Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

T he portal slings me onto the cold, rocky earth. Snow whirls around me, and cold air stings my skin.

My thoughts swim with dizziness and an overwhelming sensation of wrongness, something that should never have happened. The winter wind shrieks in my ears, whipping snow into my face, as I pick myself off the frozen earth. The dress Mordred gave me is stunning, but I can't say it's keeping me warm.

Hugging myself, I survey the wintry landscape. The scene echoes the one in Mordred's dolmen garden, almost as if one is a darker reflection of the other. I'm shivering in a barren, thorny garden where twisted briars grow over jagged rocks that jut from the earth. The towering walls to the fortress rise above me, and night bramble crawls over the icy stones, but I can hardly see the castle with the snow in my face.

A weeping willow stands nearby, and I scramble beneath the gnarled branches to get out of the lashing snow. I glance up though the boughs, and my breath hitches. The storm clouds are sliding away from the moons-- two moons that shimmer in the sky, one round and silver, the other half-waxed and dark red. I knew that Brocéliande had two moons, but actually seeing them is different. Our briefings don't do these celestial bodies justice. The silver and red moonlight cast a ghostly aura on my surroundings and on the looming tower walls that surround me.

I've read Fey poems of Brocéliande, and there are two kinds. In one set of poems, Brocéliande is described as lush meadows of wildflowers and honeyed sunlight. In the second, the realm is a harsh place, an inhospitable landscape lashed by wild tempests.

Judging by the current conditions, the second version is more accurate.

As the howling wind lets up a little, I peer around the willow trunk.

Just like Mordred promised, the portal took me within the walls. I'm in Corbinelle, the capital city of Brocéliande, a few hundred feet from Castle Perillos. It's even bigger than Avalon Tower—practically an entire city of pale stone frosted with snow and ice. The fortress comprises seven towers altogether, looming over the landscape like a mountain.

The central tower stands at the forefront of the vanguard, its wooden doors barred to the world. Above the enormous doors, a moon and a raven, the symbols of Queen Morgan, my grandmother, are carved into stone that gleams with ice. Auberon has worked his fiction into the castle's very stones.

High above the frozen earth, stone bridges connect the seven towers, and stairwells crisscross between buildings in complex patterns. My gaze flicks all the way up. The spires stretch to the red-tinged clouds. In some windows, golden lights twinkle, beckoning me closer with their warmth. Torches are affixed to the walls outside, washing the stone with warm light.

Shivering, I shove my hand into my pocket and brush my fingers over the metallic moth. Its ice-cold surface stings my fingers.

Now, to get inside the castle. As the snow dies down, I fold my arms over my chest and march toward the entrance. There's not a ton of security here inside the fortress walls, but there is some. As I near the castle, I realize that guards flank either side of main doors.

The King's Watch, probably. If they see me out here, I could be reported to Auberon's spies and goons, the police force that he uses to maintain his rule in Brocéliande.

I dash across the courtyard toward one of the smaller towers instead, one with a stone bridge that spans two towers, doing my best to stay in the darkness. If I can find a way up to that bridge, I might be able to get in through a door.

The cold air nips at my fingers and cheeks as I hurry closer to a cluster of vines clinging to the wall. I glance over my shoulder, looking for signs of life. In the distance, shadows are moving by the surrounding walls—patrolling guards.

Shit. They're marching my way, and I slink back behind a column to hide. As I wait for them to walk past me, I feel a familiar tug, then a faint voice, a low, velvety murmuring in my mind.

It takes me a few seconds to pinpoint what it is.

It's the Dream Stalker's haunting presence, dangerous as a blade at the throat, seductive as silk caressing the skin. Prince Talan's thoughts brush against my mind, just as they've done so many times before. For the past several years, I fell asleep to the sound of them, the promise of exquisite ecstasy or pain, depending on his mood. And now that I'm close to him, his voice is back.

How strange that I've been hearing his innermost thoughts for years, like a dark lullaby in my thoughts, and he still has no idea who I am.

Already, I can feel our connection forming—the silky strands between us, delicate as a spider's web.

In the frozen night, cold wrath climbs over my skin like hoarfrost, a rime that glazes my soul. Tonight, I find no solace in the dark. I wander silently among a garden of thorns. Let vengeance's flame guide me through this desolate path…

My fingers curl into fists. I have to sever this connection right now. I close my eyes, imagining the hum of the veil, the crackling buzz of its intensity. I think of a misty magic, twisting and churning inside my skull. Shivers dance over my skin.

Instantly, the prince's thoughts go silent, blanketed by the fog in my mind. I exhale with relief.

The patrolling guards have passed by, oblivious to my hiding spot. I watch them walk away. When they're at a safe distance, I grab at the vine, tugging it a few times to make sure that it's sturdy. I'd read about dragon-claw vines, but never seen them in person. They're unique to Brocéliande and stronger than any plants in our world. It has giant thorns, but they're sparse enough and large enough that I can use them almost like rungs. Admittedly, it's much harder climbing in a damn dress than it would be in pants.

