Chapter 33

T he dress Mira brought out was a confectionery of gossamer layers in cream and gold, with a heart-shaped neckline, a nipped-in waist, and several layers of layers of netting under a silk skirt. The material flounced out wide, making it appear as though she were gliding across the floor. The ball was a masquerade, and she wore a mask designed like a white butterfly with outstretched wings. Her mask covered her head, dropping to cover both eyes and her nose, but left her lips and cheeks bare apart from a dusting of gold powder that accentuated her cheekbones. She wore opalescent silk gloves up to her elbows and her black hair loose down her back, and when she looked in the mirror, she thought she looked like some kind of gorgeous metallic insect, vaguely threatening, aloof and inhuman.

The masquerade, she learned, was another tradition. Both teams were in attendance, and the masks helped to give a veneer of protection. If nobody knew who anyone was, they were safe from harm.

It was a silly fancy, she thought. Anyone would recognise Cole or Ashe from their bearing alone, but she said nothing. When she had first arrived in the Kingdom of the Swords, she had been blithely unaware of how precarious her existence was, determined purely on Cole's whim. She'd acted like a privileged tourist in a foreign country, gaping at this and that, asking inappropriate questions, accepting the presents, the food, the satisfaction of every want, as though it were hers by right.

Now she felt as though everything she did was being held in judgement of her. Every inane comment she made would be used against her later, every mistake was evidence, every thoughtless remark a weapon. She had to be careful. She had to tread lightly. And so, she sat quietly while Mira painted her face and adjusted her dress, and she made no protest when it was time to go with the guards.

She'd been down these corridors before. They were the ones lined with cold stone, the ones that led to the hall where the tree grew. And when the guard flung open the door, she saw she was right, although the hall looked different, decorated in bronze and gold, and extended to accommodate the hundreds of fae inside. A wall of ice, sculpted into fantastical figures, stood against the tree's fire, keeping the temperature in the hall comfortable, and clouds of steam rose from the icy blocks. The sight was even more dazzling than the gorgeous costumes the fae wore. Ember had to stand on tiptoe to glimpse the pendant set into the trunk, the dangling chain jerking and twisting as if Tana the Blade could hear the music and wanted to get out.

"A dance, little stranger?" said a voice, and she turned to see a horse's head bending down toward her. The fabulous mask covered his face, towering high, and yet, she would have known his wings anywhere.

"Broude!" she said warmly and then clapped a hand over her mouth as he shook his head sternly at her, his mane flicking from side to side. "Sorry. I mean, handsome horse-man, I would love to dance."

She didn't want to, not really. She didn't want to be swallowed up in this unpredictable mob replete with glamour and danger, but she couldn't refuse, either.

Broude took her in his arms and as the music swelled, she let him sweep her away into a riotous whirl of leaping and gyrating and rising into the air. At the end of the dance, she was laughing and breathless, and then someone else took her hand and propelled her into another dance, and she lost herself twirling around and around the tree.

It wasn't so awful after all, she decided. The other kingdoms were all there, vying to outdo one another with towering headdresses, outrageous costumes, and elaborate masks. Her inhibitions faded with every glass she drank, and she danced with fae after fae: some with wings, some without, some with tails or scales or fangs or spikes, others insubstantial as mist. And eventually she was intoxicated enough that she felt she could be herself, the traditional masks giving her a semblance of anonymity.

She danced with Sten who knew exactly who she was, and who whispered in her ear that all she had to do was say the word and he'd take her away, and she laughed and spun away from him, because who could say what would happen to her in the Kingdom of the Stones? Better the fae you know than the fae you don't, she reasoned.

She danced until she was dizzy, and when she stumbled, a powerful arm caught her, drawing her close. A pair of dark eyes gazed at her from a charcoal mask fashioned like a wolf's head studded with lustrous black pearls, the mouth set in a familiar stern line.

She cast a sweeping look around for Cole, but couldn't see anyone in particular for the crush of fae around her, and so she pulled her courage together and whispered, "Are you alright?"

"Better than I was," came the dry reply. "And you?"

