Page 5 of Thief of Dreams
One day, the war will start again.
But to do that we need the strength to shatter King Anselm's weapon.
Shadow Walking is a fae gift. An Unseelie gift.
One that shouldn't exist in my mortal body following the Purge, though my father finally found a means to circumvent the curse that restricts us.
And if any fae of the glittering courts knew I had the gift, they'd hunt me down and obliterate me.
The sour stink of vomit fills the air as I ripple through shadows, searching the room. Soraya and I have spent more than enough hours listening to Lady Merisel and her maids chattering about how excited they are about the Summons to know we're not looking for an actual invitation.
No, we need a charm.
Imbued with enough of Prince Keir's magic to protect its bearer from the lash of the portal's magic, it serves to keep the uninvited from attempting to penetrate his court.
For a second, I almost feel a moment of pity for poor Merisel. When this goes down, she'll be blamed.
Then I catch the glint of fine golden thread twined across her gowns, and the spill of silk and golden jewels that tumble from her travelling trunk.
Merisel is Blessed.
She's never known a moment of pain or torture in her life. Never had half her soul stolen from her. Never been hunted purely for the mistake of her birth or the ghostly luminescence of her skin.
I pluck the golden charm—the one that will protect me from the portal's magic—from beneath her jewelry box. The second I touch it, it evaporates into the shadows with me, and I tuck it inside my leather waistcoat.
Immortality and power beckon. Freedom.
And if that means war, then so be it.
The Blessed deserve it.
* * *
The Courtof Dreams is like nothing I expected.
The portal spits me out in the ancient glade of a forest. A waterfall plunges into a deep, dark hole bedecked in ferns and lush lilies, and I roll to a halt beside it in the leaf mulch. An ancient carving of the Goddess of Mercy looms out of the greenery, though her pale, marble skin is sheathed in a gown of moss, and her weathered face holds the wisdom of millennia.
Behind me the portal hums, its opaque surface rippling like sunlight over water. I haul myself to my feet, brushing off my borrowed finery.
And suddenly realize I'm not alone.
"It seems Prince Keir has invited practicallyanybody," says a haughty voice. "And here I thought this Summons was exclusive."
Fae ladies titter like a flock of starlings as the speaker glides toward me, bearing down upon me like a warship.
Half a dozen of them are gathered there in colorful gowns and crowns woven of gold and pearls, thorns and brambles. Several retainers await, wearing tufted ears that flicker, or tails that curl around their legs. It's a sign of their half-blood, and though they may strive to rise through the courts, they'll never climb higher than where they are.
The Blessed revere their pure blood.
And spit on those without it.
Clearly, today is the day to arrive and I'm to be the innocent lamb led to the slaughter.
"Don't worry," I mutter, "I'm sure the prince will be able to see exactly how well-bredyou are."
The fae princess's eyes narrow on me. She's beautiful in an unearthly, inhuman kind of way. They always are. Tumbles of ruby-red hair are woven into an intricate crown, revealing the razor-sharp edge of her cheekbones and her glittering gold eyes. When she smiles, sharp teeth glint in the light.
All the better for tearing shreds off poor unsuspecting passers-by.