I hoist myself up the vine toward the bridge. Reaching it, I pull myself over the edge and land with a thud on the icy stone. My heart pounds as I hurry across the bridge to an oak door. When I pull it open, exhilaration fizzes in my chest. Narrow, candlelit stairs wind upward. I start up them, huffing from exertion.

I climb several flights of stairs and reach an archway, crossing into a vast gothic hall with a rib-vaulted ceiling and long, mullioned windows. Moss and delicate wildflowers grow over the floor and on some of the walls. From this vantage point, I can see the city of Corbinelle over the exterior walls. Lights twinkle in distant windows, and a river snakes through the landscape. It reminds me of Camelot, except the stone buildings are a pale white instead of gold, and towering oaks grow throughout the city, and along the river. Dark mountains rise in the distance, illuminated in shades of rose and silver by the double moons.

My heart tightens at the strangeness of this world. Somewhere nearby, Raphael is waiting for me. Time to find out where.

I take the silver moth from my pocket and place it on a wooden table—Mordred's eyes and ears in the castle. "Go find Raphael," I whisper to the moth. "Then take me to him."

I wait for a long moment, then another. At last, one wing trembles and then goes still again. I inhale deeply, watching as both wings flap and the moth silently rises. It floats a few feet above me, then flutters down the hall.

Alone, I take in the eerie grandeur around me.

Red-tinged moonlight streams into the corridor, and shadows gather above me in the ribbed arches. Portraits of Fey royalty hang on the walls, and in the ghostly torchlight, they almost seem alive, making my heart stutter. Candlelight from chandeliers dances over a painting of King Auberon in a golden crown, wielding a sword at twilight. But there are more paintings of a man I don't recognize. He almost looks like Talan, but with blond hair and a platinum crown. He stands at the prow of a ship. In another image, he's leading men into battle on a horse. A third image depicts him on a throne, his silver-eyed gaze leveled sternly at the viewer, almost smirking.

Beneath one of the portraits are the words Prince Lothyr.

Vaguely, I remember learning about him, the golden prince who drowned two centuries ago, fighting for the king in a civil war.

There's only one painting of Talan here. He's sitting by a table, holding a goblet of wine, his lips curled in a wry smile. Nothing heroic, but as I glance at the dark look in his eyes, a hot shiver skims over my skin.

Distant music floats through the hall, and I move deeper inside, investigating my surroundings and making sure no one is nearby. As I pass a mirror, I check my reflection, and I'm startled to see the dark sheen of my steely eyes. My cheeks have gone bright pink in the cold, and I turn my head, examining the glamour. My pointed Fey ears protrude a little from my dark hair, just the way they should. I curl my lips to see sharpened canines. Perfect.

If anyone sees me here, I'll pretend to be a guest at the fortress. From what I learned at Avalon Tower, dozens of noble families are invited to Auberon's castle every week.

Already, I'm growing impatient for the moth's return.

I only have Mordred's word that it will guide me, but of course, he could be lying. What if the moth serves some other purpose? For a moment, I wonder if I should make my own way in the fortress to look for Raphael myself before I lose my chance .

But just as that thought enters my head, the moth zooms back. It circles around my head three times, and I hurry after it.

Its pace is erratic, moving twenty feet in a flash, then slowing to a crawl. It never moves too far from me, giving me time to catch up. Occasionally, it hovers in midair for a long while, seemingly waiting for something. Every time it pauses, I slip into the shadows to wait. Whenever the silver moth moves again, I do, too. I pass windows overlooking courtyards and push through doors into the biting air, taking vine-covered bridges between towers under the starlit sky. From one of them, I look out over the kingdom of Brocéliande to see the vast expanse of distant, flickering lights beyond the castle walls.

As I move through the castle halls, up and down stairs, beneath flickering candles in chandeliers, I never meet any living soul. I suspect Mordred must be orchestrating my journey through the emptiest parts of the castle, making sure that no one sees me. Maybe he never actually found Raphael, and he's still searching for him.

The castle is byzantine, with stairwells that zig and zag between buildings, and it feels like I've been walking for hours in a labyrinthine path. If I didn't have the moth with me, I'd be utterly fucked when it comes time to get back.

The moth leads me outside to a narrow set of stairs between buildings. The icy wind whips over me, and I hug myself, teeth chattering in the cold. As I walk down the stairs, the shadows seem to grow thicker, the stone rougher. At last, the moth flutters up to a heavy oak door.

I pull the door open into a dark corridor, but this one looks different than the rest. Gone are the portraits, the banners and sigils, the coats of arms, the chandeliers. Instead, my way is lit by flickering torches fixed to the walls, and the ceiling is lower, only a few feet above my head. Cobwebs and moss cling to it, and it smells musty and dank.

