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Taliya, Isolde had called her.
The true leader of these faeries.
I recognized her stance. The same one that Arran took when issuing orders for defense. The same one I used when I stood in the throne room of the goldstone palace.
She stared us down, utterly unimpressed. “I can see that. But where did they come from?”
Isolde’s arms dropped. “They were beset above by the—”
“I understand,” Taliya cut her off abruptly. She didn’t have to wave her hand or say anything else; the dismissal was clear enough.
Isolde dropped back a step, but didn’t disappear entirely.
But it was clear to me—and judging by the low growl rolling through me, to my mate—who would decide what happened to us next.
I tried to think of Arthur. Of Gwen. I tried to summon their graceful, political smiles.
“Thank you for giving us refuge.” My voice sounded strangled and gravely. But at least the words were right.
A second eyebrow joined the first. “I have not agreed to give you refuge.”
My patience was fraying. I resisted the urge to cross my arms, but then they went to my hips instead. Not really any more welcoming.
But then, neither were my words. “Taliya, is it? I am Veyka Pendragon.”
There were faeries all around us. The large atrium appeared to be a communal space of some kind. There were children playing a game with balls and spikes, a large cooking hearth near the center, benches lining the walls.
There were no thrones, I noted.
There were eyes—so many eyes. All watching us.
Quite literally half my height, Taliya set one hand on her hip to match mine. She stared up at me from a yard away, and it should have been comical. She might weigh as much as one of my legs. But there was command in those pale blue eyes—eyes not so different in color from my own. An unnatural shiver slid down my spine.
The shadow of a smile passed over the female’s face; as if she’d detected my quiver.
“I know who you are, Majesty. We all do. As Isolde said, your titles hold meaning here. At least, among some.”
But not all—not her.
Taliya opened her mouth to say something more, but two children stumbled between us. One was holding a torch, tripped, dropped it to the ground. Before the flame could spread or burn, it was engulfed with ice.
Ice which had blasted straight from Taliya’s fingertips.
My head was shaking again.
But it was Arran who asked, his voice gruff. Half growl, really. “How is it possible—you have both elemental and terrestrial magic.”
“You thought you were the only one twice blessed, did you, High King?” Her intonation told me precisely how she felt about that title.
Arran didn’t bristle. He just glared—I knew that meant there were more complex emotions at play in his mind. But the faerie female did not—and she was more than happy to glare right back at him, High King or no.
“We are the Faeries of the Fen. Our magic does not hold to the rules of your elemental and terrestrial factions. We are older. We have existed since long before your kind came to dominate Annwyn.”
Why did it seem like everyone knew about us, and yet we knew nothing?
I suddenly wished I’d spent more time in the library with Parys—doing something other than eating his cake and drinking his wine.
Arran’s frown deepened. Not just a glare—a frown. Something about this was bothering him. I tried to speak to his beast, but the rumbling growl reached me before I could.
