“It would have been a few weeks ago.” My hood is too far forward for me to see him, but I can imagine the amusement in his eyes. That’s just like him, shrugging off the fact that people want to kill him, but I hate that he’s a target. I might be trying to take our relationship slow, but losing him would devastate me.
The avenue curves to the left, and now I have goose bumps for a completely different reason. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve walked up this road, the view at its end is still staggering.
The Silver Palace is more like Neushweinstein Castle than an impenetrable fortress. It’s impractical for defensive purposes, but aesthetically? Aesthetically, it’s freaking beautiful. Six blackwood turrets, all lit by the fae’s magic, rise into the night sky. The palace is built against the base of the Corrist Mountains, so the silver-edged spires in the back reach higher than those in the front. The Sidhe Cabred, the Ancestors’ Garden that only a few privileged fae were allowed to enter under King Atroth’s rule, climbs up the steep cliffs marking the mountains’ southern edge.
We reach the end of the avenue and step onto the huge, tiled promenade in front of the castle’s main gate. The palace has three entrances, but this one is the most impressive. The slate blue stone that makes up its walls is imported from a province in the southeast, so the lighter color stands out dramatically against the deep red-brown of the mountain behind it.
We don’t enter through the carved blackwood gate—it’s gargantuan and takes forever to open and close—we enter through a nondescript door to its left, and I relax a little. The palace is filled with fae loyal to Lena. Only a few watch from their posts in this chamber, but somewhere above us, archers stand guard, ready to kill and raise an alarm if the remnants attempt another attack.
I pull my hood back. As soon as I do, I see two fae heading our way. One is a rebel swordsman whose skin, despite the chilly air, glistens with sweat. The other is the impeccably dressed assistant to Lord Kaeth, the high noble whose home we passed. Their accents are thick and, when they reach us, they both start speaking at once. I can’t decipher what they say. I began learning their language only a little more than a month ago, and while I’m picking it up quickly, I struggle when fae speak too quickly or if I’m distracted by other things.
Aren holds up a hand. “Not now.”
The swordsman swallows his words, then respectfully bows his head before he retreats.
The assistant isn’t as easily dismissed. “Shall I tell Lord Kaeth you’re with the human?”
That, I do understand, but there must be more meaning in the words or the fae’s tone because Aren stiffens.
“You can tell Lord Kaeth I’m with the queen.” His response is way too calm, but the fae doesn’t seem to notice.
“She isn’t the queen,” he says. Then, with a disdainful glance in my direction, he turns on his heel and walks away.
Aren’s eyes don’t leave Lord Kaeth’s assistant, not until he takes my arm to lead me down a side corridor.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he answers.
“Aren.”
He squeezes my hand, keeps walking. “It’s nothing, McKenzie.”
Which means it’s definitely something, and I’m 99.9 percent sure I know what it is. Lena and the rebels might have won control of the palace, but that doesn’t mean everyone in the Realm is suddenly okay with our races being together. King Atroth forbade relationships between humans and fae. That was something that always held Kyol back, but it hasn’t deterred Aren. He and the rebels are much more accepting of humans than the Court fae ever were. The problem is, the rebels don’t make up the majority of the population. Most fae still think humans and human culture damage the Realm’s magic.
Aren looks at me. He must see that I’ve figured it out because he says, “I’m not him. I won’t pretend I don’t have feelings for you.”
Him. Kyol. I spent the last decade pretending I didn’t have feelings for him in front of the Court fae. It was a ridiculously long time to stay in love with a guy who put the Realm and his king’s wishes before me.
I don’t respond to Aren; I just keep pace next to him as we step into the palace’s sculpture garden. It must be late—maybe close to the middle of the night—because only a few fae are gathered here. This is a serene place that reminds me of a movie version of a Roman forum, a beautiful, open space adorned with carved-stone statues and vibrant green plants, where people can meet and talk. Some of the fae watch us with curious expressions as we pass through its center. Their looks say they want us to stop, to answer questions or provide information or gossip, but nobody actually calls out to us.
The huge, gilded doors to the king’s hall are shut. Or is it the queen’s hall now? Lena’s made very few changes these last two weeks. She’s waiting until the high nobles confirm her lineage and approve her taking the throne so that her decrees will be considered official. Nobody knows when—or if—that vote will happen, though.
A guard—one of Lena’s rebels—opens a smaller door that blends into the larger one’s design. I follow Aren in, and we walk side by side down the plush blue carpet. It’s only after Aren curses under his breath that I notice no swordsmen or archers are in here. Just Lena. She’s sitting with her shoulders slumped on the top step of the silver dais at the end of the hall, not on the silver throne that crowns it. It’s a constant battle, trying to get Lena to act like a queen.
She straightens as we approach, but it’s a weak attempt to look strong and alert. Her normally perfect, glowing complexion is marred by the dark circles under her eyes, and her long, blond hair doesn’t seem as silky as usual. She’s wearing a white tunic that fits snug around her slender frame, and something that I can only describe as half of a long skirt is tied around her hips. The lean muscles in her outer left thigh are visible, but her entire right leg is hidden under the skirt’s thick layers of blue and white feathers. Lena’s father, the elder of Zarrak, was the high noble of Adaris, one of the provinces King Atroth dissolved to gain the throne, so she usually dresses like she’s highborn, but this has to be the most ornate and impractical thing I’ve ever seen her wear.
“No one’s in here,” she says defensively.
“That’s the other problem.” Aren stops at the foot of the dais. “There should be. Where are your guards?”
“I sent them to the veligh.” Her expression is stony, as if she’s daring him to question her decision.
Beside me, Aren stiffens. “The remnants?”
“Of course,” she says.
Veligh translates into waterfront. Most of the buildings of the Inner City are to the south and west of the palace. To the east, there are no homes or stores, just a sliver of land before you reach the silver wall. The Imyth Sea is on its other side, and because that part of the wall and palace would be so difficult to penetrate, Lena’s kept only a minimal guard on watch. Apparently, the remnants decided to take advantage of that.
“Their numbers are growing, not shrinking,” Lena says, directing an empty stare at one of the tall, arched windows lining the wall to the left of the throne.
My gut tightens. The remnants haven’t met with much success these last two weeks. Sure, they’ve hurt and killed a good number of us, but we’ve hurt and killed a good number of them, too. They should be losing support, especially since Lena wants to make changes that will benefit the majority of the Realm. She’s promised to do away with Atroth’s unpopularly high gate taxes, and there will be no more special exemptions and favors for the fae who kiss noble ass—my words, not Lena’s. Fae will no longer have to worry about swordsmen invading their homes on hunches, and they will no longer be required to register their magics. I honestly don’t understand why the remnants are willing to kill to keep Lena from the throne.