"He was very angry."

She couldn't tell him the rest, about poor little Lily, because the words seemed to stick fast in her throat, and she had to be quick because she didn't know who was watching, who was listening, who might report back to Cole and tell him that his little pet was dancing with his greatest rival. Instead, she said in a voice barely more than a whisper, "Promise to send me back if you can."

He gave a low chuckle with no mirth in it. "Finally thinking of your own precious hide? Slow, aren't you?"

"Not as slow as you," she snapped. "You could have dodged."

He gave a chuckle at that, and she relented. "I think it was a cruel trick, if you must know."

"Really?" He eyed her with curiosity, his mouth curved in disbelief. "It was well within the rules."

"Rules don't matter here. Just power."

He spun her out and back again. "You want to leave all this?" His tone was mocking, and the flames of the tree were reflected in his eyes, dancing gold and bronze, a fire lighting up the darkness.

The glitter and glamour, the violence and clamour … yes, she was ready to leave it all. "Promise me."

He didn't answer, just spun her out again and their fingers broke apart. Off balance, a dancing couple jostled her, and when she was steady on her feet again, Ashe was nowhere to be seen.

She moved to the edge of the hall to rest upon a couch and met a couple of fae from the Kingdom of Sands. They were intrigued by her, but as custom dictated at the masquerade, didn't probe too closely as to her true identity. They knew who she was though, for they asked if she'd ever been beyond the Kingdom of Swords' borders.

"There's more to Esha than this little place," one of the fae said. Her dark skin glittered with gold flecks, and she wore loose flowing pants that caught at the ankle, with two bands criss-crossed over her breasts. Gold bangles jingled with every gesture and her mask was more like a veil, a gauzy kerchief that fluttered with her breath as she talked. "The Kingdom of Sands is the most refined, truly. None of this ugly stone and those weedy gardens. Every wall of the Sands palace looks like lace, every floor is a mosaic of jewels and colour, every tree and flower placed to delight the eye. You should visit."

"I'm not sure I'm allowed," Ember murmured, a little dazzled by her companions. They were very beautiful and had an air of confidence that made her feel lonely and small. Had she always felt like this? She couldn't remember.

"Then you must make a pilgrimage to the pit instead. It's at the heart of the kingdom. Surely they'll allow you that? It's history, after all. Educational! The fire-pit holds the Treaty of the Swords inside. I mean, you can't see it or anything. Because of all the flames, you know. But with all the temples around it, it's quite a sight."

The fae next to her shuddered delicately. "What's with the Swords and all the fire, anyway?" she complained. "Candles everywhere, that ridiculous tree. It's barbaric. The only fire that matters is the sun."

She stretched out her arms skyward, upturning her face to the heavens, and a secondary pair of arms that Ember hadn't noticed unfolded themselves from her back and stretched, too.

"I suppose because swords are forged in fire?" Ember volunteered tentatively.

The fae looked at her in surprise and nodded. "That makes sense."

"Isn't she clever?" came a voice. Cole's mask was elaborate and fanciful, a tree rising high above his forehead in mimicry of the tree of fire, although his was bedecked with white roses, and clouds of sparkling fairies hovered about the flowers.

The Sands' fae quickly made their excuses and departed, apparently recognising him as easily as Ember had. He held out a hand, and she clasped his fingers lightly, rising to her feet. "And you're right, you know. Fire is the birthplace of the Swords. Fire cleanses us all."

He took Ember in his arms and nuzzled her neck, making the hairs on her arms stand up, not in pleasure or desire, but in wary apprehension. He led her out onto the floor for a dance, a slow one, and she pressed her body against his and gave every impression of a woman in love—she sighed, she smiled, she trailed her fingers along his shoulder, she closed her eyes in rapturous delight, but inside, she felt as cold and grey as the stone walls of the castle.

Over his shoulder, she caught sight of a dark gaze from behind a black pearl-studded mask, and then as Cole turned her around in a slow twirl, she fixed her eyes on the orange jewelled pendant nestled in the tree, the dark shadows within flickering back and forth, back and forth.