Chapter 23

With the bone hall destroyed, this year’s Hunter’s Moon took place in the slightly smaller crystalline hall instead – no towering throne presiding over the room, no skulls lining the high ceiling, and yet Orthea had skilfully crafted an atmosphere just as ominous against this unfamiliar décor. A small ensemble of violin players filled the air with their haunting melodies. Thick red velvet drapes hung like gushing blood behind the dais, and the light of thousands upon thousands of candles reflected in iridescent shimmers from the irregular walls, turning the crystals that dripped from the ceiling arches into moving, living things.

In the middle of the hall, the long tables lined up on either side of it, lay the carcass of the hound slain that morning.

Thysandra held her breath as she walked past it, trying not to inhale the smell of drying blood and ragged fur. The creature’s dead eyes seemed to be following her on the long, long way to the head table, an accusation in them that even hundreds of fae glares from the surrounding tables could not begin to match.

Thysandra! her father screamed .

Her heart pounded in her ears, that familiar rhythm of traitor, traitor, traitor.

But no one lunged forward with a knife in their hands. No one raised their voice to denounce her. There were just their gazes, peering, scrutinising, as she stepped up onto the dais with Naxi at her side, as she sank into her seat at the centre of the table, as she forced a smile and congratulated the winner of the hunt to her right.

Once upon a time, Old Thysandra had wished to be seen.

New Thysandra could think of nothing worse than sitting here, hundreds of unfaltering gazes aimed in her direction, while she tried to remember how to breathe.

To her left, Naxi peered back at the gathered court with daggers in her eyes, unflinching under the weight of their gathered emotions. At the far right of the table, Nicanor was all silky smiles and haughty elegance as he chatted with the army commander beside him, no trace of tension on his whetted features. If they could do it, she must be able to manage, too – but it was her who people glanced at as they whispered among each other, and it was her their fingers pointed out while their glares went thunderous …

Traitor’s daughter.

They were courtiers and soldiers, all of them. Dreaming of war and glory, of restoring their lives of abundance and luxury. Not a single teacher or archivist among them, no cooks or sailors or gardeners – not a single person who might be quietly grateful for peace and three solid meals a day. How in the world had she never noticed that before – how many people had been excluded from the crowd with which the Mother had surrounded herself?

She’d always been one of the violent ones, of course.

She’d spent so much time striving for the top that she hadn’t even realised not everyone might be running the same race.

Slowly, the tables filled up with black and garnet red to match the decorations of the hall. Orthea flounced in with the last groups of fae, her hunter’s costume replaced by a flowing gown of star-flecked silk – and she , of course, was greeted with eruptions of cheers and applause, no glares for her and her scheming heart …

Thysandra would have been furious if she hadn’t been scared out of her mind, too.

The food was served as soon as the Master of Ceremony took her place at the head table, the dishes carried in not by humans as in previous years but by fae younglings in black frocks and coats, their faces tight with concentration as they performed their tasks. Plates of grilled venison, roasted onions and parsnips, steaming loaves of fresh bread … The scents mingled with the aroma of spiced wine and a hundred different perfumes – a mixture that settled over the hall with almost physical weight, like the smothering blankets Thysandra used to hide beneath.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She stared at the silver plate before her, honey-glazed plums and apples, and tried not to notice the empty eyes of the hound beyond.

Voices quieted down around the hall. At the head table, Orthea rose, goblet in hand – launching into a speech that should have been Thysandra’s to give, but she no longer managed to care. At least she could just sit, now. Sit and smile and try to keep her head from spinning so violently. Naxi would warn her, wouldn’t she, if someone tried to attack them?

‘… on the memory of our beloved Mother,’ she heard Orthea say, a small catch in her voice that might or might not be theatrics, ‘who ruled our glorious empire with a wisdom and strength that will never be equalled …’

Venomous bitch.

Glasses and goblets were raised around the hall. Thysandra grabbed her own just in time to hide the fact she had missed most of the speech so far, keeping her expression placid, unaffected, as she lifted it and drank.

The wine was too sweet. She barely suppressed a shiver as it slid down her throat.

‘… and let us remember the thousands fallen at the Battle of the White City, who fought so bravely for our freedom …’

Another toast. Another gulp of wine. Freedom – as if any freedoms had been taken from this audience since the battle, save for the license to kill anyone and everyone they liked without facing consequences. But she shouldn’t scoff. She shouldn’t roll her eyes. She was a traitor, but quietly, and she would not —

‘… and finally,’ Orthea continued, her purring voice growing noticeably louder, ‘I would like to make a toast to the one hundred and thirty loyal patriots who have been dragged from their homes and locked up by our current High Lady, to be handed over to our enemies to die for the sake of her cowardice.’

