Chapter Thirteen Felicity

Chapter Thirteen

Felicity

S HE JERKS AWAKE TO A bright light coming into her cell. A knife clatters to the floor between her and Crissa.

"Who will get it first?" the guard singsongs. "Who will survive?"

Crissa jumps to her feet and stares at the knife. Her gaze darts to meet Jasalyn's and then back to the floor.

"Maybe you want me to throw one of the other prisoners in there with you," he says. "See if they want my gift."

"No." Crissa moves so fast Jas barely sees her, but then Crissa's standing a foot away from the bars, glaring at the guard with the knife clutched in her hand. "I should use this to gut you," she says.

His chuckle is a raspy wheeze. "I'd like to see you try."

Her grip tightens on the handle of the knife, her knuckles going white. Jas tries to make out the guard, but the light behind him is blinding, casting his face in shadow.

"Ever cut into another human, little girl?" the guard asks her. "Ever watch the pain contort their face?"

"You are disgusting." Crissa charges at him, blade out, poised to slide it between the bars and meet his chest, but she freezes a second before it makes contact.

"Look what a fun little gift my king has given me to play with," he says.

Crissa turns toward Jas, her movements so jerky and harsh Jas knows Crissa's no longer in control of her own body. Step after step, she lurches toward Jas, that blade pointed out.

Jas curls into the corner, but there's no point. She's been here long enough to know there's no use fighting.

"Relax," the guard says, and he makes Crissa drop to her knees. Tears stream down her face. "All I want is for you to draw her a pretty picture."

There's so much terror in her eyes. So much fear.

"It's not your fault," Jas whispers. Then Jas can't say anything at all because she's frozen. Forced to watch as the guard guides the blade to pierce the flesh of her wrist.

"That's right," he says. "Make a pretty circle."

When I imagined living as a princess in the Wild Fae castle, I never thought that would include the king pounding on my door at dawn and dragging me out of bed before I'd wiped the sleep from my eyes.

Yet here we are.

As exhausted as I am, I'm not sorry to have been pulled from the dream that delivered Jas's memory. The horror of those moments hangs over me like a heavy blanket on this unseasonably hot morning.

The training yard at Castle Craige is positioned at the back of the castle, on a smooth stretch of rock that juts out from the mountain. It's sparse, the dusty earth clear but for a few piles of spears and training rods and a collection of neatly organized bows. We're alone here, and I wonder if Misha's sentinels train elsewhere or if he intentionally chose this hour to spare me from curious eyes.

Misha pulls his sword from his scabbard and tosses it to me. I catch it on instinct and then shoot him a glare.

He chuckles, and between the smile and the tight black shirt straining against his chest and biceps, his hair tied back, my mouth goes a little dry.

I'm staring again.

I make myself shift my attention to the sword, and the sight of the blade sends my mind back to Jas's memory. My stomach turns.

"You will never command a weapon you fear," Misha says, watching me.

"I'm not afraid of it," I say, and I push the dream to a locked corner of my mind so I can focus.

I haven't held a blade since I left home. Haven't wanted to, given the reason I ran in the first place. No doubt I should have. At twelve, I could spar with the best in my village, but right now my hands feel awkward even gripping the hilt. The fact that I'm in Jasalyn's form doesn't help. Her thin frame isn't built for swordplay, and her hands are small and delicate.

"Has your sister taught you nothing ?" Misha asks as I fumble with my grip.

I narrow my eyes. "The queen is too kind to drag me out of bed before the sun."

"And what about all the other hours of the day?" he asks. "You act like you've never held a sword before."

"I train." I lift my chin. No wonder the princess has a chip on her shoulder. They all underestimate her. "I can defend myself."

"The weight of that sword could knock you over if a heavy breeze blew in. You should've been spending the last three years putting some muscle on that frame."

"I'm not in training beyond what is required of me." From everything I gathered during my short conversation with Jasalyn, she wasn't interested in anything but being left alone.

"Well, interested or not, you will train while you're here."

"Why?" I'm careful to keep my tone annoyed and aloof. Jasalyn isn't a whiny child. She's a wounded bird.

"Self-defense?"

"Isn't that why I have guards?"