I cough, my asthma irritated by the damp moldiness, but I follow the moth down a flight of twisting, turning stairs. Excitement ripples through my chest. Clearly, I'm going to the dungeons.

Near the bottom of the stairs, something shifts in the shadows, and I freeze at the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing just ahead of me.

The moth dances to and fro around me in frantic warning, but I can't make out who's standing there. My hand moves to the hilt of the dagger at my hip. The moth flutters back into the shadows of the stairwell, disappearing from sight. Quietly, I sneak farther down the stairs, peering out from behind the doorframe at a long corridor of cells. In the distance, chains rattle. Roughly thirty feet ahead, I see a guard with a spear in front of a metal-studded door.

His armor looks rusted in places, his helmet askew. I wonder what he did to get stationed down here in the worst part of the castle, where the air smells like the bottom of a rock.

He doesn't see me yet, hiding in the darkness of the stairwell. Even from here, I can tell he won't be easy to take down with my little knife. He's large, armored, and has the strength of a full Fey. A sword hangs at his waist, and his weapons have a much longer reach than my blade.

I'll have to use another approach. I shift the belt with my sheathed knife, hiding the weapon behind me, then stumble into the corridor, one hand leaning against a stone wall as if for support.

"Who goes there?" he barks, gripping his spear.

"It's me. I'm here," I say in Fey, slurring my words like a drunk. "I was looking for my room but…this isn't it."

He eyes me suspiciously. He's not a fool. To get lost and get all the way down here would take a ridiculous lapse of judgment. "Who are you?"

"I'm me!" I laugh stupidly, then let my smile fall. "I'm a musician, obviously. Did you not hear the concert? It was amashing…" Slurring my words, I take another step toward him, pointing my finger at him. "You should have come to hear it. Next time, you must come. I insist."

I'm desperate to get a look inside the cells, to search for Raphael, but I have to take care of this soldier first.

His tense posture relaxes. As alert as he is, the sight of a small woman in an evening gown is a welcome distraction. Still, he shifts his spear. "That's far enough. This isn't your room. Go back up the stairs."

I notice the silver moth fluttering behind him now and keep my eyes on it. "They really loved the music we played. There's this one song that they asked for again and again. ‘Fly into His Face.' You know it?"

He frowns. "That's a weird name for a?—"

The moth zips down, straight into his face, and he swats at it, stumbling back. I leap forward, dodging the tip of his spear, and touch his bare cheek. My powers unfurl, and I slide into his mind.

Cadoc, that's his name, and he can't wait for his shift to end. They've been sticking him here ever since the morning he was late to His Majesty's procession. But he won't complain. He needs this job desperately. He'll be here, watching this one special prisoner, until he's done his penance. His life is miserable, anyway, so he might as well be down here.

His lover, Odelia, left him last month for a lord. He's spent every night writing her poetry about his heartbreak, emptying bottles of mead down his throat, but he can't let himself fall apart. His father has lost his job, and Cadoc needs to keep the money coming in for his family. Just this morning, he called the chatelaine a cunt under his breath, and he still doesn't know if his superior heard him. The chatelain said, "I'll speak to you later." What does that mean?

I flip through his thoughts, searching deeper. The prisoner. Does he know anything about a beautiful, silver-eyed demi-Fey?

The prisoner has been here for some time. Captured in the war with the humans, but they didn't put him with the rest of the rabble. He's too valuable, for some reason. Doesn't seem particularly valuable to Cadoc. Just another half-breed mongrel…

My heart skips a beat. Raphael.

I invade Cadoc's every thought, sifting through ideas, memories, everything he knows. I'm ravaging the inside of his skull, grasping the threads, then pulling the strings to bend him to my will.

Now, Cadoc wonders if the prisoner is literally valuable.

Maybe he's rich. In fact, he's probably rich, or they'd leave him with the rest, right? If Cadoc will just do this tiny thing, just unlock the door, the prisoner might reward him handsomely. Yes. That's what he should do. Odelia will fall back in love with him, and his father will get his job back in the stables. Cadoc absolutely shouldn't question this drunk lady more because she's a distraction from what's really important. She's just a tiny woman, a drunken musician, not worthy of his notice.

When I withdraw from his mind, he stares at me, dazed. Then, without a word, he pulls a skeleton key from his belt and opens a door into yet another torchlit stairwell.

I follow him down a flight of stairs, the air growing staler, like wet earth and mushrooms.

My heart is pounding as he leads me to another wooden door. He slides a second key into a rusty lock, turns it twice, and pushes the door open.

I can hardly breathe.

"You," he says into the darkness. "Get up."

I step inside, trying to see in the dark.

In the corner of a grimy stone cell sits a shirtless man. For a second, I almost don't recognize him. Dirt smears his body, and his hair has been shorn. But when he raises his head, his silver eyes gleam in the dark cell, and my breath leaves my lungs.

Raphael.