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“Claim your wish now, Wren,” Sigurd says at my ear, his lips so close that warm breath ghosts across my skin, stirring up an entirely different kind of tingle.
I turn toward him, daring to cup his cheek in my palm for all the crowd to see. His leans into the touch, his eyes hooding, the mirth dancing there promising so many delights and sending a flush racing to my cheeks.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
I promised to be his, to return to him, and I plan to. However long it takes, I will stand by his side.
Before I can doubt my resolve, I drop my hand and stride toward the cauldron. The thing rises almost to my waist, so I kneel beside it. However, no liquid fills the basin as I expect. Instead, a thick misty fog swirls within, obscuring much of the view. Its song is louder here, calling and beckoning me above the numerous voices that buzzed around me moments ago. The cauldron offers peace, a moment of respite amid the excitement of the moment.
No one has told me how exactly to drink from the cauldron, but I don’t need to ask. The cauldron itself speaks to me without words, inviting me into its magic with temptations beyond all that I’ve considered. It could grant me much—it would—if only I were to ask.
But I entered this competition for one reason and one reason alone, and that’s what I focus on as I cup my hands together and lower them into the fog.
Unnatural chill prickles across my skin. If someone could touch a ghost, it would probably feel a lot like this—cold and insubstantial but present all the same. Still, I don’t pull away. In truth, I’m not sure the cauldron would let me, almost as if it controls my actions as much as I do. I watch, transfixed, as tendrils of the mist swirl within my cupped hands and seem to partially solidify. A golden glow threads its way through the fog as it someone sews the glimmer into the clouds.
Suddenly, my hands are rising toward my face, bringing that golden mist to my mouth. There’s no fear, no panic, just utter calm and peace as the cauldron’s song consumes me, blocking out the world.
That misty liquid touches my lips. The sweetest, warm honey floats across my tongue, coating my mouth and sliding down my throat. I might groan at the pleasure of it, the taste so extraordinary that I know no food will ever compare. A tingling warmth starts in my chest and spreads through my limbs until all is warm and satisfied. I feel a tangible change in my wrist, like a handcuff being undone, and watch in wonder as the ink of my bond with Sigurd lifts from my skin as smoke and then is gone.
It's worked. I have my wish.
Laughter shakes my shoulders as I gasp in relief. I can go home. I can see Gran and make sure she’s safe. But even though I have the wish I wanted, something heavy still lingers in my chest.
As quickly as the tingling came, it seeps away. The cauldron’s song fades into nothingness, and the world around me rushes back in full force. I look up to find Uncle Mark and Hawke not far away, looking on with pride and maybe a bit of wonder. Other fae smile as well, and the crowd is boisterous as ever.
Finally, I rise and turn to Sigurd. His look is unreadable, the silence between us punishing, so I speak, “It’s done.”
“It is,” he says, his smile dropping for the briefest moment. “Come.” He holds out a hand to me. “I have wishes to hear, and you should hear what your request has granted as well.”
Chapter 34
IfIhadanydoubts about fae affection for a good party, this night would erase them. I suppose when lives are measured in decades, not years, you need something to look forward to, to mark the passage of time, and this event is certainly it.
The party spreads through the valley as far as I can see. Bonfires add their color to the fading rays of sunset, as do fae lights that float above the crowded spaces. Something I can’t name perfumes the air, giving it sweet and smoky notes that aren’t just from the copious amounts of food or the fires. The scent alone is almost intoxicating. Drinks flow liberally, and so far, I’ve done my best to avoid those, other than a few sips of a particularly delicious whiskey. It’d be impossible to forget what happened the last time I had too much to drink here, and I won’t let that happen again, not tonight.
I haven’t been this giddy since I was a teenager, waiting for my date to pick me up for my first school dance. But the king who lingers at my side this evening is so much more of a man than that boy will ever be, and the dizzying effect he has on me every time I glance at him is palpable. His hungry, hooded looks and the reminder of the promise I made to him only build my anticipation.
Sigurd kept his word. He heard the wishes of the finalists and granted those he was able, including freeing Galen of his bond. I’d hoped to see Galen tonight, to say one final farewell before he ventured off to return to the woman he loves and beg her forgiveness. It hurts a little that his face hasn’t appeared in front of me along with the seemingly endless line of so many others coming to see the victor of the games and offer me congratulations. I swear, it’s like a greeting line at a wedding, and Sigurd standing at my side doesn’t lessen that feeling. But of all the many fae, and two rare humans, who have come before me before going off to join in the revelry, I haven’t seen my friend.
Galen gave me this victory. He should be here celebrating with me and basking in it himself. Still, I guess I can’t blame him for wanting to leave now that he’s free of his oaths. He must love her very much.
I shift on my feet as I smile at another group of passing fae offering congratulations that flow in one ear and out the other. I’m grateful, really, but it’s felt like hours of this now. My feet are sore, and my cheeks ache from keeping up the happy grin. It’s not that I’m unhappy—honestly, I feel like I could float I’m so excited—but standing here isn’t where I want to be.
Moria saunters over, drink in hand, and shoos away the approaching fae. “Give our victor some air.” She winks at me before coming to stand before us, close enough that one might assume she converses with us, though she doesn’t say a word before turning back to the line of fae. “It’s time for Wren to celebrate her victory and enjoy this night.”
The assembled fae let out a groan, and I do too, though for completely different reasons. This is the reprieve I’ve been waiting for. Appropriate that it comes from Moria so the king isn’t the one turning his people away. In fact, that’s probably why we’ve been standing here so long. The more he can project the appearance of a contented monarch who is not worried about impending war or anything other than celebrating the champion of the games, the more the fae might just believe it.
“Can I escort you somewhere more relaxing?” Sigurd offers me his arm, eyes dancing with mirth as they coast across my form.
The look alone makes it hard to breathe again. Suddenly, I’m grateful that much of his attention had been on conversing with the endless line of fae this evening. If I’d had to see this expression all night, I’d have faked a swoon again, if only so he could carry me off and make good on all the unspoken promises dancing in his blue eyes.
I slide my arm through his, savoring the warmth of his body and the way it sends a tingle under my skin. “Yes, please.”
I look back once over my shoulder, just enough to catch Moria’s eye.
Thank you, I mouth.
She winks again before going to rejoin Hawke and Mark where they converse with a few other fae in an open tent full of plush chairs, pillows, and the coziest looking blankets I’ve ever seen.
