The Queen's Choice Read online

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  The Great Redwood was filled to capacity with warm bodies and joyful noise, so full that not an echo could be heard despite the tree’s magnificent size. It was our beloved Queen Ubiqua’s birthday, and she celebrated with food and revelry for all Faefolk, preferring to give rather than to receive. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd, and she smiled graciously, nodding greetings here and there. But when her gaze landed on a particular individual, her smile became as bright as a sunbeam.

  At my side, Ione tracked my aunt’s line of sight. We were holding hands, and she tugged at my arm to draw my attention to Zabriel. His grin was vivid and contagious; he loved celebrations, the opportunity to meet new people. His dark brown eyes were alive with the fever of excitement, and his presentation was exquisite. Some of the Fae doubted he would be able to command our people because of his lack of an elemental connection, but it was times like these I realized how wrong the naysayers were. To see him was to want to be near him; to speak to him was to fall under his spell. He needed no magic for that.

  Ione’s face was flushed, but not from the warmth or the Sale. My cousin was trim, well dressed, and well-groomed, undeniably handsome with a crown of berries around his head, and Ione was in awe of him. In the spirit of the evening, I shoved her toward him; to her mortification, she bumped into his shoulder.

  Zabriel steadied her, glancing automatically behind her. When he caught my eye, I winked, and he loosed his warm, rich laugh. He took Ione’s hand and spun her in a dance. Her halo of blond hair shone in the light. Girls watching whispered and fidgeted enviously.

  A moment later, hands playfully covered my eyes, blinding me. A kiss to my cheek and an arm that spun me into an elegant twirl left no question who was responsible—in Davic’s hands, it was impossible not to dance well.

  Dipped into a graceful back bend, I gazed upside down at the line of thrones and chairs against the wall of the Redwood. My father raised his eyebrows at me, and I giggled, pointing him out to Davic when he pulled me up and into his arms. My dance partner grinned shamelessly and sent a dramatic bow in my father’s direction. The Lord of the Law chuckled and waved a hand of dismissal toward us.

  The chair next to my father’s was empty, though it had earlier been occupied by Enerris, Queen Ubiqua’s brother, who was probably mingling with the revelers. One more seat down, my cousin Illumina watched the party with wide, cautious eyes. She would not leave her chair, let alone dance.

  “Anya!”

  Immediately recognizing Ione’s voice, I took Davic’s hand, leading the way through the crowd to my best friend. Though she hadn’t been particularly loud, something in her tone had pierced through the gleeful noise and struck a chord in me. She needed me.

  At first glance, everything seemed fine, but as I came closer, I saw that Zabriel was in conversation with Enerris. The Queen’s older brother was silver haired and wizened, taller and more physically imposing than my cousin, and his presence cast Zabriel’s untouchable glow of youth into shadow. I didn’t know what was going on between uncle and nephew, only that it was unlikely to be good.

  “You’re not a boy anymore,” Enerris said to Zabriel in his deep rumble. “The people are beginning to remark upon your qualifications as a ruler.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Zabriel replied, irritation in his voice. Enerris seldom let him forget.

  “Then take the opportunity to show that you are one of us.”

  Zabriel’s face grew suspicious. “And what would you suggest, Uncle?”

  Enerris smiled and extended a bark mug to my cousin, and I knew with a seizing of my heart that Zabriel would not refuse. I glanced wildly about for someone who could stop him, then moved toward him myself. Extending an arm to ward me off, my cousin took the mug in his elegant, long-fingered hands. Before I could speak, he raised it in a toast and put it to his lips, downing the Sale in one draught.

  “Zabriel!”

  The scream cut through the celebrations, bringing the music to a discordant halt. Confused murmurs whirred through the Redwood, and a ripple began in the crowd as Faefolk made way for the Queen and her Lord of the Law. Enerris backed away from his nephew, but Ubiqua caught his movement.

  “Seize him!” she ordered, and my father obeyed, twisting Enerris’s arms behind his back while the Queen hastened to her only child.

  “Mother, I’m all right!” Zabriel averred, horrified by the scene.

  Her eyes wild, Ubiqua struck him across the face with the back of her hand. Zabriel staggered, his dark eyes shocked and betrayed—his mother had never, never hit him before. But this time he had gambled with his life. Queen Ubiqua had forbidden him ever to consume Sale, afraid that with his human blood, the drink would poison him. In an hour, or two, or twelve, he could be dead.

  Ubiqua clutched at him in a panic; then her wrath found Enerris. I saw in her cold expression that forgiveness of her brother would never come, and I leaned against Davic as his arms encircled me protectively. This night, the world had changed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NEVER LOOK BACK

  I rose early the next morning with determination in my heart. I would drive myself mad with thoughts like the ones I’d had last night. If I didn’t give myself a purpose, I would sink into bitter despair, and there wasn’t time for that. Fully healed or not, I needed to leave.

