Viessa’s eyes widened in horror. “Wait. Wait, Collith, I’m sorry. Please don’t—”
Disturbed by the sound of her wails, I yanked out of the memory so hard that I went reeling into a different one, falling backward through rooms and time.
When my mind had adjusted yet again, I was still at the Unseelie Court, but now I stood in the throne room.
The cavernous space was bloated with faeries and silence. It looked different from how I’d left it during my rule, and how it had appeared during Collith’s. Different tapestries, more medieval touches. There also seemed to be dead animals everywhere I looked, in the form of mounts on the walls or placed on platters.
Collith stood at the foot of the dais.
Once I saw him, I had trouble seeing anything else. His hair was shorter, his body thinner. His face still bore that familiar scar, but it looked fresher, somehow. Angry and pink, rather than the faded version I’d come to know. His gaze was fixed on something behind me, and it was a black look I’d never seen him give anyone, not even Laurie.
I frowned and turned around.
When I realized who was in the throne, I felt my jaw slacken and my heartbeat quicken.
This clearly wasn’t one of the memories Collith had wanted me to see, since it had nothing to do with us. I could feel him all around, though, which meant Collith knew what I’d found. Yet he didn’t speak or try to push me out.
Curiosity kept my feet rooted in place, and my attention lingered on the faerie sitting above everyone. I’d never seen Sylvyre before. Not like this, at least—there was a depiction of him within the Mural of Ulesse. But despite the artist’s talent, that painting hadn’t done him justice. I wasn’t sure any artist could.
Sylvyre was an original angel, and I had never been more aware of that fact. Power emanated from him like a heat wave. It surged past me, and it felt like I heard a voice in my ear, telling me to bow. Bow to this great, terrifying being, who had deigned to grace me with his presence.
No wonder they’d given him a throne.
I gritted my teeth and resisted, reminding myself that I wasn’t truly here and I didn’t bow to anyone. Especially not to assholes who murdered their wives.
The Unseelie King—the old Unseelie King, I corrected myself silently—sat in his enormous wooden chair, gripping the armrests with elegant fingers. His clothing looked like a mixture of wool, linen, and animal skins. Most of his body was hidden beneath a tunic and trousers, but here and there, I could see the bulge of honed muscle.
Sylvyre stared down at Collith with eyes of the brightest blue, like the tropical seas I’d only seen in pictures or screens. His skin was smooth and golden. His hair draped over his shoulders in a black, silken curtain. I could see the similarities between father and son, but there was something hard about Sylvyre’s features. As if they’d been hewn from granite. Somehow, I knew that a kiss from those lips would be crushing, rather than caressing.
Why are you thinking about kissing Collith’s father? I grimaced and refocused on the Unseelie Prince, who glared at Sylvyre as if he wasn’t cowed in the slightest. I could feel Collith’s terror, though. He may not have grown up amongst the fae, but that hadn’t stopped him from mastering their ways—his face was cold and withdrawn, just as it had been during my tribunal.
“Undo it,” he said. There was no waver in his voice, either. It echoed through the vast space.
“You do not give me orders, boy,” Sylvyre answered softly, his azure eyes brightening even more. I felt, rather than saw, some in the crowd stiffen. They knew that tone; they knew it meant danger. But then Sylvyre relaxed and waved his hand. Someone nearby let out a relieved sigh. “Even if it were possible, I have no interest in undoing it. Traitors to the crown deserve punishment.”
“My mother was no traitor,” Collith said through his teeth.
Sylvyre leaned forward. “Ah! So you admit it? That it was you who conspired with the Folduins to take my throne?”
“All I have done is fall in love with a Folduin,” Collith countered. “There was no plot.”
Sylvyre made a sound of disdain. “You are either a liar or a fool. The Folduins have plotted against our bloodline for as long as this Court has existed, boy.”
Collith’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted. The torches quivered, as if a gust of air had disturbed them. Whispers erupted in the crowd, and I noticed several figures hurrying toward the exits. “Summon the witch and undo the spell, right now, or I will kill you,” Collith said.
“No, you won’t.” The king’s dismissal was so absolute, so thorough, that he didn’t even bother telling Collith to leave. He turned his head, making a gesture with two fingers, and the Tongue leaned close to say something in Sylvyre’s ear. They carried on a hushed conversation, utterly disregarding Collith, who stayed where he was and tried not to clench his fists like a petulant child.
“I challenge you.”
Once again, every voice in the room went silent. Sylvyre slowly turned his head, and the way he looked at Collith made my stomach quake.
“I will give you one chance. One chance, boy, to tuck your tail between your legs and run. You won’t outrun the shame, but you will live,” the king said.
Collith didn’t move. “For what you’ve done to my mother, Naevys, the Queen of the Unseelie Court, I challenge you. And I will kill you.”
I expected Sylvyre to laugh or smile, as Jassin would have, but he did neither. Collith’s father just peered down with a gleam in his eye and said, “Very well. Tongue, make your preparations.”
Jumping to attention, the Tongue summoned a slave. I could see the whites of his eyes and knew—he was utterly petrified of Sylvyre.
From my own battle with Jassin, I knew that Sylvyre would get to choose the weapon. I genuinely had no idea what to expect from him. Would he select swords? Some kind of magic? Hand-to-hand combat? The entire Court waited in tense silence.
“The weapon of choice, Your Majesty?” the Tongue called, turning from the slave.
Resting his elbow on the armrest, Sylvyre tapped his cheek with his middle finger, the gesture effortlessly fluid. A lock of hair spilled over his shoulder. “I choose… heavenly fire.”
Oh, you’re a twisted prick, I thought. Sylvyre planned to kill his son with the very fire that ran through Collith’s veins.
The Tongue said something else in the human’s ear, and she hurried off through the crowd.
Still ignoring Collith, Sylvyre made a gesture, and yet another slave came forward. A tree nymph, if her shriveled wings were any indication. Unlike the fae, whose wings fell off shortly after birth, tree nymphs retained theirs. Unfortunately, they were strictly ornamental. Extended to their full length, her wings would be golden and covered in black spots. There weren’t many dryads left—their chrysalides were highly sought for their fertility properties, and more often than not, black market sellers took the chrysalis while a nymph was still growing inside it.
The female trembled from head to toe as she removed Sylvyre’s tunic, then his shirt.
Fully clothed, Sylvyre had been intimidating. Half-naked, he was terrifying. His physique looked like it had been formed from clay, but it wasn’t beautiful, as Collith’s was. His body belonged on battlefields and inside fighting rings.