The streets fill with cheers. Small children scamper up to me, bearing baskets of cut flowers that they toss at Myst’s feet so she treads on a carpet of petals. It’s all so overwhelming—and frankly unexpected—that my brow pinches tightly.
Am I supposed to be honored by this?
Too much noise, Myst says as her muscles tense beneath my thighs.
I smooth a hand down her long, arched neck. I know, girl. I know. We both must be brave.
As the Golden Sentinels lead our procession, I catch exclamations of surprise from the crowd. People are entranced by the winged creatures clothing my body like a gown of feathers. Murmurs travel through the crowd ahead of us, but since I don’t have Basten’s keen hearing, I can only overhear broken pieces.
“ . . . wings like an angel . . . ”
“Supposed to have long hair covering her, isn’t she?”
“ . . . the lord’s planning?”
“ . . . no, not the lord’s doing. It’s her. An act of defiance!”
I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back, the twin ravens perched there extending their wings. Lord Rian draped his city in white to welcome me, his chaste bride, and I’ve arrived in dark woodland colors. It gives me a grim sense of satisfaction to think of how this transgression will stoke his ire.
My body is my own, my gown of living wings announces to the crowd. No man will command me.
A pace ahead of me, Basten keeps his head down, ignoring the festivities. It hurts to even look at him. I feel like one of the stained glass windows that hung in the convent’s chapel. Such a window starts as broken glass, but when soldered together with iron, comes out stronger than before. Basten might have smashed my heart, but I will pick up the pieces. I will weld myself back together into something mighty.
The main street veers, and ahead, the brick walls of Duren’s famous arena rise, with vast canvas sheets strung up high to shade the seating. It’s quiet now, the games halted for my welcome procession. We pass through a market with smiling vendors selling bolts of clothing, giant cheese wheels, and roasted nuts out of barrels. To my surprise, Duren is an astonishingly beautiful town. It’s vast and chaotic, a buffet of intriguing sights and sounds. There’s no sign of rubbish or emptied chamber pots in the gutter. I might not have much experience in large towns, but something feels off. Too scrubbed and purged. I don’t just mean that Rian had the streets cleaned for my arrival, but that this whole procession was carefully planned to show me only a portion of Duren. After all, this town is called Sinner’s Haven. There must be whores, beggars, cockfights. Where are all the scrappy orphaned boys pummeling each other for coin in the streets, like Basten?
As we pass an alley, I crane my neck to peer down its length. Shadows mask its contents, but the smell of opium and lurid perfume tells me enough.
Yep. I’m not seeing the real Duren.
It’s all just another trick.
My winged friends stay with me faithfully as the soldiers lead us up a hill to the towering structure on the city’s pinnacle: Sorsha Hall.
The high lord’s castle is an impressive homage to ancient fae architecture. Its gray stone walls rise in turrets topped with polished copper spires that blaze in the sunlight. To the left, a portion of a hedge maze is visible within a walled garden, along with marble statues of all ten Immortals. Upper balconies are draped in luxurious velvet curtains that billow in the breeze. Elaborate bay windows are framed with gilded arches and inlaid with stained glass windows depicting scenes from Immortal Popelin’s life—the patron god of gamblers and revelers. Lanterns from within give the windows an ethereal glow, making the castle look magical. The main doors are adorned with metal accents in the shape of a gold coin, a symbol of both wealth and games, in case anyone were to mistake which family’s house this is.
A fragrant canopy of flowers, woven of intertwined strands of vibrant blossoms, shades a small welcome party waiting for us on the front steps. The men and women are Valvere family members—they must be, given their similar features. They wear sumptuous, revealing fae clothing, with off-center buttons and closures on the men, and immortal braids and pointed gold earpieces on the women. Their makeup is so extravagant that they look almost freakish; harshly winged eyelids in blues and blacks, powdered white faces, bold fey lines traced along their limbs. They whisper among themselves with furrowed eyebrows, glancing pointedly at my rebellious collection of winged creatures.
And then there’s him—Lord Rian.
He looks different than he did a year ago. More lines in his otherwise youthful face, a dark shadow of a beard that wasn’t there before. He stands on the center stair, arms folded in casual patience. The tailored cut of his clothes suggests lithe and well-honed muscles. His beard is tamed into a precise band around his jawline, and his hair is shorter than the current fashion, as though he values the control a tight cut gives him. He’s undeniably handsome, though his features aren’t as elegant as the rest of the Valveres. His features are coarser, heavier. Maybe, in part, he stands out from his family because of his simple attire. A black doublet over a shirt of the same color, with the only nod to fae style a decorative armored plate harnessed to one shoulder. His eyelids are subtly winged with a single line of blue.
Ask anyone, and they’d tell you I’ve stumbled into unbelievable luck to be chosen by him. Handsome, powerful, wealthy. I can only imagine how many women have tried to snag his attention at the infamous Sorsha Hall balls, dreaming of becoming a Valvere bride.
They can have him. Please, I want to scream. They can have it all.
Myst draws to a stop in the front courtyard. Basten hangs off to the side, keeping his distance. This is his home, and yet he looks uncomfortable here. With his bow and hunting boots, he’s a denizen of the forest, not the city streets. Yet he murmurs greetings to a few sentinels standing guard—friends of his, or at least associates.
Rian waits for an extra beat before descending the stairs. It feels calculated. Always calculated. When he steps into the sunlight, I draw myself up to my full height atop Myst, prepared to defy any attempt to intimidate me.
His eyes run from the raven on my shoulder to the moth perched on my toe, and I hold in a breath, ready for this confrontation—
But he turns to Basten instead, ignoring me. “Wolf. Am I fucking glad to see you.” He slings one arm around Basten’s shoulder, pounding on his back in greeting, and then mutters, “Tamarac.”
“Tamarac,” Basten repeats, bowing his head.
I have no idea what the Ancient Tongue word means, but it clearly holds some deep significance between them. I lick my lips, suddenly nervous that I’ve gotten everything wrong. I assumed Basten’s loyalty was a fool’s errand. I didn’t think any master respected a mere servant.
Huh.
The bond I see between the two of them—it’s deeper than I thought. And with their dark hair and hungry eyes, Rian and Basten don’t look altogether dissimilar. Their features don’t match—Rian is far too lithe, and Basten is much too heavyset to share blood—but they have something alike I can’t quite put a name to. Then it hits me: they’re like gemstones cut from the same quarry, only with his wild mane of hair and dirt-streaked face, Basten is a rough-cut stone, raw and flawed and unrefined. Rian is as cut and polished as the gems glistening on his family’s jewelry.