NEAR AS I can tell, the camp is divided into two groups: those who want to kill me and those who want to use me. I’d like to say a majority is taking my side, but it’s not even split down the middle. Two-thirds of the fae voted with Lena, who seems to be the biggest advocate for my death.
I’m standing on the inn’s front porch with the rebels staring up at me like I’m on some kind of auction block. The sun’s almost gone, and I have to squint to make out the faces in the growing darkness. I know better than to ask them to turn on a light, though. Not only can fae see better than humans in the dark, but I highly suspect they’ve had someone cut off the electricity to the inn. The room Lena shoved me into for twelve hours was stripped bare of everything except a rickety old bed. Not even a lightbulb was left in the single socket in the ceiling. They gutted the house of human technology.
Honestly, I’m surprised they risked transporting me in a vehicle last night. Even if the van was the most basic model, it was a complicated piece of tech, and tech screws with a fae’s powers.
They call what they do amajur. I call it magic. Almost all fae are able to manipulate the atmosphere—that’s how they create fissures between our worlds. Others can create illusions, animate small, nonliving objects, suppress sound, control the elements . . . Everyday things we do on Earth with our technologies, they do in the Realm with their magic. The thing is, because of human influence, some of those magics have become extinct. Fae are no longer able to build gates or glimpse the future. Other magics like healing and empathy are endangered. That’s part of the reason why the Court is at war with the rebels. Aren and his people ignore the laws against bringing human artifacts and culture into the Realm. King Atroth has to take action to protect the fae’s magic.
I refocus on the lynching party. Oddly, I’m more annoyed than afraid. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s foolishness. Or maybe it’s Aren. He’s sitting on a wooden bench a few paces to my right with his boots propped on top of the porch rail. He’s on the “use me” side of the debate, and though he hasn’t said a word in my defense—he hasn’t said anything since this trial began—I figure his vote has to weigh more than the others’. I hope it does, at least.
Lena says something in their language and the fae go quiet. Seconds tick by. As the silence stretches, my discomfort grows.
“It’s decided, then,” Lena says in English, laying a silver-eyed glare on me.
My heart slams against my chest. Tension gathers in my shoulders and my leg muscles tighten, ready to run, but nobody moves. I think that’s a good sign. A majority may have voted to kill me, but maybe no one wants to do the deed.
The scowl on Lena’s pretty face deepens. She unsheathes a dagger from the leather scabbard at her hip, climbs the porch steps, and holds the weapon out toward Aren. “It needs to be done.”
She doesn’t have the guts to do it herself. I think she’s a coward for that, but I’m also relieved. Maybe these people do have some type of moral compass. I imagine it’s a hell of a lot harder killing someone in cold blood than killing them in the middle of a fight; not to mention it’s wrong. The Court wouldn’t do this.
Aren doesn’t look like he’s going to accept the dagger. He’s still lounged back on the bench, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes locked on me. I return his stare while I wait with the rest of the fae for his decision.
He takes his boots off the rail, leans forward. My heart drops when his gaze shifts to the weapon in Lena’s hand.
No. Surely this is a ploy. He isn’t going to kill me. He needs me. He’s just trying to scare me into cooperating. Right? Right?
When he takes the dagger, I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking.
“Sure you don’t want to read the shadows for us?” Aren asks. None of his usual mirth is in his voice. He’s completely serious. He’s going to kill me if I don’t do what he wants.
“Trade me,” I blurt out.
He cocks his head to the side and his eyes leave mine to travel slowly down to my feet and then slowly back up. The tiniest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“How much do you think you’re worth, nalkin-shom?”
“She’s stalling,” Lena interjects before I can answer. “We can’t let the Court have her back.”
Damn right, I’m stalling. She would be, too, if she were surrounded by people who wanted to slit her throat.
“Maybe we can get Roop and Kexin back,” Trev speaks up to my left.
“Or maybe Mrinn,” another says. Others chime in with more suggestions. There’s no doubt I’m valuable—few humans have the Sight; fewer still have the ability to read the shadows—so maybe this will work. I let out a pent-up breath and imagine my chance of survival cranking up to 30 . . . 40 . . . hell, maybe even 50 percent.
Lena looks at the fae gathered on the lawn. “We don’t know if any of them are alive.”
“The Court doesn’t know she’s alive,” someone says. It’s a good point, and I think about recommending they take a picture of me to send to the king, maybe with me holding the Frankfurter Times or whatever the hell the local paper is called.
I snort. Like they have a camera here. Even if they did, no one would dare touch it.
Aren leans forward, rests his forearms on his knees, and clasps the hilt of the dagger between his hands. The world’s waiting on his decision. Again. Must be nice to have that much influence.
