He turns, cocking his head.
I pause.
It isn’t just the pounding of my heartbeat—drums echo through the forest, slowly growing louder. A shiver of silence sweeps through the trees, revelry dying like someone snuffing a candle flame.
The Unseelie queens have arrived.
Two of the three Unseelie queens stood on the other side of the battlefields during the Wars of Light and Shadow over five hundred years ago. Though the Seelie Alliance overthrew the Old Ones, turning the tide of the battle, the Unseelie queens yielded but never completely bowed their heads.
The only option was a tenuous peace.
Every thirteen years, the Unseelie Queens ride south to the Queensmoot to renew the treaty between the north and the south.
And every thirteen years, the fractured Seelie courts meet to pledge themselves to the accords.
If I have to be the price of this peace, then so be it.
“We will finish this discussion later,” the prince tells me, one hand resting on his sword as he strides through the curtain of vines.
I follow him, cursing under my breath.
The Unseelie queens bring with them the creeping chill of a breathless body. Torches flicker and then gutter out as an unearthly gloom creeps over the gathering. The fae of my mother’s court shift uneasily.
And then the Unseelie clear the trees, and the drums cut off so abruptly, a shiver runs over my skin.
Angharad the Black rides at the head of the Unseelie column, astride a lich-horse woven of old bones and moss. Its foul breath steams the night air, and clumps of dull, matted hair cling to its fetlocks still. She wears black silk from head to toe and a crown carved of pure obsidian that swallows the light.
At her side ride Blaedwyn the Merciless and the Black Crow, Morwenna of Isenbold.
Blaedwyn’s black hair tumbles down her back, with some of it woven into a pair of horns atop her head. She wears hunting leathers, and the enormous Sword of Mourning is strapped to her spine. Her white teeth flash in a smile as she beholds us, and I remember what they say about her. She lives for the rush of battle and the swing of the sword. This treaty will barely hold her in check, and she no doubt sees us as an impediment or a challenge.
Morwenna looks like the ancient Hag she is.
Her white, brittle hair flows over her shoulders, though her spine is straight and she holds the reins with a firm grip. Finger bones hang around her neck in a malevolent necklace woven to counteract curses. Centuries old during the wars, she’s rapidly approaching her twilight, though it doesn’t make her any less dangerous. She’s the ultimate witch queen, her life bound to serve the Horned One, who is locked away in one of the prison worlds. If she saw even the slightest chance to release him, she’d take it, and damn the world thrice over.
“That old bitch is still alive,” my mother says in some disgust.
“Seemingly,” Andraste counters. “Perhaps she crawled out of the grave for the accords?”
I say nothing.
The Unseelie horde capers along behind them. Unseelie fae with black bat wings and horns that hint at their impure heritage; leering hobgoblins covered in warts; pale-faced Sorrows with black hair and long claws; trolls and redcaps and beastlike, twisted banes. They’re all ugly, vicious creatures who live for blood and flesh.
Some say that millennia ago, the Seelie and Unseelie were one people, but I can’t see any resemblance in the capering, howling mob.
The queens finally arrive on the mound. A tall, impossibly gaunt fae male slams his staff against the stone at his feet, and silence echoes as the Unseelie’s howls and screams cut off all at once.
“Angharad brought her favorite pet sorcerer,” murmurs a masculine voice at my side.
Someone’s determined to haunt me tonight.
I glance at the prince. “That’s Isem?”
“Fresh out of the grave by the look of him.”
“Let us treat,” says Angharad, smiling a devil’s smile.
“There have been incursions into Unseelie lands,” Angharad says, wasting no time as she settles onto the thronelike seat that is set out for her. “Fae warbands that ride with goblin warriors in their ranks. Many of our border villages have been burned, their occupants slaughtered.”
“The goblins rule their own clans,” the Prince of Evernight interrupts smoothly. “We hold no treaties with their people. We do not ride at their side.”
“Do you call me a liar, Prince?” the Unseelie Queen snarls.
He spreads his hands. “I only claim that the Seelie Alliance holds no bargains with the goblins. Whoever is raiding your villages does not belong to us.”
“Truth,” rasps Isem, his milky white eyes staring at nothing. “Or the truth as the prince believes it.”
Isem is a truth-seeker and was born with the gift.
It’s still creepy.
And a reminder that lying in this moment might be a precursor to war.
“The goblin clans wouldn’t dare strike us of their own accord,” Angharad bites out, her clawed hands curving over the arms of her throne.
My stepbrother, Edain, lounges by Mother’s feet, rolling grapes between his beringed fingers. Ever since his father died in a hunting accident, he’s been serving Mother in bed, though some say the timelines overlap. “The goblin clans remain leaderless with the loss of their king. Without him holding their reins, who is to say some clan does not ride at its own whim? They’re violent, greedy creatures, after all.”
Angharad cuts him a furious glance.
“The boy speaks truth,” says Lucidia, the Queen of Ravenal. She’s ancient and has proven counterfoil to my mother many times over the years. “King Rangmar held his goblins together. None dared step outside his edicts, but he is gone, and the Unbroken Crown is without a head to sit upon as the goblins squabble. Perhaps some clan decided to seek its own fate outside the mountains.”
The other Seelie queen, Queen Maren, lifts a goblet to her lips. “Perhaps you should strengthen your borders, Angharad. If the goblins are riding, then I intend to.”
Angharad seethes, but she has no option to explore. The Seelie Alliance has swiftly shut her down.
They move on to other topics.
Edain settles in beside me, brushing my hair off my shoulder. We aren’t friends, and in other circumstances, I’d punch him in the balls, but he’s also aware of that. Pasting a smile on my lips, I lean in to him.
“Interesting,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “Angharad’s grasping for reasons to fight. It wouldn’t surprise me if these ‘goblin incursions’ ride at her directive.”
The goblin clans are more likely to ally themselves with the Unseelie, after all, and I cannot say I blame them.
“You think she intends upon a war.”
“She’s been hungering for one for centuries.”
I glance down at my hands. The Seelie Alliance is ill-equipped for war at this moment. Though they present themselves as a united front, they’re anything but.
Queen Maren and my mother plot together, but Lucidia is a prickle in their socks, and the two princes would rather slit their own throats than stand beside my mother as allies.
The more I discover, the more I realize I need to uphold my mother’s treaty with the Prince of Evernight. The entirety of Seelie might depend upon it.