“None whatsoever. She is an inconvenience to our court, a passing amusement, nothing more.”
Kian appears suddenly at Ever’s side, his voice ringing loudly as he says, “Oh, I beg to differ. Raff speaks highly of her songs. Apparently, she has a voice to rival the sea witches.”
“How delightful!” Queen Varenus claps and black butterflies burst from between her fingers, swooping around her hair. “What shall your pet sing to entertain our royal guests, Everend? A murder ballad? No, not festive enough. Perhaps a spring song?”
Ever’s eyes dart wildly between the Merit king and his mother. “I doubt she knows any tunes worthy of us. I have been told the cities she comes from play music that needs amplification, machines to even achieve it. How pathetic.”
El Fannon appears intrigued by this notion.
Ever continues, “And when they gather in groups to hear this, it damages their hearing permanently. What foolishness—”
“Oh, that’s not entirely true,” I say, stepping forward. I’m not sure why he’s in a panic, but I hope to push him further into it. “Yes, there is music such as Prince Everend describes. Lots of different types actually, but one of the most popular is rock music. We humans love it.”
Gasps and titters and the words rock music, rock music, rock music echo through the Great Hall.
“My singing teacher is Irish, and he’s taught me many ancient songs. If you like, I would be honored to sing one for you.”
“Lara,” begins Ever, and the queen silences him with a swift finger pressed to her lips.
“Wonderful. Something to make us smile, then,” she suggests. “King El Fannon, Prince Everend, return to your seats and the performance shall commence.”
With graceful movements, El Fannon and Ever take their places. Kian disappears like a phantom.
Now what shall I sing?
A song to soften their hearts—if they’ve got them. What would a faery like to hear?
Something about themselves, no doubt.
The perfect song pops into my mind.
The Fairy Boy—a mother’s tale of longing for her precious child who was stolen away by the fairy king to live forever as the pride of their processions. I’ll add grit and liven it up, draw it out. Flatter the vain, preening courtiers.
Palms trembling against the soft velvet at my thighs, I close my eyes.
A hush descends.
I draw breath.
And I sing.
The pound of my pulse becomes a metronome, keeping beat, holding time.
As always, I become lost in the song, heart soaring along with my voice. The faeries hang on every note. The air itself seems to thrum with joy. Then with a whoosh, suddenly my gown lifts, the hem dancing around my knees. It surprises me into opening my eyes. Who’s doing this?
On the faces of the fae, frowns have widened into grins—well, except for Ever. He’s not smiling. Far from it. Our gazes catch. His mouth is a grim line. Blue fire, not liquid silver, burns in his eyes.
Still I sing, and the Merits inch forward in gilded chairs, their heads nodding along. Then, even more shocking than my dress moving of its own accord, my hair takes flight. It glides around my waist, my chest, a bright halo weaving around my head.
Ever is frozen in place, listening and watching, a horrified expression on his face. He doesn’t move a muscle until the last note melts away. Then his white knuckles loosen over the órga falcon heads carved into the chair’s armrests, and he visibly exhales as though he’s been holding his breath.
A tense silence hovers, and I can’t unlock my gaze from his.
“Bravo,” says Queen Varenus in a brittle, spell-breaking voice as she claps. This time, silver moths explode from between her hands, and the court joins her applause, cheers erupting. “Kian was correct. You do possess a special talent.”
Ever does not clap. Ever doesn’t cheer. Mouth set into a plush sulk, all he does is stare.
As though waking from a trance, the Merit prince stands and bows first to Varenus, then to Ever. “Thus, it is decided,” he crows loudly, metal chinking as he moves. “Despite the flaws you spoke of, Prince Everend, we will be glad to take her off your hands. She will sing to us whenever we grow bored and somber, and at other times teach us of this rock music that requires machines to be heard. With the human’s assistance, we will learn to replicate it.”
Temnen steps forward, takes my hand, and flourishes a kiss upon it.
“No,” says Ever. “We’re not prepared to release her yet.”
“But,” says Temnen, his antennae quivering, “you called her an inconvenience. Surely you would be glad to—”
Lord Stavros stands, a regal vision in red and black. “The prince is correct. We have use of the human at the Samhain feast. Think on what you’re willing to offer for her, and we shall decide then.”
“Ah,” booms El Fannon. “Let us settle her fate on the outcome of a contest. We must ride on the morrow to the sea witches. But, if you agree, Queen Varenus, when we return in two weeks at Samhain, my son will challenge yours. The winner will gain permanent ownership of the human.”
The queen draws back in her shining throne, long silver sleeves sweeping the floor. “I had thought to negotiate treaty terms with you for her ownership.”
“Yes, Mother.” Ever grips her arm. “We can commence talks at the feast.”
Varenus glares at him. “No. We will not bargain or trade. I do so love a battle. Let us decide the girl’s fate with swords. Both princes are highly skilled, and the competition will be the highlight of our Samhain revelry.”
King El Fannon stands and bows low to the queen. “Since you chose the weapons, Your Majesty, let us decide the rules.”
“They will be fair and equal?” she queries, patting Lord Stavros’s hand, clearly unconcerned if the rules are fair or not. Does she care so little for her son and heir?
“Indeed, Your Majesty. They will be as equitable as the night sky.”
These strange words seem to satisfy her because she smiles brightly.
This is a terrible outcome. Singing was stupid. I shouldn’t have given the Merits another reason to think I’d make a nice trinket. I’m an idiot.
I make a quick curtsy, hoping to scurry back to the safety of the kitchens. Even though Elowen’s guards had searched me for poisons and weapons like a common criminal at the beginning of the evening, I’m more comfortable with the servants than I am out here, under the gazes of these blood-thirsty royals.
Raff and the advisers chat amiably. Ever looks fascinated by the contents of his goblet, and the queen picks up a crystal bell, the sound clear and crisp as it chimes and silences all talk.
“Before we dismiss our popular human, we shall play a game.”
“Mother,” says Ever. “You must not—”
“Be quiet.” Her silver eyes gleam as she looks over the members of her court. “Humans can lie. Fae cannot. I will ask questions, and if I guess which of your answers is a lie, then you must admit it. And if I guess the lie correctly, I will grant you a boon. One wish, any wish of your choosing, not including leaving our court, of course.”
“This is not a good game,” the golden-haired prince says, his expression unfathomable.
“Now, Ever, do not be a bore,” the queen scolds before turning to me. “Would you like a boon, child?”