"And what if your guards turn on you?" Misha steps closer. "What if they're enemies who've infiltrated the ranks of the palace guard to get to you?" He looks down his nose at me, and my heart beats faster. My breathing turns shallow. "Or what if your guards are killed? Or what if you're ambushed and they can't get to you?"

In one swift movement, he knocks the blade from my hand, spins me around, and traps me against him, my back to his chest, my arms pinned to my sides.

Ass.

"You are in such utter denial of your weaknesses," he says, "while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge that you become fae in nine short months."

"I get it," I say through gritted teeth, far too aware of the heat and solid strength of him against my back. I can't think when this male is close to me.

"Do you?" he asks, his breath hot in my ear. "I'm not convinced you grasp how serious this is."

"How serious what is? Hiding in your fancy castle?"

"You're mortal," he growls, tightening his hold on me.

I lodge an elbow into his rock-hard stomach, sidestep, and spin, but I know I only get out of his arms because he lets me. "Don't judge me based on how I grip a hilt intended for your meaty beast paws," I snap.

"These?" He scoffs and holds up a hand, splaying his fingers wide. "You have a problem with my hands? Funny. You'd be the first female who's complained."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I've gotten this all wrong. I mentally curse myself for failing to use the gifts at my disposal.

Relationships have an energy, and Echoes are gifted to be in tune with it. While the gift often feels like an invasion of privacy, I'd be lost without it right now. Jas never would've been able to describe this side of Misha to me.

Misha isn't just a friend of the shadow queen who knows the princess. He cares for the princess. Deeply. Feels responsible for her, even.

Jasalyn didn't say anything about that when she told me about him, and I wonder what else she missed—if the way he's looking at me right now speaks to another kind of feelings entirely. Is he romantically interested in the princess?

Someone behind me clears his throat, and Misha retreats like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I turn to see a dark-skinned male with short black dreadlocks and a curious cocked brow.

"Lucky for you, Tynan has agreed to help with your training," Misha says. "Tynan, you remember Jas."

Tynan gives me a polite smile and a nod. Like his king, he has silver webbing across his forehead, but unlike his king, he doesn't seem keen to run his mouth. How well do he and Jas know each other? He might remember her, but she didn't mention him to me, and none of the handful of Jas's memories I have include him.

"Tynan will show you some drills," Misha says.

"And what about you?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Did you want me to stick around so you can insult my hands some more?" He winks, then nods to a pair of fae males emerging from the castle. "I have my own training to do, but I'll be close if you need me."

"Thanks," I say awkwardly, then tell myself I'm not allowed to watch as he walks away. But I've always been better at breaking rules than following them, and I struggle to believe even someone as stoic as Jasalyn could resist that sight.

Tynan clears his throat, and I pull my gaze off the retreating king.

He has me warm up with calisthenics, then shows me the proper way to hold a sword when—like with Misha's this morning—the hilt is too big. It comes back to me quickly, but I make sure to "forget" the footwork and hand positions a few times so it doesn't appear I'm learning too quickly or am too skilled for a princess who only did minimal training.

While we work, I'm vaguely aware of King Misha doing drills with the pair of sentinels on the other side of the courtyard. I like the way he laughs with them, like he's one of them. And when they speak—telling him of goings-on in the village—he listens, more like a friend than their superior.

As if sensing my thoughts and trying to test my determination to ignore my attraction to him, Misha has shed his shirt at some point, exposing a broad chest coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He's so tall and built that no one would mistake him for thin or lanky, but shirtless, his strength and muscle mass are all the more evident.

Crushing on the king will not help you find the Hall of Doors.

As soon as I think it, I hear Hale's voice in my mind, telling me that the best way to the Hall is through Misha's heart, but my crush hardly equates to him trusting me.

I need to focus on the matter at hand. I pull my attention back to Tynan.

He's watching with that curious cocked brow again.

"What?" I ask, but my cheeks are already on fire.

He shakes his head. "It's not my business."

"You can ask anyway." Because if I'm completely screwing this up, I should know now.

Tynan hands me a towel, his gaze jumping to me, then Misha. "I'm just wondering what's changed between you and Misha."

"Nothing's changed. What do you mean by that?"

He shakes his head again. "It's not my place."

I want to push more, but I bite my lip. Obviously, there's a tension between Misha and me that wasn't there between Misha and the real Jas. That never should've been an issue. I'm letting my personal attraction get in the way, and it could ruin everything.

