Murmurs arose from the crowd. Garin and Bastion exchanged glances. Kestrel did not take his falcon-like eyes off her, probably delighting in every nervous shudder passing through her body.
“I take the throne in two days’ time. I promise each and every one of you that if I am so fortunate to take my place upon the throne, I will do away with my father’s selfish restrictions. I intend to sit down with willing representatives from each group, and we will draft a set of Accords that protect everyone’s interests—”
The uproar in the room drowned her out, and she stopped, chest heaving. Some of the Fae jeered, infuriated, while others hollered in support.
“You’re out of your bloody mind,” Kestrel snapped, all aloofness suddenly gone. “Humans and the Fair Folk will never fraternize.”
“No, but we can work together to keep tensions neutral. To keep the peace, if a war is not what you wish.”
She knew it would make no easy task; organizing an interspecies meeting might prove a double-edged sword. As if guided by an invisible force, she marched forward and snatched Ophelia’s letter from his hand. Gasps of horror filled the air, but she wouldn’t stop now. She finally knew her path, knew what she needed to do—and not even Kestrel would stand in her way.
“If you believe keeping me hostage is the right thing to do, fine. I’ll rot. I’ll fade away. And then, Sinclair will become king. If there’s one thing worse for the lot of you than a Trécesson monarch, it is a Le Tallec. If that man becomes king, he will tirelessly rain bloodshed and brimstone upon you all.”
This time, silence followed her speech. The air around her was thick, and static energy seemed to flow through her body. As if drawn to it, Garin watched soundlessly, jaw clenched. Gradually, her pulse calmed, and she again shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
She didn’t know what would come next.
Kestrel considered her for a long moment. “I see only one flaw with this picture you’ve painted of Darklings and your kind playing nicely,” he said, then drifted over to her. Then he leaned in close.
His breath tickled her ear, but she dug her heels into the ground and steeled herself to remain still. “You think I don’t know of your petty human affairs? I know you are set to marry the very Le Tallec boy you claim will ruin us!”
Lilac sighed in relief. It was his only complaint, and the solution was so simple. “That’s where you are wrong, Kestrel,” she whispered back. “I’ve let my parents and everyone else believe what they want to, but I’ll never marry him. Not upon my ascension, and certainly not afterward. The throne is mine, and mine alone.”
The head of the Fair Folk took a long, hard look at the princess. From across the room, so did Garin. With her messy chestnut hair peeking at odd angles from her scratchy wool cloak, small chin jutting out in determination in a roomful of Darklings ready to destroy her… all she had was the truth to weasel her way out of this one.
To her amazement, Kestrel blinked first.
“I haven’t a problem in the slightest with bloodshed, princess,” said Kestrel after the long pause. “But I agree with one thing. If the Sinclair boy becomes ruling monarch, it might be more trouble than what it’s worth… For now. You, my fickle princess, are the lesser of two evils. But the cost of war is part of life, especially when born into royalty, no doubt. Your ancestors knew that.” He glowered pointedly at Lilac. “The vampires here know it well too; most of them were cavalry in their former lives, trained as lethal beings long before their Darkling transformations.”
“I understand,” Lilac replied, swallowing hard.
“Which is why I must ask you, before I allow you to depart,” said Kestrel. The words ignited a furious flame of hope in Lilac’s heart, detracting from the ominous edge to the faerie’s voice. “I must ask you. What does that Garin lad mean to you?”
The memory of Garin’s lips, soft but urgent as they molded to hers, burned fresh in her memory, and Lilac wondered if Kestrel could see it, too. Keeping her face straight, she replaced it with the more recent and relevant memory of Garin questioning her involvement with Laurent’s murder, her competency as queen—not to mention how quick he was to cast the blame of her escape on her.
“He’s a Darkling who had the nerve to kidnap me,” she answered decidedly. “He’s nothing at all.”
The impish left Kestrel’s face. He cocked an eyebrow at Garin. “I see.” Then, he whirled back on Lilac. “So, your kiss… That was of free will, then?”
Her clamoring heart nearly stopped. She didn’t dare look at Garin or Bastion, so she instead held Kestrel’s penetrating stare. The crowd stifled their gasps this time, probably fearful of missing her response.
Finally, she spoke. It was a pathetic parry, but it was all she had. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.
Kestrel waved his staff once more; this time, the vines that bound both vampires snapped. They stumbled forward but quickly regained their footing. Garin quickly made his way to Sinclair’s sword next to Bastion, moving with such fluidity he appeared to be floating. With the elegance of a trained swordsman, he retrieved it off the floor and slipped the blade into its sheath while Bastion, already healed from his wounds, gathered himself, staring dumbfoundedly at his brother.
Lilac watched, awestruck, and wondered if Garin had been downplaying this vampiric grace the whole time. Strangely, seeing him handle Sinclair’s blade brought her attention to her own weapon. It had stopped seizing entirely.
“The vampire, for all its human seemings and trappings, remains a monster and will always regard itself as such,” Kestrel begun to explain airily, to no one in particular. “The foolish, often younger blood drinker boasts some control over the agonizing hunger, but the older and wiser understand they are forever powerless pawns of its desires. By nature, vampires are protective of their prey. Dear princess, I advise you to keep this in mind, especially if the end goal for you is surviving your journey to Paimpont and back to the castle. Remember… any unseemly relationship between the two of you will only alienate those you wish to bring to your side.”
“I can assure you that won’t be the case,” Lilac agreed. As much as she wished she could melt into the floor after being lectured by Kestrel, she was also fiercely happy she’d soon see the light of day again.
“Not so fast, queenie. What will you be paying her with?”
“Paying?”
Kestrel nodded. “Invitation doesn’t always guarantee free service.”
“No one loves free shit more than the rich,” Bastion muttered under his breath.
Lilac’s heart sunk. She’d brought a hefty coin purse of gros and livres, but it wasn’t exactly something she’d considered. It was Ophelia who had invited her, after all.
But what if it wasn’t enough?
As if reading her thoughts, the faerie twirled his hand in the air. From a blue puff of smoke, he produced a small black drawstring pouch. “This is for the witch. I’m sure she intended to offer her services from the pure darkness of her pitiless heart. Nevertheless, it is always in good taste to leave an impressive gratuity. I’m sure you know that.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”