The world froze.

A single moment of perfect stillness, like a glass about to shatter.

And then the hall erupted into raucous clamour. Wings flaring. Fists pumping. Goblets flying up with such violence that wine sloshed over their rims as voices shouted for justice, answers, blood – and all eyes, all eyes , aimed at Thysandra …

Furious gazes.

Few of them surprised, though.

They’d known. They’d known. Not rumours at all – this was far too much knowledge, far too specific, too, for it to be a matter of rumours. Which meant …

The thoughts rolled on, inevitable like an avalanche – even as her body sat paralysed at that loaded table, even as the noise swelled to a roar around her. Which meant someone must have talked.

And their audience had gladly believed it.

Traitor’s daughter .

As if in a dream, she watched a handful of fae make for her table, still in their hunter’s costumes, red smears on the fabric that might be wine or blood or both. Next to her, Nicanor was snapping commands. Around the hall, soldiers moved into position. There were not nearly enough of them, though, and even if reinforcements were waiting nearby …

The fae jostling towards her were unsheathing their blades.

She had to move – she had to move – but her body remained stiff with shock even as her mind screamed at her to stand and defend herself, and—

And the first of her attackers started screeching .

He silenced the hall more easily than any commands or intervening soldiers could have done – that jarring, ear-splitting howl that seemed more animal than fae. His knees buckled. His hands went grasping, grabbling, for knives or anything sharp at all as gasps of no and please and end it . She’d seen it before so many times, decades and decades of studying the work of any demon to visit the court, and yet she could not stop staring now as the crimson-clad male before her jerkily managed to unsheathe his own dagger, sobbing in invisible pain.

‘ Stop him! ’ someone bellowed from the back of the hall.

No one dared to lunge forward.

The fae male was still screaming as his blade sank between his own ribs.

His voice died away in a wet gurgle as he went slack on the crystalline floor … and then there was no sound left at all, the hall so quiet a pin-drop would have been a thunderclap. Around the tables, fae stood frozen. By the doors, Nicanor’s people had stiffened with their swords half-sheathed. Only the dead male’s companions moved, quiet like thieves in the night, as they inched back and away from his cramped corpse and away, most of all, from …

Naxi.

Who sat leaning on the table with one thin elbow, chin in her hand, smiling serenely at the deadlocked hall before her.

Two chairs away from her, Orthea looked about to be violently sick.

It was no well-considered strategy that had Thysandra turning back to the gathered court before her. There was no diplomacy to it. If anything, it was a lifetime of battlefield training that moved her lips now – the instinct, ingrained in her bones by years and years and years of fighting for her life, to never let forward momentum go to waste.

‘Thank you, Orthea,’ she heard herself say through the numb spinning of her own thoughts, and somehow she said it calmly, placidly, raising her own glass again as if in genuine gratitude. ‘And with that, I declare the feast opened. Enjoy your meal, everyone.’

Reckless audacity.

Then again, safe decisions didn’t lead to victory.

And the slain hunter still lay before her table in the growing pool of his own blood. Naxi still sat smiling so saintly – unable to take on more than a dozen fae at once, perhaps, but they sure as hell did not know where that limit might lie.

Around the hall, fae began sitting down.

Not a victory. A stay of execution, if anything. But for now …

For now, she was alive.

She did not sag back in her seat with relief. Relief was weakness, and weakness was death – more so now than ever. Instead, she scooped a generous helping of venison onto her plate, then took another sip of wine – anything to look as if she had matters well under control. Anything to make the few hundred fae around her believe they would be the ones on the losing side if they tried to attack her once again.

For now.

She did not dare to look at Nicanor. She did not dare to look at Naxi. Looking at anyone else for help would be weakness, too.

She stared sedately ahead instead, straight into the empty eyes of the dead hound, as hushed conversations slowly picked up again around her. She chewed venison and tasted dust.

For the sake of her cowardice.

A hundred and thirty loyal patriots …

Traitor’s daughter.

The heat in the hall was stifling, sticking to her skin like moist summer air. No matter how hard she tried to think and plan and understand , her thoughts kept sliding from her grasp – not so much scattered as bogged down, heavy like sluggish mud seeping between her fingers. She took another sip of wine. Her hand almost felt too heavy to lift the glass.

Think, Thysandra .

Someone had betrayed her. Not Nicanor’s people, the ones tasked with arresting their targets – they had never known the intention was to deliver the captives to the Alliance in the end. But Orthea had.

So that left four.

Gadyon. Inga. Nicanor. Silas .

No, not Silas … Silas hadn’t been here when the news of the housing plans had leaked, hadn’t he? And that must have been the same person … or perhaps it hadn’t been? Perhaps that had truly been an accident, and this had been her uncle making sure she would not be able to do without him for a while?