  I dressed in the dim light of the sunrise, knowing I would have to obtain two things for my journey from Thatcher More—food and a map. With this in mind, I approached the shack behind the house where he so often disappeared. The door stood ajar, and I could hear him moving around inside. Not wanting to give him a chance to deny me entry, I took a breath and crossed the threshold, steeling myself for what I might find. But nothing looked horribly amiss, and my fluttering heartbeat settled into a normal rhythm.

  Thatcher stood at a wooden table littered with animal hides and bones, cutting venison into strips with a hunting knife. The table’s surface had absorbed enough lifeblood to emanate the sour odor associated with these activities, and yet the scent was vague, suggesting the workspace was frequently cleaned. A variety of tools hung on the walls, and a smaller table held what looked like partially finished carvings and other woodworking projects.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Are you turning some of that venison into jerky?”

  Thatcher jumped and spun toward me, knife at the ready. My body automatically locked into a defensive posture, Anlace in hand even though I didn’t remember reaching for it. It hadn’t occurred to me that Thatcher might not hear my approach—I’d assumed my skill for silence had been lost with my wings.

  “It’s you,” he growled, wiping newly formed beads of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  With Shea’s confessions fresh in my mind and annoyance bubbling in my chest, there were many retorts that sprang to my lips. But I bit them back and returned the Anlace to its sheath. Antagonism would get me nowhere.

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you in private.”

  An unremitting stare was his only response, and it felt like he was trying to push me out the door by sheer force of will. I stepped farther into the shack, doing my best to ignore his attitude.

  “I’m planning on leaving soon. I wondered if I might have some meat for my travels?”

  “When will you depart?”

  “In a day or two, I hope.”

  With a grunt that I took as a yes, he returned to work. I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for him to say something more, to ask how much food I’d need, where I would be going, anything that would ordinarily be asked, when my gaze fell on a pair of leather fetters that looked disturbingly familiar. Frowning, I picked them up from the smaller table and rubbed them between my fingers, only to have Thatcher snatch them away. When I looked down, the crusty, dark russet substance that stained t
he leather now stained my hand.

  “Distinctive souvenir,” I said pointedly, my wrists stinging as though the straps still encircled them, immobilizing me for the halberd to strike—strike—strike. My surroundings grew fuzzy for an instant, my memory dragging forth that dark night, each deafening blow still able to create a throbbing in my temples.

  “Not a souvenir,” Thatcher grumbled, clutching the cuffs in a thick fist. “You may not place much faith in me, but don’t do me a disservice. I just wanted to see what the hunters are using these days.”

  “And what have you determined?” I asked, banishing the belligerence from my voice.

  “They’re getting more sophisticated. And they’re well funded. See these studs?” He pointed to the manacles, and I nodded. Between bloodstains, the leather held bits of a shimmering black mineral. “That’s sky iron. Very hard to come by, and very expensive.”

  I paled. From the Fae perspective, sky iron was what humans called an old wives’ tale. Said to fall from the heavens, it contained the only substance in Nature that was inherently harmful to my people. According to lore, it grounded us, taking away our ability to fly and to communicate with the elements. Its existence was laced throughout our histories, but with its earthly source unknown, the accounts were largely accepted as allegories rather than fact.

  I was face-to-face with a myth, and I understood now why the water hadn’t answered my call when I’d been attacked by the hunters; but that wasn’t the most terrifying part. No, the most terrifying part was how many other myths I’d dismissed throughout my life, and how the tide slunk in over sturdy ground when I lent them credence.

  “What will you do with the leathers?” I pressed.

  “Sell them, if I can. Might bring a tidy sum, and I can use the money.”

  Disgust washed over me. “You mean you’ll sell them to hunters?”

  “This isn’t personal, Anya. I need the money, and I’m not interested in asking questions.”

  “It’s personal to me.”

  To my surprise, he laughed and examined the fetters more closely, as though realizing for the first time that the blood forming the stains belonged to me.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I guess I can afford to be poor a little longer.”

  Without another word, he opened the base of the smoker and tossed the leathers into the fire.

  “You’re a good man, Thatcher More,” I said, perplexed by his shifting priorities. “At least I think you are.”

  “There aren’t many these days who would agree with you. But that’s neither here nor there. You’re welcome to all the jerky you want. There are plenty of deer in these woods. Anything else you need?”

  “A map of the area, if you could draw one. I’m not familiar with this part of the forest.”

  “Simple enough. I’ll have it for you in the morning.”

  “One last thing. What about acquiring a horse?”

  “You can rent one in Strong. It’s the closest town to us and it has a government-sponsored livery stable. If you return your mount to any of the company’s locations, they’ll refund half your investment.”

  “Thanks,” I said again, resisting the urge to ask him about his problems with the Governor. He was being cooperative, and I doubted that would continue if I delved into his personal affairs. I didn’t have the right to pry, no matter how curious I was.

  I turned to go, but Thatcher arrested me with a warning. “You’re not to take Shea with you.”

  “What?”

