7
Emma
I doze off on the fluffy pillows, the song of the night and the rocking of the carriage putting me to sleep despite the danger. Something tells me King Solano’s healing powers may have soothed me into a deep slumber, because I dream about him. His golden eyes and big hands, the way he smiles, and the way he makes my insides do a funny somersault when he touches me.
Plenty of males have tried to make time with me over the years. All of them failed. My mother pushed me into the arms of the local tavern master’s son. “We could have free ale for life, Emma!” She’d pouted for a month after I turned him down. I’m just not the marrying sort, not when I can spend my free time doing as I please. Darning socks is an endless chore, but I managed to live a grand life all the same. Dancing with fireflies, cackling with the dark witches, and warming myself by crackling fires—being single in the night realm suited me just fine.
I yawn and open my eyes, then close them again just as quickly. They sting. I sit up. Why do my eyes sting?
The carriage is still creaking along, the horses around me snuffling in the night. I open my eyes again just a crack. They still sting, but they’re adjusting to … light. Bright, burning light. Not the gentle glow of a fire or the wick of a candle. This is light like I’ve never known. Are we in the Daylands already?
I scoot to the side of the carriage and peer out the window. Using my hand as a shade, I look ahead. We aren’t in the Daylands yet, but the barrier flickers in the distance, and beyond it is a glow. Muted, perhaps, for the Daylanders, but it roars with bright light for me. I wince away from it and close my eyes again.
“You’ll get used to it.” King Solano’s voice comes from the other side of the carriage. “And we have a shadow witch waiting for us in Nightsbane.”
I peek at him. He rides beside me, his golden gaze on me. Nightsbane—the fabled village at the border crossing between night and day. Mother would never let us travel here. The moon is our guide, and we’re taught from a young age to shun the shining sun. It’s not for us. More particularly, it’s dangerous. No hiding in the day, no escape from enemies and no whispering comfort of gloom. Worst of all, it burns.
“A shadow witch?” I’ve known plenty of dark witches, their midnight hair and emerald green eyes a gift of their master, but I’m not sure what he means by ‘shadow witch.’
“She’s a Dayland creature who can pass between the realms with no trouble.”
“How?” I close my eyes again, the glare giving me a headache.
“She casts a shadow over herself. You can’t see it, but she’s always protected from the sun and from the wiles of the nighttime moon.”
“She’s invisible?” I press the heels of my palms against my eyelids and relish the darkness.
“No.” He laughs, and though I can’t see him, I can feel him leaning closer. “The spell is invisible, not the witch.”
“You make no sense.” I wrinkle my nose.
I jump a little when he brushes his hand against mine, then pulls it from my face.
“She’ll do the same for you. Give you a spell and a charm that will allow you to pass into my realm without any negative effects.”
“My eyes burn,” I admit.
“The sun is powerful.” He strokes my palm with his index finger. “But I think you’ll find the day realm to be a beautiful place.”
“Do you find the night realm beautiful?” I peek at him with one eye.
He stares at me, his golden gaze so direct that I feel myself blushing. A smile breaks across his face. “Exceedingly beautiful, to be sure.” He drops a kiss on my palm, lingering there with his soft lips before releasing me and retreating out the window. Straightening on his horse, he speeds his pace and disappears in front of the carriage.
I close my eyes again and sigh as I lean against the pillows. The day king is proving to be more charming than I could have imagined. Why, I bet he’s charmed the underthings right off plenty of changelings, high fae, too. While it wouldn’t be so bad if he did the same to me, I have the strangest itch to fight off his advances, to make him work for it. Maybe it’s because my mother told me to do the opposite. She always did say I was a ‘rebellious little witch.’ But then again, maybe it’s because I get the feeling Solano hasn’t been tested, hasn’t had to fight for what he desires.
From a young age, changelings are warned against standing up to the high fae. We aren’t allowed to fight, because if we do, we don’t survive. I broke that rule once. Just once. And it almost cost me my life. I resent the high fae, but I’ve only known the night realm nobles. King Sigrid gives a free hand to those he favors, even if that hand is violent. Is King Solano the same?
I press my palm to my cheek, my skin still singing from where he stroked it. He’s seducing me, that’s all. I’m just a changeling consort to him. Disposable. Someone to use while he waits for his immortal mate. That’s why they take us, choosing changelings for their harem, because the day king’s mate must be an immortal. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t particularly matter to me, but the high fae use it as an excuse to take changelings. After all, why not dally with the mortals? It’s safe. No risk of bonding, no threat of an unseemly pairing. This consort business is just another way for the high fae to lord over all the other races. The anger I used to have when I was younger—the rage against the vicious high fae—starts to bubble back up to the surface. It was foolish back then and is even more so now, given my circumstances, but it’s there, all the same. Maybe Solano has never had to fight for anything in his life, but I’m not going to give in. I’m a fight he’ll never see coming.
“It’s too bright.” I keep one hand over my eyes as a soldier tells me we’ve arrived in Nightsbane. “I can’t see.”
“Bright?” One of the soldiers laughs. “It’s dim here. I can barely make out the tavern sign.”
“Bright,” I repeat, then open the carriage door.
Reaching out, a hand meets mine, and I know, though I can’t see him, that it’s Solano.
“My lady.” He helps me down.
“I’m no lady.”
“You’re not a noble, but you’re certainly a lady.” He holds onto me and leads me forward, my steps uncertain.
I concentrate on not falling as he helps me up some stairs and into a loud room. The voices fade as we enter, and I risk squinting my eyes open to look around.
It’s a tavern, the wooden walls scarred from years of use, and the tables and chairs in various states of disarray and repair. The room is half-full, and I don’t have to look too closely to see the harlots scattered among the tables, their bosoms on display and the pink on their cheeks brighter than any fairy’s natural coloring. Speaking of fairies, they flit through the air, carrying pitchers, sometimes six fairies lifting at once to get the ale carried to the guests.
My eyes adjust, though they still sting and water, and I realize everyone is staring at us. Even the fairies are paused in mid-flight, their wings humming as they gawk at the sun king.