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I take a closer look at the girls, noting subtle differences. Some bear traces of animal features, identifying them as wildlings. Others show the pure fae lineage in their flawless symmetry.
“When will they bloom?”
“Possibly today. Likely never,” Theron says. “Nyctarian keeps more potential royals than any other sithe, hoping to strengthen their connection to the magic that sustains them.”
One girl turns toward me, and for a heartbeat, the emptiness falls away, replaced by sudden awareness. The moonstone at my throat catches her attention first, then my gloved hand, before a guard moves between us and the moment breaks.
My stomach knots. That brief spark of awareness held calculation, not confusion. “What happens to those who don’t bloom?”
“They serve other purposes.” Theron’s lips barely move. “Nyctarian wastes nothing, especially not those with royal potential.”
The mirror-crowned courtier reappears, interrupting with practiced timing. “His Majesty awaits your presence, Silver King. He has prepared a spectacle to celebrate your safe arrival.”
Theron inclines his head. “The Dark King honors us.”
The courtier’s smile stretches too wide. “This way, if you please. Tonight’s entertainment promises to be unforgettable.”
We follow him deeper into the garden, leaving the cloistered courtyard behind.
The festivities grow more frenetic near the center, and following the patterns of the fae dances becomes disorienting, their movements giving the illusion of extra limbs or missing heads. Musicians play instruments carved from bone and strung with what appears to be hair. The notes they produce skitter across my skin with the sensation of insects.
At the edge of a new courtyard, our escort stops again and turns toward us. “Your companions are welcome to indulge in the festivities, Silver King. King Nyctarian will speak to you alone.”
Thalindor stirs, but before he can protest, Theron lifts one finger in a subtle signal for him to quiet. “Of course. We are here at the Dark King’s indulgence.”
With a flick of his robe, Theron strides on ahead without us.
“How are we to guard his back if we’re left behind?” I hiss at Thalindor.
His silver eyes cut to me. “We are not here to guard my king.”
Message delivered, he faces forward once more, leaving me to my mission. Which is not, as he pointed out, to worry about what happens to Theron, but to discover what happened to his brother.
I linger on the outskirts of the courtyard, a servant among courtiers, half-hidden by a fountain where liquid starlight spills over black stone. It reminds me of the drink Oberyn bought me at the Harbor, and remembering its dizzying effects, I avoid contact.
Theron attends Nyctarian’s side, his silver presence holding the attention of the courtiers. Away from him, Thalindor and I lose their interest. Before long, the courtiers dismiss me as just another wildling weaving through the garden.
Even so, I don’t go snooping right away. I let time pass in snatches of music and conversation, an untouched goblet in my hand. Servants pass with trays laden with fruits and savory meats, tempting a growl of hunger from my stomach, which I ignore.
I let the flow of the courtiers carry me back down the path we had traveled along earlier until I once again find myself in front of the archway surrounded by obsidian guards.
The stone at my throat pulses cold, then warm, its rhythm erratic, and I resist the urge to touch it and draw unwanted attention.
Instead, I shift position, angling for a better view, and the same girl who caught my eye earlier turns toward me.
Her dreamlike quality vanishes again as her head snaps toward me, and the predator resurfaces. Taller than the others, her black hair flows in an inky spill down to her feet. Her gown shimmers with threads that catch no visible light, their patterns shifting with every movement.
She gives neither me nor the moonstone more than a passing interest. Instead, her attention fixes on my gloved hand.
Heat flares under the leather, the blood tattoo burning as if her stare awakens it. I clench my fist, too late, as her nostrils flare, her lips parting as if scenting prey.
She tilts her head, listening to some note beyond my perception, and her lips part to reveal sharpened teeth.
Recognition flashes across her features, and triumph follows.
When her fingers lift, she paints traces of magic in the air that echo my hidden runes. My stomach tightens. How does she know what my glove hides?
She acknowledges me with the smallest dip of her head, then slips back into the drift of potential princesses circling a dark pool of liquid.
