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"Let's go."
"I don't have shoes," I grunt, though shoes are the least of my concern.
What I truly lack right now is freedom. And perhaps dignity.
He glances down the length of my mostly naked body, making me recoil. "Do you deserve shoes, given your tone and your misdeeds toward your master?"
Master.
The word brings bile up my throat. He's no master of mine. No one is.
I can't say anything that would work in my favor, so I remain silent and follow, barefoot, each step shifting this poor excuse for a dress so as to reveal glimpses of my flesh underneath.
How could this happen to me?
Suddenly, I think of Rachel again. Careful, dull, sweet Rachel, whose life bores me to tears, and for the first time, I envy her.
My lips tremble, but I don't sob. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
At least not yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THINKING WITH THE RIGHT HEAD
Ryther
Over the last decades, I've travelled all of Ilvaris and beyond with the hunt, but never to the Hollow. There would have been no point.
No one has ever accused me of being sentimental, but I mourned Morrigan's death, if only because under her rule, we were allowed to live as we saw fit, true to our natures. Still, I didn’t actively avoid these lands. I simply didn’t need to come here because pure eldritch cannot cross its borders. Morrigan's powers—the might of the strongest original courts, combined in one deadly, all-powerful being—still linger, though her bones have returned to the air, water, earth, and ashes.
I feel the shift the moment my carriage crosses the bounds of the wild and enters the blessed domain of the forgone high court. The air passes from autumn to the evening’s everwinter, the breeze too crisp, sweet, carrying songs and curses.
I’ve never been comfortable in the Hollow; this strange, artificial, unnatural paradise feels like a castle stacked on paper cards rather than stone.
It is here, in this land, where no one can spill blood unprovoked lest they wish to be cursed sevenfold, that the conclave is held every hundred years.The one exception to that natural law is the rites—three nights and days where blood may flow as freely water downstream.
The four warhorses I've ridden since the dawn of this age and will ride until my last breath fly at great speed, passing all other carriages, either because they've recognized me and slowed out of deference, or because none are faster than the wild steeds.
"I've never reached the high keep in less than a day when coming from the unseelie shore," Relva muses, gawking out the window as we approach the empty halls. "Your beasts are beyond compare."
I don't bother to attempt a reply; she’s stating the obvious. Creatures of the wild, answering to none but me, they’re renowned for their prowess. She might as well inform us all that rain is particularly wet today. Then again, that’s exactly the sort of conversation I can expect to have with her, and all the women who throw themselves at my feet.
Obvious. Predictable. Manipulative.
I redirect my gaze to the keep in the distance, proud and tall, flanked by two mountains as high as its turrets.
Though none have entered the castle in a thousand years, it stands as majestic and untouched as the day its queen raised it from the ground, waiting to be claimed. Most folk are done hoping to even glimpse inside those ivy-covered walls.
Most folk are cretins.
All doors, all windows, all rat holes and other openings have remained shut since Morrigan sang her last song, a thousand years and seven days ago. Seven days, because it took that long, after much slaughter, and pointless speeches, to determine we needed a regent and establish the first rites.
During this conclave, we're to camp on the extensive grounds that once were too well-groomed. Now the overgrown briars and wild things roaming in their shadows are quite to my taste.
My horses do not need to be commanded to gallop straight to our place, right at the edge of the queen's grove.
The sea heiress frowns. "Aren't we to stay closer to the castle?"
