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Her hand settles on her weapon. “And if they decide we’re the prey?”
I let my robes kindle with silver ice. “Then we remind them the moon is not defenseless in the dark.”
9
THE POISONED BLOOM
AMALIA
The same mirror-crowned courtier from our arrival leads us along winding paths of polished obsidian into a garden filled with plants too vivid to be natural, their petals edged with venomous, shimmering dew.
I trail behind Theron and Thalindor, my hand never far from my knife, while courtiers drift between towering flowers, their whispers marking our passage.
“The night gardens are our sithe’s pride,” our guide proclaims, each syllable as smooth and liquid as the music that shadows our footsteps. “Every bloom has been cultivated for both esthetic and practical uses.”
The explanation is unnecessary. In our limited time here, it’s become clear that nothing exists for beauty alone.
The path narrows, pinched between walls of foliage dense enough to swallow the light. Overhead, vines lattice into a canopy where luminous fruit hangs like alien moons, dripping nectar with the color and consistency of blood. When a drop lands on my boot, the leather sizzles before my magic neutralizes whatever acid it contains.
“Mind the fruits,” Thalindor murmurs over his shoulder, too late. “Their juice stains more than clothes.”
I step around another puddle, noting how the courtiers glide through these hazards without hesitation. They’re used to this beautiful minefield. Their garments shift and flow, revealing glimpses of skin marked with living tattoos.
“Do the tattoos mean something?” I ask Thalindor.
“Everything here means something.” He scans the garden. “Those marks record debts, alliances, and conquests. The more elaborate, the more dangerous the wearer.”
A breeze stirs the garden, carrying a perfume so sweet that my head swims. Beneath it, something acrid burns the back of my throat, and I cover my nose and mouth with my hand to filter my breathing.
Theron shows no reaction, but his fingers trace one of the constellation patterns embroidered on his sleeve. Magic whispers around him, subtle but present, pushing back the garden’s influence.
We emerge into a wider space where Dark fae lounge on cushions scattered across tiered platforms. They feed each other fruit, juice staining their fingers purple, drink from goblets that release faint curls of smoke, and laugh in odd harmonics. Some wear masks, with only their eyes or lips revealed, while others display bare skin decorated with writhing shadows.
The courtiers part for us, their conversations dropping to whispers as we pass. I catch fragments of speculation about why the Silver King has come and curiosity about the wildling in his entourage.
Our escort pauses on the path. “Wait here. The king will summon you shortly.”
We stop, pulling our ranks closer and shifting so our backs aren’t left unguarded. As I give the nearest courtiers a glare to stay back, a flowering archway dripping with phosphorescent blossoms draws my attention to a cloistered courtyard set apart from the revelry.
Unlike the rest of the garden, where guards are absent, fae in obsidian armor ring this space. They stand motionless, more statues than living beings, but the courtiers keep their distance.
Inside the protected space, girls in shimmering gowns drift between the fountains with the languid grace of fish confined to a glass bowl.
None acknowledge us, their expressions blank, but something in their posture speaks of anticipation, or dread.
I step closer to Theron. “Who are they?”
“Potential princesses.” He answers just loud enough to carry over the surrounding music. “Not yet bloomed.”
His phrasing bothers me. They’re people, but he speaks of them as crops to be cultivated. The constant supervision bothers me, too, suggesting they have less free will than the wilder courtiers outside their bower.
“What does blooming mean?” I keep my attention on the girls, cataloging details without making my interest obvious.
“Being chosen by the sithe to hold its power. The sithe recognizes those with the potential to channel and stabilize its magic.”
“Like Caelan is doing right now?” I ask.
Theron dips his chin in acknowledgment. “A prince or princess blooms when the sithe’s magic flows through them fully, marking them as worthy to hold a portion of its essence. A rare and coveted honor.”