But then he should have been at the feast to save her, and he wasn’t here.

Why wasn’t he here?

Had he betrayed her after all, then run off to avoid the consequences?

The world swayed around her as she took another sip of wine. Her heart was a drumbeat in her ears, a hollow, strangely slow rhythm that blurred out all tinkling silverware and muffled conversation around her – thump … thump. Thump … thump.

What was she to do now?

Get out of this hall alive. That was the first step, even if … even if her eyes strangely felt like falling shut …

And then?

She drank more wine.

The Alliance – she needed to tell the Alliance. Needed them to come pick up their captives as soon as possible. Maybe she could pretend she’d never captured them at all, once all traces were gone? And even if she couldn’t … even if she couldn’t, at least she’d have a hundred and thirty opponents she no longer had to worry about …

‘Thysandra?’ someone was saying close-by.

She was so fucking tired.

The dead hound seemed to be crawling closer towards her. Its misted beady eyes were almost sympathetic – we’re in this hell together , they said, and yes, they really were, weren’t they? She’d seen the hounds as monsters, too, even if …

Thysandra! her father screamed.

No.

No, that wasn’t her father’s voice.

The wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the table.

And then there was Naxi, tugging at her shoulder – pretty little mouth forming words that reached Thysandra’s mind only an eternity later. Thysandra , she was saying, which was wrong. She wasn’t Thysandra. She was Sashka. She was very, very tired, and her body was heavy enough to sink through the floor and into the cold, safe earth below …

The hall had gone strangely quiet.

Other hands grabbed her shoulders. Thin, elegant hands. Nicanor hung before her, suddenly, which was vexing, because he was not nearly as pretty as Naxi was. He, too, was making sounds. Thys, can you hear me? Can you tell me what you’re feeling?

Tired.

So tired that her lips wouldn’t even move.

‘She’s feeling very tired!’ Naxi was shrieking. ‘She’s feeling too tired to move – not paralysed, just heavy …’

That was true, she wanted to say.

Her eyes were falling shut again.

‘Cold?’ Nicanor snapped – gods, there really wasn’t any reason for him to be so angry … ‘Or warm? Any pain? Is she able to breathe?’

‘No pain. Breathing is hard.’ Naxi was rambling so fast Thysandra could hardly follow her words. ‘Very warm, as if it’s the middle of summer. Her limbs feel heavy. Don’t think she really feels her feet anymore.’

Feet?

That was funny. She could have sworn she no longer had any feet.

The world tilted without warning. Arms hoisted her from her chair, and crystals swam above her, dazzling, mesmerising colours her eyes could no longer comprehend. Far too close, far too loud, Nicanor’s voice shouted, ‘Clear the way!’

Wings swept out. Not her own wings. These were blue, and there were no scars on them.

Did she still have her own wings?

She didn’t feel them anymore … oh, gods, had she lost her wings? Suddenly tears were running down her cheeks, because she loved flying, and now she’d never fly again, and she was so very tired it ached …

‘Thys,’ Nicanor’s voice was repeating, strangely urgent. ‘Thys, stay awake. Just a few more minutes, alright? You can sleep in a few minutes. Stay with me now … ’

They were no longer in the hall, suddenly. Open sky above them. Dark blue, streaks of purple. Stars, so many stars.

They were flying

She didn’t know how. She’d lost her wings, and either way, her body was so heavy she should be plummeting like a stone. So heavy … so tired …

‘ Thys ,’ Nicanor snapped.

So angry.

She was crying again.

They smacked down onto something. Then there was no longer sky above them but a ceiling, pale wood with burn marks in strangely green colours, and there were no longer arms around her but something … what was the word again …

A floor.

Yes, there was a floor beneath her. Good. She could sleep on a floor. She could …

‘Thys, stay awake.’

Why wouldn’t he just shut up?

Glass tinkled. Drawers slammed. Then he was kneeling before her again, his face pale like his hair, something in his hand. A vial. Pink fluid. She liked pink. It made her think of Naxi.

‘Open your mouth, Thys.’

She wasn’t sure where her mouth was supposed to be again. He cursed and hauled her up from the floor – so strong, if he could move something as heavy as her … Then the vial was against her lips. It didn’t taste good. It didn’t taste like Naxi.

‘Don’t you dare spit this out,’ Nicanor told her as bitter horribleness slid onto her tongue, and she was so shocked she swallowed.

Ugh came from her mouth.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, soft, almost comforting , as he chucked the vial aside. ‘It’s very ugh. Well done, Thys. You can sleep now.’

Thank the fucking gods .

She barely felt her head hitting the floor again.