  “Shea is unhappy here, no point in pretending otherwise. I suspect she’ll want to go with you. But the outside world poses a threat to her that she is too young to appreciate. I want your promise you’ll turn her down.”

  I gave my auburn hair a thoughtful tug. This possibility had not yet occurred to me. Then I gave him the best answer I could.

  “It’s not my intent to take her with me. I’ll do my best to discourage her, but that’s all I can promise. She has the right to make up her own mind.”

  Thatcher’s return expression was not in the least satisfied. He took a deep breath, gripping the edge of his worktable so that the muscles all the way up his arms flexed.

  “Fair enough,” he grumbled, for there was little else he could say to me.

  I left him alone in the shack, wishing there was something I could do to make the Mores’ lives easier. Perhaps if I found Zabriel and he took his rightful place on the throne, I would ask him to assist the humans who had helped me when I was at my most vulnerable.

  Instead of heading to the front door, I walked around to the back of the cabin. It was so cold that the snow had crusted over, and I was practically able to walk on top of it, only occasionally breaking through. When I came to Shea’s window, I scanned the ground, not really expecting to see any tracks. The immaculate snow confirmed the likelihood that the noises we’d heard had been those of an animal—nothing heavier than a fawn could have passed here without breaking the crust. While a Faerie could have hovered, I would probably have heard the hum of wings last night. Fae wings in motion made a distinct sound recognizable by those whose ears were attuned to it. I also scrutinized the surrounding space for glimmers of magic in the air that might have been left by one of my people, but found nothing. Satisfied, I returned to the house to help with the day’s chores.

  * * *

  After supper that night, Shea and I put her sisters to bed, an activity I had come to enjoy, for the four of us would gather in the younger girls’ bedroom and share tales. Shea was the primary storyteller, although occasionally Magdalene took on the role. I knew from legends within my own land—and from Thatcher’s identification of sky iron—that old tales often had a core of truth, and hearing human versions might give me extra insight into their world. A few of the stories existed in the Faerie Realm, as well, and these I took to have more credibility than the others. If a fable commanded the belief of two separate races of people, it was bound to have deep roots.

  “So you see, the woman destroyed herself by trying to become more beautiful,” Shea explained to Magdalene and Marissa, who were sitting on their beds, listening intently. “We’re made the way we are for a reason. You can’t go against nature.”

  “Or you’ll end up uglier than before,” Marissa offered, and a round of giggles followed. The girls had been outside during the day, and the clothes we’d hung to dry by the fireplace fractured the light, casting eerie shadows across the floor and walls.

  In the spirit of this atmosphere, Magdalene made a request. “Tell us a scary one, Shea. We know about ending up ugly.”

  “You do,” teased Marissa, prompting Maggie to playfully smother her with a pillow.

  “You don’t need to hear a scary one,” Shea said with a roll of her eyes. “You should go to bed.”

  “No!” Marissa implored, breaking free of Magdalene’s assault. “I want a scary one, too. Please, Shea?”

  “Fine. Let’s see.... Oh, I’ve got one. Have you ever heard of a Sepulchre?”

  Marissa and Maggie shook their heads, while I sat up straighter on the floor. This was yet another myth the Fae shared with the humans; Evangeline had frightened me and our other friends with stories about Sepulchres when we were younger.

  “Long ago, before the Faerie War, there were these creatures, these beautiful creatures. No one was sure if they were men or women or even what color they were, they shone so uniquely,” Shea began, separating the girls and moving to sit on Marissa’s bed. “The Fae were friends with them, and used to share their magic so the creatures could stay beautiful. But then the war erupted, and the curse of the Bloody Road stopped anyone who wasn’t Fae from crossing into the magical Realm. So the creatures, in order to survive, had to feast on the next best thing—children, the younger the better, because they were so pure.”

  This was met with the expecte
d gasps and shivers, and Marissa pulled her quilt up to her chin.

  “It’s said that these creatures, called Sepulchres, slip through windows and cracks in doors and steal children away to their dungeons somewhere beneath the ground. No one knows what happens then, except that the children are never seen again.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Marissa whimpered, “That’s not true, is it?”

  “Don’t worry. Even if it is, Sepulchres never go after big girls like you and Maggie.” Shea tweaked her younger sister’s nose, drawing a weak smile.

  “Shea,” I admonished. “Your sisters are scared.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then tell them the truth.”

  “I did!”

  I sighed, feeling presumptuous for challenging Shea in front of her sisters, but hating the fear in Marissa’s enormous dark eyes.

  “Not completely.”

  “Then by all means, straighten me out! What is the truth?”

  I turned to the little girl, ignoring Shea’s tightly crossed arms, and told the story as it was repeated in Chrior.

  “A long time ago, when humans and Fae shared the lands now occupied by your race, there were these creatures called Sepulchres. They were nourished by Fae magic, but they never attacked children. And when the Faeries left the human world, all the Sepulchres died. So, you see, it’s actually a sad story, not a scary one. There’s nothing to worry your pretty head about.”