It takes twenty more minutes to reach a small, wooded cove on the lakeshore. Trev dips his hand into the water without a word. After the fissure rumbles open, he reaches into the draw-stringed pouch tied to his belt and takes out an anchor-stone. Chaos lusters flicker over his hand when he imprints it. He hands it to me, then holds out his arm.
It’s awkward, touching a fae who hates you, but I wrap my fingers around his forearm and brace myself for the In-Between. Cold, harsh air clenches around me, squeezing for what feels like an eternity, before it spits us back out. My body is stiff and sore and pissed at me for traveling so soon after Lorn’s hellish fissure. My vision turns white, the world tilts, and I have to hang on to Trev in order to stay on my feet.
I’m still freezing. I don’t realize why until I let go of Trev’s arm and force my eyes to focus. I expect to be in the Realm; I don’t expect to be in a city that is not Corrist. It’s night here, but the streets are white with snow except for the circles of blue beneath the magically lit street orbs. Long, thin icicles cling to the eaves of the row houses lining the street. They’re single-storied, but there’s quite a distance between their front doors, which means they’re big. We’re in an upscale part of this city, and something about the architecture—the curved rooftops and pale blue stucco of the walls—is familiar. I think I’ve been here before.
An uncomfortable, nervous feeling pools in my gut.
“Where are we?” I take a step away from Trev and lock my gaze on the shadows from our extinguished fissure. I dropped Naito’s sketchbook when we stepped out of the In-Between. I bend down to retrieve it from the snow-covered ground, my heartbeat picking up its pace because I don’t know if I can trust Trev.
“We’re in Rhigh,” he says.
The sketchbook slips from my fingers. A gust of wind flips it open before I recover. I slap it shut, dust off the snow that sticks like powder to its cover. This place is familiar because I have been here before. With Thrain.
I hug the sketchbook to my chest as if it can keep me warm. It was cold ten years ago, too, but I was wearing long sleeves and a jacket when Thrain abducted me, not a thin, short-sleeved T-shirt. After three days in this weather, though, the extra layer of clothing didn’t matter. Thrain didn’t warm the air in the house he imprisoned me in. I would have frozen to death if Kyol hadn’t found me.
Trev starts walking down the street, toward a multistoried, ornate building. The high noble’s home, maybe? Rhigh’s gate is in the other direction.
“Trev,” I call out. Either he doesn’t notice my reaction to this place, or he doesn’t care. It’s probably the latter. He hasn’t asked why I was in Nashville or who took me there.
I hate being on this street with him—there’s no telling who might be watching from a window—so I grab his arm and pull him into a narrow walkway. If he didn’t want to move, he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t shake free until after we’re off the main street.
“Why aren’t we in Corrist?” I demand.
“Lena wants you here,” he returns. That’s it. No elaboration.
If this wasn’t Rhigh, and if I didn’t need a fae to fissure out of here, I’d turn on my heel and leave. With the exception of Kyol and a few others, this was how the Court fae treated me. They were usually more considerate than Trev—they never would have brought me here without a cloak—but they were mum when it came to explanations. When I was a teen, I didn’t have the confidence to demand more information from them, then it became a bad habit, doing what they said without knowing the reason why. I’m not putting up with that from the rebels.
“Why does she want me here, Trev?”
“Because I asked for a shadow-reader.” Aren’s voice comes from my left. A tingle runs through me when I see him. He wasn’t on the main street before, but he must have seen Trev and me slip between these buildings. And he must have been outside somewhere because the wind has made his hair even more disheveled than usual. He doesn’t look like a bum or an unkempt tor’um, though. He looks good. I don’t know how he pulls that off. Maybe it’s the armor hugging his torso and his arms and legs, or maybe it’s the way his silver eyes drink me in. Whatever it is, it makes him undeniably attractive.
His gaze drops suddenly, following the path of a chaos luster down my neck, I presume, then he frowns down at the rip in my jeans. My knee is scratched up and sore from stumbling into the parking lot in Nashville, but it hurts less than the bruise on my thigh that I got when Shane hit me with a car. Neither is serious enough to need healing. Aren must realize that, but he closes the distance between us as if I’m two seconds away from dying.
“Sidhe, Trev. She can’t keep warm,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders.
His warm hands. I step closer, breathe in his cedar and cinnamon scent, then shiver when his touch sparks through me. I’m sure he feels the lightning, too, but he’s still glaring at Trev.
“Are you trying to make her sick?”
“I forgot—”
“That she’s human?” Aren cuts him off.
Trev opens his mouth to say something else, but swallows his words when he focuses behind me and Aren.
“Lord Hison,” Trev says instead, with a shallow dip of his head.
Lord Hison, elder of Dice and high noble of Jutur Province, stands only a few feet away. His midnight blue cloak is embroidered with gold leaves. It looks warm and heavy, a sharp contrast to his silver eyes, which are cold and so light they almost look white. That’s the snow reflected in them, I think.
Aren’s tense. He moves back slightly, and I see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He doesn’t want to keep his distance from me, but like Lord Kaeth, we need Hison to vote Lena to the throne. I’ve met the high noble a few times before. He barely tolerates the presence of humans in the Realm. He definitely wouldn’t approve of Aren’s relationship with me.
I make the decision for Aren, taking a long step back. A brief wince appears on his face before the stiffness leaves his posture, and he turns.
“Lord Hison,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to follow.”
Hison is focused on me. Normally, I’d avert my gaze. I don’t this time. I’m in his world trying to end the war that has spilled so much blood these last few years. I’m helping him and his people. He’s going to have to accept that I’m here.
“Be careful with that,” Hison says, his gaze still on me. “Rumor is she seduced Taltrayn. She may try to do the same to you. Atroth should have discarded her years ago.”
The only reason I don’t react is because he doesn’t know I understand Fae, and I want to keep it that way.
“She is bewitching, isn’t she,” Aren says smoothly. “I’d caution you against touching her.” His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it, too.
Hison stiffens.
“The nalkin-shom needs to be inside,” Aren continues, before the high noble decides to take offense at his words. “Humans are susceptible to the elements.”
Fae are susceptible to some extent, too—they can’t use their magic to keep warm indefinitely—but I don’t complain. I’m twice as cold as I was before Aren touched me.
“Send your man for a cloak,” Hison says. “She’ll survive until he returns. We’ll continue on.”
Aren’s eyes narrow just perceptibly, but Hison is already moving.
“I’ll return quickly,” Trev mutters. Then he opens a fissure and disappears.
I’m so cold, I’m numb to the pull of his shadows. I’m not numb, however, to Aren’s next words.
“Lena shouldn’t have sent you.”
All the warm, fuzzy feelings I had when I first saw him vanish. “It’s good to see you again, too.”