His face is expressionless when he stands. I feel cold and detached, like I’m someone else watching the end of my life play out. I’m half a second away from a desperate, destined-to-fail escape attempt when Aren says, “Care to make a wager?”
I blink, then frown. “Wager?”
He hands the dagger back to Lena. “Yes. A wager.”
Okay. I’ll play this game. For now. “Depends on what you’re bidding.”
His smile is full of mischief. “There’s only one thing you’re interested in, nalkin-shom. I’m willing to offer it.”
I pause, consider a snarky response, decide against it. “You’re offering me my freedom?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans a shoulder against the porch column. “If you can map one of my fae to within a hundred feet, yes.”
A hundred feet. Shit. That’s accurate. I’ve done it before—twice, in fact—but I’m pretty sure luck played a role in both of those readings. My luck has sucked these last twenty-four hours. I doubt I’ve had a sudden change in fortune.
“What do you want if I can’t do it?” I ask, though I know what his answer will be.
“You’ll shadow-read for me,” he says. He’s in all-out mirthmode now, and it’s getting under my skin. Even though he knows my reputation, he’s certain I can’t do it. For good reason, too. The best shadow-readers usually map their targets to within three, four hundred feet. I routinely do it in half of that. That’s why I’m an asset to the Court. When a fae fissures to the location I mark, he’s almost always within arrow-range of his target.
Lena steps forward. When Aren doesn’t look at her, she touches his elbow. “Even if she’s half as good as the rumors suggest, we can’t trust her.”
That’s true. I don’t know why he’s willing to make this bet. Does he think I’m less likely to send him into an ambush this way? Like if I lose a wager, fair and square, I’ll willingly work for them, and not pull any tricks?
It doesn’t matter. If there’s a chance to earn my freedom, I have to take it.
“If I lose, I’ll read one fissure.”
Aren’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You’ll read as many as I need.”
“Two,” I offer.
“All of them until I’m satisfied, McKenzie.”
I fold my arms. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m back to offering one.”
His perma-smirk doesn’t waver. “I’m offering you your freedom.”
“You’re asking me to hurt the Court.”
“They’re not your people.”
No, but some of them I consider friends. I don’t have many of those. If I’m counting only humans, there’s just Paige. She overlooks my odd behavior and frequent, unannounced absences. She’s like a sister to me, and since I cut ties with my mom and dad, she’s the only family I have.
Kyol’s not family. He’s something else entirely.
I ignore the ache in my chest and straighten my shoulders. There’s only one solution here: I won’t let myself lose the wager. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Aren turns his silver gaze on the gathering of fae who’ve been watching our exchange, and then he trots down the steps. He pulls Trev a few paces away and whispers something—a location, I presume—into his ear. They’re standing by an old, wooden picnic table that sits on a bed of white rocks. My attention locks on to something resting on the end of one of its benches. My backpack.
I’m not sure if I’m allowed off the porch, but the closer I am to Trev when he fissures out, the more details I’ll be able to see in the shadows, so I take a chance and walk down the three steps. Plus, my backpack is right there, just a few more feet away. My cell phone is in its inside pocket. My wallet. My collection of anchor-stones.
None of the fae stops me as I walk forward, but hands move toward sword hilts. Worry is etched on some of their faces. Aren and Lena might not think I can pinpoint Trev’s location, but many of the others aren’t sure. A quiet murmur passes through them. I overhear nalkin-shom muttered more than once. They say the word like I’m some kind of monster.
“Ready?” Aren asks. Two more steps and I’ll be standing over my backpack. I want to fish out my phone, turn on its GPS, and call for help, but I stop short. There’s no way the fae are going to stand there and let me dig through my bag. There’s no way I can grab it and run. Attempting it might get me killed.
I plant my feet in front of Aren and nod. “I’m ready.”
Trev rips open a fissure. The slash of white light makes me squint, but it’s only there a few seconds. As soon as Trev enters it, he becomes lost in the brightness. It winks out of existence a moment later, leaving only its afterimage behind. I blink until that image blurs and shimmers, darkens and twists. Shadows creep in from the edges of my vision. They start out as large, elusive outlines. Continents. A continent. I blink again and the shadows shift, shrink, then narrow to a bony spine. A mountain range. East Coast, I think. Yes. Definitely East Coast. Trev’s traveled to a region of the Realm known as Mashikar.
“Give me pen and paper,” I say.
“We don’t have any,” is Aren’s languid response.
I scowl, but don’t look away from the shadows. When I read for the Court, Kyol always has a fae carry what I need. I know there’s paper around here somewhere, but Aren’s being difficult, stalling, because the shadows will stay in my memory for only so long.
“I have a notebook in my backpack.”
“Oh,” Aren responds. “We cleaned out your bag. Got rid of your tech and things.”