"Drink lots of water today," Tynan is saying, "and make sure you eat a good breakfast. Once we get some meat on those bones, you'll take to the training much faster. You have a natural talent."

"I was thinking the same thing," Misha says, wandering over flanked by his training partners. He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his chest.

I drop my gaze to the ground.

"Speaking of which," Misha says. "Breakfast will be served in an hour on the dining terrace."

I don't lift my eyes from the dirt, too afraid I'll stare. "I'll take my breakfast in my room, thank you," I say. Be Jas. Be distant.

"Fine," he says, "Eat breakfast alone. But be ready to ride an hour after."

I snap my head up and find him staring at me, looking cocky as hell, like he just won this round of chess. "Why?"

"Your sister needs me to make a queen of you," Misha says. "And a queen doesn't hide in her rooms while her court is in peril. She goes out and finds answers." He flashes me a quick, completely fake smile and then strides from the training yard and back into the castle.

Two hours later, Misha bursts into my chambers without bothering to announce himself. "We have a change of plans and won't be leaving until after lunch."

I frown at him. "Please, come in. Make yourself at home."

He grins, those russet eyes full of wicked amusement. "I am home."

"I could have been undressed," I mutter.

"Disappointed by the missed opportunity?" he asks. I gape at him, and he grunts. "I saw your handmaid in the hall. She told me you were ready. Calm down."

"Next time just send the message with her."

"And miss these moments in your delightful company?"

Misha is just Misha, Jas said. He's my sister's best friend, she said. Nothing about this constant flirtation, playful irritation, whatever. How can Jasalyn speak of him as if he's just another member of the fae royalty whom she can't be bothered with? He's magnetic. Anytime he's near, I find myself staring or fighting or wanting him to tell me exactly what he's thinking.

I give him my back and fix my braid in the mirror.

"We'll have to travel by horseback," he says. "It's not an easy ride into the mountains, but the exercise and fresh air will be good for you."

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"I told you. We're looking for answers."

I finish tying off my braid and fold my arms. "Are your responses always so oblique?"

Misha mimics my pose, rocking back on his heels. "Don't you want to know if the rumors are true? If Mordeus lives?"

I draw in a ragged breath.

"That's what I thought."

"How..." I lick my lips, trying not to seem too eager. "Where will you get these answers?"

"Unlike your sister's court, mine hasn't been embroiled in wars for centuries, which means many of our wisest elders have survived. Today, we see Gaelynn, Jewel of Peace."

"That's her name? Gaelynn, Jewel of Peace?"

His lips twitch. "Her name is Gaelynn. Her title is Jewel of Peace. You might understand the concept of titles if you attended to the duties of your position rather than just hiding in your rooms."

The criticism is a reminder of who I'm supposed to be, and I sigh heavily. "I still don't see why I have to go."

"I need you there," he says. He throws himself into an upholstered chair and taps out a beat on the arms. "You represent the Unseelie crown. I realize that might not matter to you now, but someday you will be expected to serve an active role as the shadow princess."

I drop my gaze to the floor. "My sister is the crown. I'm nothing more than a human girl who—"

"You won't be human for long, Jasalyn," he says softly. "And I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's past time that you prepare for that."

"Isn't that what we were doing this morning? With the training?"

"Training your physical body has nothing to do with your magic." He drums his fingers, as if it's difficult for him to be still. "I've asked Amira to meet with you tomorrow morning. Her gifts will help you access your powers—help bring out latent abilities."

"I don't have powers," I say tightly.

"That's my point. You think you don't, but there's no way you can be a child of Mab and be powerless—even in your human form. Work with Amira, see if she can draw it out of you."

That sounds dangerous. Pushing me to draw out my magic is only asking for trouble. If the former queen has a way of pulling out my true powers, I'll be exposed. "Leave it alone," I say. " Please. "

He shakes his head, but I can sense he's done pushing for now. "Eventually you're going to have to face the facts."

I swallow hard. I need to do whatever is necessary to keep Misha and his friends from poking around in my mind, and if that means exposing some of my own magic as if it's Princess Jasalyn's, then so be it. "There might be something."

Misha's head snaps toward me, eyes sharp. "What?"

"It's easier to show you than to describe." Jasalyn is going to have a lot of explaining to do when she can't duplicate this later, but I imagine this won't be the only thing she'll have to answer for.

