After the first night of his return, I try to gift my tithe to him in the dining room so he has no reason to enter my bedchamber. A faint brush of my lips to his and then a hasty retreat as I try to avoid the mocking glint in his eyes.
The prince knows exactly what I’m doing, but he allows it.
Which only makes me feel even more like I’m being slowly driven into a trap by the hunter.
Days turn into weeks. Then the weeks glide by. Each day feels like a storm is brewing, though he’s often absent. I know the prince wants something from me, but what?
Beyond the obvious.
I’m growing heartily sick of the ever-present twilight. The sun bares its shy face for an hour or two each day, and I spend every moment of its presence basking in its glow atop the tallest tower.
Indeed, I’m dueling with my own shadow one morning when the storm finally breaks.
There’s a clatter in the courtyard below, and the enormous iron gates lift by means of a complicated pulley system. Lowering my sword and wiping sweaty hair out of my eyes, I kneel against the stone wall of the turret and watch as the prince rides out.
He’s invited me to ride with him each morning, but so far, I’ve declined. He’s also invited me to spar every day, and though a part of me wants to test my skills against his, I dare not.
Restlessness itches along my arms. Maybe this is his plan. Drive me crazy by means of self-imposed exile and boredom. The wind calls my name, and my fingers yearn for a bow. I know he comes and goes—most likely seeing to the business of his kingdom via the Hallow—but apart from the demi-fey, I’m alone. Eris certainly avoids me, and I’m not that desperate for company, though the endless silence in these halls is making me question just how far I’ll go.
A single hunt by his side.
One ride.
What would be the harm?
The prince’s knowing smile comes to mind. That. That’s exactly the danger. Because he’s just intriguing enough to make me want to know more.
He cuts a lonely figure as he canters across the drawbridge. Every morning I’ve watched him head south into the forests there, where he returns with game. But this time he doesn’t turn south. This time he heads north, and he’s moving fast.
Odd.
The sun is inching back below the horizon. It’s the worst time of day to be riding so fast, but there’s a sense of urgency about him this morning.
And he’s heading north. North toward the wyldwoods. North toward the crumbling wall that once guarded the realms of Seelie from the Unseelie. North toward the border.
Something is afoot.
Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s too many days spent cooped up in this icy, echoing palace, where even the servants seem invisible, but it takes me precisely three seconds before I’m moving toward the stairs.
It’s not as though I’m stealing a horse from his stables. He did invite me to ride with him, after all.
There are only four horses available, and while three of them are big, rangy brutes that look like they could run all day and not flag, it’s the smaller, daintier mare at the end that catches my eye.
“Here, girl,” I whisper, holding out my hand for her to sniff my fingers.
She whickers approvingly and butts her head into my shoulder, almost knocking me over. I guess we’re friends now.
“Good girl,” I say, returning with her saddle. “Want to feel the wind in your face?”
She’s surprisingly easy to bridle, and while I’d prefer to get to know her a little better before I mount, I’m aware that every ticking second leads me closer to discovery. Swinging into the saddle, I urge her into the main courtyard.
“What are you doing?” someone calls behind me.
Caught.
I wheel the mare, glancing up. Eris pauses at the top of the palace wall, a hand on her sword. She arches a brow, as if to say get your ass back here.
Too bad I’m a rebellious princess who’s spent too long in her icy cage. I shrug, a smile warming me all the way through, and then I wheel the mare and give her her head. The swift clatter of her hooves over the drawbridge is echoed by Eris’s startled, “Hey!”
The wind whips past me, and snow flies beneath the mare’s heels. It feels as though she shares my eagerness. She’s utterly glorious, and for a second I forget the mission in the face of this glimpse of freedom.
Then the sight of hoofprints catch my eye. With the freshly laid snow, it’s ridiculously easy to follow the prince.
And he’s up to something, I know it in my bones.
Easing the white mare back into a canter, I swiftly follow the trail painted across the snow.
Eris is going to kill me if she catches me.
The thought is somewhat a cheerful one.
An ancient road heads directly into the craggy old forest ahead of me. It’s not like the forests of my mother’s lands. This one is old, and as I follow Thiago into the trees, I can feel the heavy, watchful sensation of it all around me. Old forests always seem somewhat alive, but this one has weight to it. Every so often I catch a glimpse of runes carved into the mossy flank of a tree, and piles of ancient stones mark the path.
The Old Ones walked this forest.
I can sense their power lingering in the earth, and the hum of a ley line vibrates through the air. I’ve always been able to sense the ley lines, but this one almost seems to whisper directly to me, as seductive as the prince himself.
The mare eases into a walk, her ears flickering nervously, as if she senses my sudden wariness.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea?
My sword’s at my side, and my mother’s iron dagger is sheathed at my hip, but there could be anything lurking beneath these trees.
I’m almost ready to turn back when I come across the prince’s stallion, tied to a tree.
He’s here.
I leave the mare in a clearing a hundred yards away and slip along on foot. Whatever he’s up to bodes no good for my people. My mother’s always suspected he has ties to the Unseelie and that he’s working to thwart the alliance. If I can deliver proof to her, then…
…then maybe she’ll forgive me for not using the dagger in my boot.
Maybe she won’t demand murder from me.
Ahead of me, Prince Thiago paces a snowy knoll, rubbing his leather-clad knuckles. If the sun was acting normally, I swear he’d be looking up, trying to gauge the time.
Someone’s late.
But who?
I slip through the trees, inching over the snow as I try to find a closer vantage point. I’m almost to a thicket when a tingle runs down my spine. Freezing, I crouch behind a tree just as the bushes ahead of me part and a rider appears.
The horse is enormous, with a coat the color of midnight and an evil look in its eyes. Steam fogs the air as it snorts, and its hooves barely make a sound.
“You’re late,” Thiago growls, loud enough for the wind to carry it to my ears.
“Blame your own guards. They’re particularly thick along the border at the moment,” the stranger replies, swinging down from his mount.
His dark hair falls to his shoulders, and from behind, they’re the same size, the same height. That’s where the similarities end, though. The stranger wears beads and feathers plaited into his hair, and his long silvery cloak is made from what looks like wolf-kin.
Unseelie. He has to be Unseelie if he speaks of passing the borders.