Page 15 of Promise of Darkness
I don’t even know why I followed him.
Except for the lingering desire to take a stand and ensure he doesn’t think me a prisoner at his mercy.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“I thought we ought to get to know each other. We’re about to spend a significant amount of time together.”
“Oh?” I tilt my chin a little arrogantly. “In what way?”
If you intend that statement to mean in your bed, then I will promise you an eternity of ruin.
He reads me accurately. “You have nothing to fear from me, Princess. I don’t take what isn’t freely given.”
My heart starts racing. I turn away, kicking cushions out of the way as I pace the small space. The dagger seems heavy at my side. “Good. For I will never be freely given."
The prince’s lashes half obscure his eyes. “The next three months will be—”
He turns, cocking his head.
I pause.
It isn’t just the pounding of my heartbeat—drums echo through the forest, slowly growing louder. A shiver of silence sweeps through the trees, revelry dying like someone snuffing a candle flame.
The Unseelie queens have arrived.
Two of the three Unseelie queens stood on the other side of the battlefields during the Wars of Light and Shadow over five hundred years ago. Though the Seelie Alliance overthrew the Old Ones, turning the tide of the battle, the Unseelie queens yielded but never completely bowed their heads.
The only option was a tenuous peace.
Every thirteen years, the Unseelie Queens ride south to the Queensmoot to renew the treaty between the north and the south.
And every thirteen years, the fractured Seelie courts meet to pledge themselves to the accords.
If I have to be the price of this peace, then so be it.
“We will finish this discussion later,” the prince tells me, one hand resting on his sword as he strides through the curtain of vines.
I follow him, cursing under my breath.
The Unseelie queens bring with them the creeping chill of a breathless body. Torches flicker and then gutter out as an unearthly gloom creeps over the gathering. The fae of my mother’s court shift uneasily.
And then the Unseelie clear the trees, and the drums cut off so abruptly, a shiver runs over my skin.
Angharad the Black rides at the head of the Unseelie column, astride a lich-horse woven of old bones and moss. Its foul breath steams the night air, and clumps of dull, matted hair cling to its fetlocks still. She wears black silk from head to toe and a crown carved of pure obsidian that swallows the light.
At her side ride Blaedwyn the Merciless and the Black Crow, Morwenna of Isenbold.
Blaedwyn’s black hair tumbles down her back, with some of it woven into a pair of horns atop her head. She wears hunting leathers, and the enormous Sword of Mourning is strapped to her spine. Her white teeth flash in a smile as she beholds us, and I remember what they say about her. She lives for the rush of battle and the swing of the sword. This treaty will barely hold her in check, and she no doubt sees us as an impediment or a challenge.
Morwenna looks like the ancient Hag she is.
Her white, brittle hair flows over her shoulders, though her spine is straight and she holds the reins with a firm grip. Finger bones hang around her neck in a malevolent necklace woven to counteract curses. Centuries old during the wars, she’s rapidly approaching her twilight, though it doesn’t make her any less dangerous. She’s the ultimate witch queen, her life bound to serve the Horned One, who is locked away in one of the prison worlds. If she saw even the slightest chance to release him, she’d take it, and damn the world thrice over.
“That old bitch is still alive,” my mother says in some disgust.
“Seemingly,” Andraste counters. “Perhaps she crawled out of the grave for the accords?”
I say nothing.