The longer I'm here, the bigger mess she'll be left to clean up and the harder it will be for her to pretend she never left. If we're going to make it even a week in this ruse, I can't let that be my problem.

"Introduce me to someone you have any sort of connection with—anyone you know that I don't—and don't tell me who they are or how you know them."

He lifts his brows, curious, then walks to the door. My shoulders sag in relief until he turns back to me.

"Aren't you coming?"

"What—now?"

His lips twitch. "Now, Jasalyn."

Misha leads me up to the third floor to a gorgeous circular library. The walls are lined with books while the glass ceiling floods the space with natural light. Spaces for working and lounging are located throughout the massive room, and I can imagine spending days here curled up in a cozy chair and losing myself in book after book.

I don't get to spend much time taking in the space before Misha is ushering me over to a young, pale-skinned female who is slight of frame with one of those ever-present smiles.

"Good morning." She bows her head to her king and curtsies quickly, her cheeks turning pink.

I hold back a groan. If she has a crush on him, he's never going to believe this ability is magical, and his former queen will be rooting around in my head tomorrow. I imagine most of the females who spend any amount of time around their king have a crush on him at some level.

"Good morning," I say. "I'm Jasalyn."

" Princess Jasalyn, " Misha corrects, and I shoot him a glare because the real princess would find the correction tiresome.

"What's your name?" I ask her.

"Blake, Your Highness."

"Blake, would you mind having a short conversation with King Misha—about something trivial, if possible." I step back, as if to make physical room for their conversation.

She wrinkles her brow. "Am I in trouble for something?"

"Not at all," Misha says. "The princess wants to show me a skill she has, and to illustrate it, she needs to see us speak with each other."

Blake's face lights up. "Oh. My aunt's new husband's grandson can predict future loyalty based on a short conversation between two people. Is it like that?"

"Nothing so useful, I'm afraid," I say, smiling. I like her. And I like what she feels for her king. Not a crush. Respect, honor, a pinch of friendship that she's a little unsure about. And Misha...

"Maybe you should just tell me what you have planned for the day," Misha suggests.

"My shift in the library ends in a few hours and then I'm going to enjoy the evening outside. The cold days are coming too soon."

"Unfortunately so," he says. "What do you like to do outside?"

He's grateful for her work—I can guess in his libraries from context. But there's something else there. A jealousy? No. Not jealousy.

"My husband, daughter, and I like to explore the forest behind our cottage. It's the same forest I grew up exploring, and I love that we can give her the same childhood." The pink in her cheeks deepens.

The tug is so hard and strong I feel it in my own gut. Family.

"There's no gift quite like the one the Mother gives us every day," she adds quietly.

"Agreed. And no forest in the realm as beautiful as those in our court," Misha says.

"I'll have to take your word for it," she says on a laugh. "I've never left these lands. I've never wanted to travel when the other courts seem to be steeped in so much turmoil."

"Can't blame you there," he says, chuckling.

"No offense, Your Highness," she says, ducking her head toward me.

I paste on a polite smile. "None taken."

"Do you need more?" Misha asks me. "For whatever it is you want to show me?"

I shake my head. "No, that will do."

"Thank you, Blake," he tells her. "I will see you soon."

"Don't be a stranger," she says. She nods at me, lowering her gaze. "Pleasure to meet you, Princess."

"You too," I say, and then Misha's leading me away from her and to a quiet corner of the library.

He gestures to an upholstered chair, and I take a seat, watching as he pours a cup of coffee. He hands the steaming cup to me without adding so much as a splash of cream or a teaspoon of sugar. "So?" he asks, lowering himself into the chair across from me.

I cradle the cup in my hands and silently curse Jasalyn for what she described as an unhealthy obsession with coffee. I hate the stuff, but obviously Misha's going to expect me to drink this. I take a sip, schooling my expression when the bitter liquid hits my tongue. "I'm surprised you allow coffee around all these books."

He arches a brow. "They're spelled. Protected from anything so trivial as a spill."

"Oh. How... convenient." I might have magic, but I spent the first sixteen years of my life in Elora where my kind of magic could've gotten me killed, so aside from shielding and learning how to use my skills as an Echo, I only used enough magic to make sure I knew how. The only place in Elora where magic is abundant enough to do things like spell a whole library is the Eloran Palace, and I've spent my entire life avoiding that place.