This time, I do glance at Aren. He smiles, and Lena laughs behind him. I clench my teeth, close the distance to my backpack, and lift its flap. Two big, bright blue eyes stare back at me. A kimki. It’s sort of a cross between a ferret and a cat with a long, supile body and mouselike ears. When the moon’s light touches its curled front paws, it crinkles its nose and a ruffle runs through its silver-tipped fur.
Aren lowers his hand to the bag, palm up. The kimki stares at me a few seconds more before it scurries up Aren’s arm and perches across his shoulders. Another ruffle runs through its sleek fur and the silver fades until the animal is snow-white.
Aren reaches up to scratch behind its ears. “His name’s Sosch. Kimkis flush silver when they’re near gates or other things they’re attracted to, so he must really like you. He curled up in your backpack the moment he caught your scent in it.”
Sosch blinks innocently at me.
I glare at Aren. “I . . . You . . .” The bastard’s tricked me. This is why he was willing to make a bet. He set me up to fail, and now he looks so . . . so entertained by my reaction.
No. No way. I am not losing like this.
I reach down to the bed of rocks beneath the picnic table and pick up the largest one I can find. It’s sharp on one end, and as I straighten, it takes all my self-control not to chuck it at Aren’s head. I don’t have time for that. My memory of the shadows is fading fast.
I face the two fae sitting on the table. “Move.”
They glance at the rock in my hand, at each other, then back at me. I’m about to shove them both off the table when they scoot off its edge and stand out of the way. I fist my rock pointy-side down in my right hand and begin to carve the shadows. The wood is old and damp with humidity. It gives way to my makeshift knife. I sketch quickly, seeing the shimmers and shifts of the shadows in my mind’s eye. I draw the curve of a river down the craggy side of a mountain. A village lines its west bank, but that’s not where Trev fissured to. He’s somewhere in the farmland on the opposite bank.
My map’s scale changes when I narrow his location down to a smaller area. I focus in on that, trying to remember distinguishing features in the shadows. There was an orchard, I think. Right there.
I mark the spot, but I have no clue if Trev is in the orchard or in the farmhouse half a mile away. Where is he? Where?
The shadows tell me nothing, and a moment later, they vanish from my memory. Shit. In frustration, I stab my rock into the orchard.
Wait. I focus on my map.
A rock in the orchard.
Yes.
I pick up my rock to scratch an X near the edge of the orchard.
“He’s there.” I point. “Near Carbada.”
As soon as I voice the name of the city, Aren’s grin vanishes. I don’t know which of us is more surprised. He’s visibly stunned, but I’m downright astounded because I know the location that magically locked into Aren’s mind isn’t just within a hundred feet of Trev’s location; it’s practically underneath his boots.
Holy crap, I’m good.
I push away from the picnic table, and with an unwavering gaze and a little attitude, I tell Aren, “That’s what I’m worth.”
He sets Sosch on the ground. The whole camp must be shocked, because nobody says a word, not even Lena, who’s still staring at my scratched-out map.
“Have a nice life,” I say, and then I turn on my heel and head for the narrow trail that brought me here. I keep my spine straight, my chin up, but I’m half expecting a dagger to be thrown at my back. I listen for the sound of metal sliding free of a sheath, but hear only the wind, the chirping of crickets, and the shuffling of feet. I’m almost to the tree line when Aren finally speaks.
“Stop her.”
I wince but continue walking until a fae cuts off my path. He reaches for my arm, but stops just short of touching me. I can’t outrun him. I can’t fight him. With a sigh, I return to Aren.
I meet his eyes. “Glad to know you’re a man of your word.”
“I said I’d give you your freedom and I will. Eventually.” He pauses to pass his silver-eyed gaze over me as if he can’t quite figure me out. I don’t like the scrutiny, especially not when something in my chest tightens in response. “But I can’t let you go right now. Especially not after seeing what you can do. You’re amazing.” A small smile finds its way back to his mouth. “I’m sorry, McKenzie, but you’re going to have to stay with us until this war ends.”
“The war’s never going to end.”
He shrugs. “I guess you’re going to be here awhile, then.” His gaze shifts to the fae beside me. “Take her up to her room, then find Sethan. We need to talk.”
Aren takes one last look at the map scrawled into the picnic table and shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it.
“Aren,” I call when he starts to walk away. I don’t want to say another word to him, don’t want to look into his silver eyes a moment longer, but I have to know.
He turns.
“The king’s sword-master,” I say past the lump in my throat. “He’ll kill you for taking me.”
If Kyol’s dead, I have no doubt Aren will boast about it. I hold my breath and my heart shatters and mends a thousand times while I wait for his response. I’m too terrified to hope, too desperate not to. Finally, after what seems like millennia, Aren dips his head in acknowledgment.
“It will be an interesting fight.”