Cayla Kluver - The Queen's Choice

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 the 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.”