I roar, trying to break free again, but another burst of magic slams into the back of my skull. The world tilts sideways. The last thing I see is Arlet struggling against her captors, screaming my name through tears.
Then blackness swallows everything.
Part Three
Chapter 30
LIANA
Shvathemar still glows like a jewel at night. Nearly a hundred years since I was here last, and I am shocked at how familiar it is—the breeze, the golden glow, the feel of elven music under my skin. Lanterns float between bridges, and music carries over the water from the upper terraces. From a distance, it looks peaceful. Up close, the smell of smoke clings to everything, hidden beneath the perfume-sweet trees.
Mrath and I had timed our arrival perfectly with the help of Vann’s messages through the speaking stones.
A festival is underway for the royal wedding, and I am waiting in the city along with a band of Mrath’s most trusted assassins. The Faefurt, as they call themselves.
They number about two dozen in total, and they have placed themselves around different sections of the main square in the upper city. Though dressed for the occasion, I know they are armed to the teeth, waiting for a sign that will tell us whether the work is done and Arion is dead, or if we must run.
Both Mrath and Vann should be at the ceremony. Mrath with her assassins, and Vann with the intention of removing Arlet.
Even though none of the citizens would’ve even glimpsed the marriage, with its decadent opulence, they still wear fine clothingand dance through the streets. They sing and call out blessings. While the king and his bride are mentioned, it seems like just an excuse to enjoy the day.
There is nothing enjoyable about this evening for me. A cheap glamour sits poorly over my blue skin, and I can still feel my tail, now curled around a hook in my belt beneath my gown, twitching from not being able to move freely.
Glyni Oakfeather, an elven woman I came to know very well in Enduvida, sits in a small corner tea house sipping a deep purple drink as dancers flutter by. There’s an ethereal, light quality to their lanky bodies that is pleasant to watch, but I grow tired quickly.
A pair of twins, Elanila and Farryn, smoke herbal cigarettes alongside a group of soldiers who cast leering stares at them and shout suggestive phrases over the din.
From a rooftop party across the way, I spot Ayla Daecaryn, the leader of the assassins. She doesn’t even attempt to engage with the rioting behind her. She’s tall—taller than most of the elves I know, and her silver-blond hair blows back in the night breeze as she watches the castle on the hill. Her hands rest on the decorative rail, covered in vines and flowers.
For a second, our eyes catch. A restless electric current passes through the intangible bond. She nods once. I am the first to look away.
It is time for me to go to the meeting place and wait for a sign.
Frustration and anger curl up my spine. What was I thinking, agreeing to come here?
I keep my hood low as I move through the crowd, and my stomach churns. If Mrath’s plan was successful, they would’ve already raided the wedding. The king could be dead right now. And the elves celebrate as if nothing dark has ever touched their city.
They string silver banners between the towers, sing songs of victory, and raise their glasses to a king who believes himself untouchable. A king who only sees them as numbers to exploit. Numbers to sell to, numbers to get money from, numbers to toy with as if he and his court were some great puppeteers.
This wedding is supposed to herald some return to greatness.
I’ve spent nearly two and a half centuries wandering this land, and I don’t often feel my age. There is a youthfulness in knowledge, despite what others believe. But in this moment, I feel each year lump upon me until breathing becomes a true labor. I suppose I am old—an old woman plagued by skepticism and grumpiness.
It is hard to live as long as I and not begin to see the same patterns creep up from place to place. This is not the first time I have seen the citizens accept the words shoved into their eyes and ears and down their throats as fact instead of fiction, until they become their own thoughts and phrases.
Castien was the one to nurture this seed of bitterness inside of me and see the repeated systems.
I wonder what he would think of me being here. Is he here too?
On the one hand, what was I thinking, returning to a den of enemies?
On the other…
My hand brushes the obsidian dagger in my pocket. A cursed promise.
The crowd thickens as I reach the merchant quarter. Elves in pale silks glide past, their laughter light. My brows draw together when I see a few humans move among them—servants, mostly. Their eyes stay down.
I guess I’d known that there were humans here. I didn’t realize they were on display. Or perhaps this is a new development that comes from Arlet marrying the king, and they intend to show solidarity with the new order.