"You're stalling," Misha says, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, I'm not sure what I can share is helpful since anyone could see you two have a friendly relationship and respect each other."

"You're telling me you can pick up on the kind of relationship two people have?"

I set my cup down on the small glass side table. "I guess. If they're in the same room and interact in any way, I can sense how they feel for each other. I didn't think it was magic at first, just growing up and being more aware of the people around me."

Misha leans forward, hands on his knees. "But you think it's magic now. Otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up. You just don't want it to be magic."

I blow out a breath. I realized my gift wasn't just about observation the time a man came to my mother's house from the Eloran Palace and I knew she loathed him, despite the fact that everything she said and did was welcoming and kind. "Sometimes I feel like I know more than I should."

"Like an empath," he says.

I shake my head. "If I were an empath, wouldn't I know what you are feeling right now?"

"Not necessarily. Empathic gifts come in many forms."

He's right, and I know that, but Jasalyn wouldn't. Or if she did, she'd likely deny connecting her own gift to a known kind of magic. In truth, my gift is an empathic magic, but not one most are familiar with.

"Tell me what else you got out of that interaction with Blake. What else did you learn?"

"She respects you, as a king and a male." I clear my throat. "And sometimes she thinks you two might be friends, but she doesn't know what to do with that, given that she's just a scholar and you are her king."

"Fascinating." He props his ankle on the opposite knee. "What else? Give me something impressive, Jas."

I worry my lip between my teeth. "The worst thing about sensing the things I do is that it feels intrusive." The same is true for being an Echo in general. When I think of how the shadow queen would feel if she knew she'd spilled her fears and love to someone pretending to be her sister, my gut twists with guilt. "Those emotions aren't mine."

"But they can be helpful to know. And when they aren't, you can block them. I can teach you how."

I bite back a smile. Misha is incredibly skilled at mental magic and blocking, but my life has depended on my ability to block even the most gifted faerie from a young age. I could probably teach him a thing or two. "I suppose it can be helpful."

"Tell me what you just learned about me—what it is you feel guilty knowing."

I meet his eyes and hold his gaze. When he and the former queen first dissolved their marriage, the queen spoke freely about their decision, citing kings from Wild Fae history who had taken on second or even third wives when the first was unable to give them children. She was choosing to step down and make way for a new queen who might succeed in giving the king an heir. While the kings she spoke of had only dissolved their marriages once they found their new wife and Misha hasn't yet, the court seemed to accept this explanation. But now I wonder if it was truly about the child alone. Misha wants a family. He wants love.

It's a wonder to me that a male as good as Misha hasn't yet found romantic love. Even if it wasn't part of his marriage, I'm surprised he never found it with a lover outside the bounds of that political arrangement, surprised that he, like the kings before him, didn't have a lover waiting in the wings to step into the role of queen.

"What you feel when she speaks of her family—at first I thought it was jealousy," I say, "but it's not. You envy her. Her marriage, her child. You want a family, and while you think Blake deserves every moment with the family she built, she is a reminder of how much easier those things might've come to you without the burden of this crown—because no matter how much you try to hold hope for the future, no matter how brave you try to be, part of you will always remember the marriage your parents had and think that you are doomed to the same."

His face goes stoic and his throat bobs, but he holds my gaze. "You were in my mind? I didn't feel you..."

"No. Like I said—it becomes clear to me in the connection you have with someone else. I can't read thoughts."

"So even when someone is well shielded, you're saying that they can be exposed."

I've said too much. I've revealed too much. I shrug. "I don't know. Like I said, maybe it's not magic at all. Maybe it's just feeling out a room and using common sense."

"You don't believe that," he says softly. "You might wish you could, but you don't."

I tear my eyes from his and look at my hands.

"It's not so terrible," he says. "This life. Being fae and having magic. You haven't allowed yourself to see the good in it. I hope you'll allow me to show you."

In my periphery, I see him reach for me and drop his hand at the last second.

He stands, as if he is suddenly anxious to get away from me, from this conversation. "I'm sure Amira would still be happy to meet with you if you'd like. She'll be able to help you hone this gift."

"I'm not interested."

He's already walking away. "You might change your mind."