Page 27
The one crowned in mirrors steps forward at last, a smile curving too wide to be friendly.
“The Silver Flame returns to our humble domain. It has been too long since you have passed time in our halls.”
I bow for three heartbeats, enough to honor his greeting without conceding ground. “We come by invitation. King Nyctarian extended his hospitality.”
A flutter of silent conversation passes through the courtiers, and their expressions shift from amusement to curiosity, and then to dark hunger.
“Of course, of course.” The mirror-crowned fae circles closer, steps soundless. “What gifts do the Silver bring? What games shall we play during your stay?”
Another courtier steps forward, hair shimmering with starlight. “And what treasure is this? A wildling with a sithean stone? Unconventional for the rigid Silver fae.”
He reaches for her, as if she were a curiosity on display, and Amalia shifts before his fingers can touch, swaying backward, hand brushing the hilt of her knife in a clear message that she will not be touched.
His smile flickers, the spell in his gesture humming just beneath perception.
Thalindor slips between them, smooth as silk, no blade drawn but the warning clear in his stance.
The courtier withdraws his hand, smile widening with delight. “Protective of your pet, Silver King?”
Amalia’s fingers tighten on her weapon, but she holds herself in check.
“My companion deserves the same respect accorded to me,” I say, each word edged with authority. “As guests of your king.”
The courtiers part, water around a stone, bodies forming a path toward the gates. Their faces reveal nothing, but the air thickens with calculation, measuring our power and our vulnerability.
“The revelry awaits,” the mirror-crowned fae says, gesturing for us to follow. “King Nyctarian will be delighted to receive the Silver King and his unusual companion.”
Relations with the Dark Sithe have never been stable, and delighted is hardly the word. Yet the dark fae savor spectacle, even if it means watching their king’s displeasure.
We pass beneath iron gates, the metal poisonous to our kind, and the burden of old magic settles over us. The rest of the courtiers close in behind, pacing us like hawks on the hunt.
The games have begun.
The broken courtyard gives way to steps and open doors, their frames sagging under thorny vines. Inside, the Dark Spire refuses a single shape. Walls ripple as if made of fabric, ceilings rise and sink, and each stride lengthens the hall while black columns appear from nowhere.
I catalog every impossibility. Here, reality bends to Nyctarian’s will.
The courtier leads us on through twisting corridors, up a staircase that solidifies only when stepped upon and past a molten metal banister that chills beneath my touch.
“The architecture has changed since my last visit,” I observe.
Our guide turns, his reflection splintering across the shards of his crown. “The palace reflects our king’s current fascinations. As of late, he finds himself interested in the space between spaces.”
Behind every velvet curtain, voices rise and fall in perfect counterpoint, laughter from one alcove met by sobs from another. The sounds mingle into a composition of extremes, neither wholly jubilant nor entirely sorrowful. Faces peer from behind half-veils, watching our procession with curiosity that does little to hide the hunger.
The scent of night-blooming flowers hangs thick in the air, layered with the metallic tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of overripe, fermented fruit. The combination ought to repel, but it weaves together into a heady perfume, the sort that clouds one’s thoughts and erodes caution.
I breathe through my mouth to blunt its effects.
Amalia keeps pace at my side, her stride balanced and ready, observing the lack of guards, the floor tiles that dip too far underfoot, and the glint of knives worn as jewelry.
The blades are nothing like the ceremonial daggers of the Silver Sithe. Here, a knife grows from a woman’s wrist, bone-white and curved. Another circles a neck, jagged as a collar of teeth. In this place, weapons are ornaments and threats are fashion. There is no need for guards when every courtier is armed and eager.
Thalindor trails us, alert to our rear, making sure no one follows too close. We stop before a set of doors, black wood that soaks up every bit of light. Scenes of hunt and capture twist across their surface, shifting into new stories if my attention wavers for even a moment.
“Your accommodations,” announces our guide, swinging the doors open without laying a hand on them. “King Nyctarian wishes you comfort before tonight’s welcome feast.”
Inside, opulence blooms within the suite, black wood furniture inlaid with silver, tapestries altering their scenes as the viewer moves. A central hearth burns with dark flames, heating without casting light.
