—and he was on his feet with a snarl. I hardly had time to press myself against the door before he was at it, all his strength put toward escape.
His face came against the bars, teeth bared. “Move, you fuck.”
“The scar. Tell me.”
His eyes were wide, feral. Only I stood between him and freedom. “The scar?”
“On his face. Tell me where it is.”
A desperate man would tell you what you wanted to hear. Which was why you couldn’t give him an answer in your question.
His eyes pressed shut for a moment. “It’s, it’s…”
I waited, heart beating fast.
His eyes flicked open, pupils dilated wide. “On his jaw. Left side of his face.”
I breathed out. Sometimes it was terrible to prove your instincts right.
I stepped back, the door swung open, and he nearly fell out of the cell. He caught himself, and for a moment we stared at one another. I read half a dozen questions in his gaze, the ones I’d be asking:Why? Who are you? Is this a trick?
“I left the main door unlocked,” I said. “Dawn’s only a few hours away.”
All those questions faded from his face. Freedom, freedom, freedom—every fae desired it from their birth to their death. He began to leave, then turned. “He belongs to the Black Frost.”
He pivoted and disappeared around the corner in an emaciated shuffle, and I was leftstanding against the wall.
The Black Frost. Maeronyx.
Gawain was here, somewhere in this castle, and he’d nearly killed Eury.
This time, I would leave more than just a scar.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eurydice
The handmaiden broughtthe second course out—a steaming meaty dish and a carafe of purple juice. Liora had long since unbuttoned the lacy neck of her dress. Now she poured from the carafe into my glass.
“One thing I should like to know.” Her eyes remained on the act of pouring. “Is why you chose to be your own champion in the Killing Fields.”
I stared at the three forks laid to the left of my plate as I debated my answer.
“The outermost, young queen.” Liora set down the carafe, lifted her own fork, and drove it into a piece of ham. She began cutting—quick, precise strokes. “Always outer to inner. Did your famous tailor and etiquette master teach you nothing?”
I lifted the outer fork. “He taught me a few things.”
“Did he advise you to be your own champion?”
“No—I chose that.”
Liora met my eyes, skepticism written there. “Do you know what they say about the gods in Feyreign?”
“They’re untrustworthy and out for themselves?”
She let out an amused breath. “Yes, well, the saying goes like this: ‘A god who doesn’t meddle is hardly more than a cloud.’”
“I have yet to see a cloud in Highmark.”