“Marai, life is moving too quickly,” he said, breath coming in staccato bursts. “My brain can’t keep up. I know I used to joke about being a famous bard, having servants wait on me in my large estate. I wanted loud taverns and crowds. But I . . .” His eyes shimmered. “I wish I was back in the woods, listening to the melody of birds in the trees, the crackling of a campfire, and sitting around it with you. Quiet. Alone.”
Marai’s stomach clenched. She understood that feeling all too well.
She walked towards him, but kept a space between, a respectful distance. He was the prince now, after all. “I, more than you, don’t belong here.” She gestured to the room. It was almost laughable that Marai, an ex-pirate mercenary, had been welcomed into this grand space. “But there’s a reason we’re here. The gods, or fate, what have you . . . we’re here because we’re supposed to defeat Rayghast. Because he threatens all we hold dear.”
Ruenen looked down at the floor. Dark circles had bloomed under his eyes. “What if we don’t succeed? What if I’m just . . . a placeholder?”
“Stop that,” Marai said. “You know that’s not true.” She stepped back towards the door. “You need to get some sleep.”
“Please—” Ruenen reached out to her with one desperate hand. “I don’t want to be in that room all by myself. Would you mind terribly if I . . . stayed here?”
They’d slept in the same room once before in Havenfiord, and they’d slept under the stars together more times than Marai could count. So why did this request bring heat to Marai’s cheeks? Why did those words make her body tingle and heart race?
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She didn’t think she could form a reply, so she nodded. Ruenen’s body sagged with relief, and he shucked off his boots. Marai pulled off her tunic, but kept on her undershirt and pants. Ruenen respectfully kept his eyes lowered to the rug, then grabbed a pillow and blanket from the bed and set up on the settee. Marai crawled into bed and watched him fluff up the pillow.
“You’re the prince, Ruen. You shouldn’t sleep on a couch.”
Ruenen gave her a weak smile. “I’m not a prince, and I’m not going to kick you out of your bed. I’m the one who asked to be here.”
“Then sleep with me.”
Ruenen blinked.
The words came out before she’d thought about them. Ruenen waited for her to retract, but when Marai said nothing more he slowly stood and brought the pillow and blanket back to the bed. Marai slid far over under the sheets to the other side as Ruenen slipped in. The bed shifted and sunk. Her whole body went as stiff as a steel blade. She’d never slept next to a man before . . . never once with Slate. He’d never let her stay after he finished . . .
Slowly, the sheets warmed, and Marai’s muscles loosened. She wasn’t sure if Ruenen was breathing. His hand lay on the top of the blankets. She could reach over and take hold of it. He’d probably placed it there in the hopes that she would.
But his familiar presence was enough to soothe her. He smelled of lavender, but also tavern smoke and damp wood. Her mind began to drift off until she heard the recognizable sound of Ruenen’s subtle breathing. She glanced over and saw that the tense planes of his face from earlier had smoothed out; a small smile brimmed on his lips. When she was certain he was fully asleep, Marai softly brushed a strand of chestnut hair from his face, then she curled up next to him and closed her eyes.
She was up at first light, dawn shy on the horizon. Ruenen had stretched out in the night, now sprawled like a starfish across the bed. Marai had woken curled up at his side, fitting against him, a piece to his puzzle. She carefully slithered out of the bed, dressed, and tiptoed across the room to grab her sword and dagger from the table. Once in the hallway, she listened at each door to see if any of the fae were stirring. She was the only one awake.
The castle, however, was alive with a flurry of activity. Servants bustled around cleaning, lighting torches and fireplaces, and carrying baskets full of items. Marai nearly ran into two young pages carrying bundles of wood. The guards remained stationed outside the fae rooms, watching her as she passed.
Marai wove her way through the maze that was the castle halls and stairwells, until she found herself in the back gardens. Or what should have been the gardens.
Currently, it was a bunch of dead bushes and trees surrounded by marble walls. Beds that should have housed blossoming flowers sat empty in dusty spoil. Towering hedges that sheltered the garden were wild with black spots of decay on rust-colored leaves. The pond housed sludge and algae instead of swimming fish.
Four well-dressed noblewomen strolled through the garden. The wives of the Witan. Their serene, elegant countenances changed when they spotted Marai in her harsh black attire and weapons. They gasped, averted their eyes, and hurried away, whispering to each other.
Marai wandered out front to the courtyard, grateful to be outdoors and away from prying eyes. Past the main castle entrance, she turned right, following the smell of horses and hay until she came across the stable. Three young groomsmen brushed the mares’ slick coats, receiving contented whinnies in return. They stopped when they spotted her.
“Can we help you, ma’am?” the tallest asked.
“Exploring,” she replied.
Next to the stable was a large open dirt courtyard. On one side of the square stood a wall of circular targets for archery practice. A few padded wooden posts had been erected on the other. The pads were made from canvas and straw to resemble a figure. Deep gouges and holes had been ripped into the padding. Two benches sat on the farthest end of the square courtyard.
A training ground, most likely built for Vanguarden and Talen, who had both been excellent swordsmen. After the bedraggled garden and confined castle quarters, this place was exactly what she needed. Marai’s steps became lighter. The magic in her veins sparked. She unsheathed Dimtoir and focused her breathing, then she unleashed the pent-up energy she’d been gathering for days.
Marai swung and swiped effortlessly. Dimtoir cut into the wooden posts, sending a jarring sensation through her arms. The wood and padding didn’t mimic the flesh and bone of bodies, but it felt good when her blade connected with something.
She wasn’t a lady, like those refined women from the garden. She was the Lady Butcher. Someone who wore death as a scarf; the only perfume she was accustomed to was the smell of blood. She didn’t belong to this gilded courtier lifestyle. She desired no servants, no silk. Outside in the fresh air, a sword in her hand, cutting down opponents, was where she thrived.
Marai lost track of time; Dimtoir an extension of her body as she fought her imaginary foe. The whistle of her blade was music all its own. Each stroke seamlessly wove into the next; a commanding dance of metal, speed, and precision. Pivot and chop. Lunge and stab. Spin and feint.
It felt like only a few minutes before a deep voice disturbed her.
“You’re quite good with a blade.”
Commander Avilyard, without his helmet, leaned against an archery target. Marai recognized him from his voice since she’d never seen his face before. He approached once Marai halted and held her blade to the side in a relaxed stance. How long had he been watching her?
“I can see now why the prince hired you to protect him.”
Avilyard had tan skin and dark hair like all Middle Kingdomers, but she noticed his eyes were hazel, lighter than Ruenen’s, when he came close enough. He was broad, with gray-speckled stubble across his jaw. Handsome and sturdy for a man in his late forties. Time had been kind to him; the wrinkles around his eyes added to his rugged quality. Those hazel eyes glanced down to Dimtoir.
He said, “I’ve never seen a fae blade before.”
“It was my father’s.”
“May I?” he asked.
Marai hesitated. She never let others touch Dimtoir, but she handed it over, and his face alighted with avid interest as he inspected the blade and the foreign words etched into the steel.
“Not a scratch or rolled edge. Amazing. Do your kind . . . do you imbue your blades with magic?”
Marai blinked. Humans never asked about magic. “To make it stronger. I’ve never seen one forged, but I’ve been told that’s what bladesmiths did. They’re all gone now. The craft is lost forever.”
“That’s a pity.” Avilyard handed Dimtoir back to Marai. “I had an aunt who befriended a faerie. She hid her and the faerie’s child in her house during the hunt twenty years ago. I remember that she and her son were gentle folk. They never used magic to harm anyone.”
