I glance down. I suppose I do stand out, my skin parchment white and my hair a deep red. It couldn’t be more obvious that I’m a nightling, especially when compared to the tan farmers and the glowing king. I’m a silver coin in a bucket of gold; shiny, but out of place.
Helping me into the carriage, he follows and closes the door, then sits heavily on the bench, sending the pillows scattering. With a gentle pull, he sits me in his lap.
“This is forward.” I don’t know what else to say, mainly because I want his touch after the horror I just witnessed. Those poor farmers, and I can’t even think about the children.
“Shh.” He wipes a tear as it rolls down my cheek.
I didn’t realize I was still crying. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who should be sad. Those farmers—” I gesture out of the carriage. “They knew them. The parents and the—” My throat closes up, and I swallow hard.
He pulls me to his chest, and his arms go around me.
Why does this feel so good? And why does he care enough to comfort me? After all, I’m just a toy for him to use and toss aside. That’s why I’m here. I let myself relax against him.
“Why are you doing this?” I close my eyes and breathe in his clean, summer scent.
He radiates strength and heat. “It soothes me as much as you.” His voice is low, conciliatory.
“Oh.” I smile a little at that, mostly at his honesty.
“And you looked like you might faint,” he adds.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’ve seen plenty of things in the night realm. It’s just that there were …”
“Children.” He presses his lips to my hair. “I know.”
“You really don’t know what’s happening?”
“No.” His thumb moves in little circles at my waist and sends goosebumps racing across my body. “If I knew, I’d flay the perpetrators alive and only burn them to ash once I’d elicited every scrap of suffering they can offer.”
I shudder. The power he wields—he could do just what he says.
“But you have no need to fear.” He gently sets me beside him and opens the carriage door. “Stay inside. We’ll be moving again shortly.” With that, he jumps to the ground and closes the door.
I lean back and close my eyes, but I see those small, burned bodies in my mind. So I open my eyes again and let my thoughts drift back to Solano. He’d comforted me—and perhaps himself—but he didn’t have to. He could’ve ordered one of his soldiers to put me back in the carriage.
Does it mean anything? Probably not. Using me for comfort is, after all, what the sun king chose me for.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and squeak when the carriage begins to roll again. Fields of yellow grain and green vegetables roll by as we follow the road through the valley. It takes hours, though I can’t tell much about time from the sun. It travels through the sky, but not in a line. Like the moon, it’s mischievous.
We rattle along, some more farms passing by, the farmers standing outside and eyeing us with nothing short of apprehension. I thought royal processions were supposed to be met with cheers and adoration—at least that’s what Mama said about the night king’s processions. Then again, King Sigrid is the sort who would arrange a few executions if the cheers and adulation weren’t to his liking.
The colors here are still almost too much to bear, and I’d give just about anything to be able to draw what I’m seeing. But where would I even find colors this rich? Maybe I could make them myself. I’d happily spend days or months chasing down the brightest plants and using them to create pigments. But, as Solano keeps pointing out with his too-familiar touches, I’m not here for my artistic talents.
I keep looking though, keep soaking up this new palette of colors and scents and sounds, because one day when I’m old and wrinkly and sitting by a warm fire in the night realm, I want to paint every bit of it.
10
Solano
We stop for a quick meal once we crest the ridge that leads us out of the southern farmlands. A pall has fallen over me, and perhaps over my soldiers, at what we found there. My contingent of scouts arrived back with no word on finding the culprits. As the farmers said, the attacks come without warning, and no one has ever gotten a look at the attackers and survived. Worse than that, two children are missing, likely taken. But where?
“You’re certain they scoured the Nightlands border?” I pace beside the small fire where our cook warms a cauldron full of venison stew.
“Yes, my lord.” Brock waves over the captain.
“Lelwynd, tell the king what you saw.”
Lelwynd bows low, then straightens. “There was no trail, no hint of anything in the grass or along the road. We followed the border from the Nightsbane crossing eastward for many miles but found nothing.” He shakes his head. “I’d guess wyverns, but there were no landing marks, no scratches or tears on the ground.”
“The fire wasn’t from a wyvern.” I shake my head. My magic knows fire, can recognize different sorts. The flames that destroyed that farm weren’t born of magic, just a simple strike of flint in some dry tinder. “Something else is at work here. Something worse.” I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about these attacks that causes my magic to fray and tear at the ends.
“I’m starving.” Emma hops down from the carriage, and though she still has a strained look about her, she’s trying to bounce back. “What’s cooking?” She elbows up to the cook and peers into the cauldron.
“Venison stew.” The lesser fae with a rattish face sniffs his creation. “Needs more green terrata.”
“What’s that?” She puts her hands on her hips.
The cook gives her an irritated look. “You don’t know what green terrata is? Typical nightling garba—”
I’m on him before he can finish his word. “Apologize.”
He begins to shake immediately, and I realize I’ve got him by the tunic and have lifted him off his feet. “I’m s-sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Emma pats my arm, her luminous green eyes wide. “I’ve been called worse. Lots of times by my own mother.” She tries to smile.
“Don’t speak to her like that again. Do you understand?” I shake him, which only adds to his quaking fear.
“Y-yes, my lord.”
I shake him once more, then set him on his feet.
“Emma, come with me.” I take her elbow and lead her from the fire.
“You didn’t have to do that.” She walks by my side and into an orchard lined with peach trees in perfect rows.
“No, but …” I don’t finish the thought. Why did I do that? I’m not known as a violent sort, not compared to many in my court. Charen, for example—he’s a veritable ball of fury at all times. And Tristano? His anger is fast, almost quicker than his too-sharp wit. But I’m usually the level-headed one. Perhaps the events at the farm are weighing more heavily than I’d like to admit.
“But?” she questions.
I don’t recall what I’d been saying, so I switch tactics. “Would you like one?” I grab a ripe peach from the nearest branch, the green leaves tickling my wrist as I pull it free.