woven through her golden crown.
King Ladrien just smiled. “Year by year, the mortals in their kingdoms swell,” he said. “Within a few decades, they will expand enough to press into our borders.”
“Our realm is all but hidden from mortal eyes,” Lord Aspen, the queen’s consort, retorted.
“Allbut,”Ladrien sneered, and his eyes settled on the mortal servants, on Juliana’s own parents. “Too many invade your lands as it is.”
“The mortals here are our trusted servants,” Queen Maytree retorted. “We have no reason to fear—“
“We have every reason to fear a creature that can lie, that cannot be held to the promises it makes,” Ladrien insisted. “And they outnumber us. They always have.”
A dark murmur whispered through the crowd. The Queen pursed her lips. “What of your gift, King Ladrien? I do remember you mentioning one.”
