Page 131 of The Beast King's Bride

“They say,” Pete whispers, “that when you hear a Fae lamenting then you’re fated to die. Ash—”

“Not any Fae,” I scoff, swallowing down fear. “I know the tales, too. She has to be by a stream, washing blood-stained clothes. That’s the one to shy away from.”

“Maybe she is washing! How would you know? You can’t see her.”

“Gods, Pete…” A fist is squeezing around my chest, my heart as the reality of that hits me. A lament. “No…”

Did we come too late?

No, it can’t be. I won’t accept it. Not after finding again that spark of hope in me.

“Come on. Hurry.” I start toward the door that leads to the throne room, drawing the sword I bought from its scabbard, sending droplets everywhere. Leaving wet footprints, not sure if I’m shivering so hard from the cold or fear, I enter the palace once more.

Pete’s steps follow me, steady and reassuring, his sword singing as he draws it, too. The lament rises and falls, leading us on.

The lamps that always burned through magic in the corridors are now dark, and the torches are out. We wander in a near-perfect darkness, a little light spilling from the open doors of rooms and galleries here and there, pools and gushes of brightness.

“I don’t like this,” Pete mutters.

Neither do I but I go on, grimly, the lament louder now. We’re close to whatever is happening. More voices can be heard—women, I think, and a man’s deeper baritone trying to rise over them.

I know that voice.

Jassin.

I break into a run, as much as my sodden long skirt allows me—and damn but I should have dressed as a man, their clothing is so much more practical for falling into streams and wells, for crossing between worlds—and barely hear Pete calling out my name as he hurries after me.

I know these corridors, these halls. I know where everyone is gathered.

They are in the king’s study.

Two guards are standing outside and they move their spears to block us as I try to go through.

“Please,” I pant and realize I’m waving the sword around. No wonder they are trying to block me. I lower the sword, my hand trembling. “Is the king all right?”

They exchange glances. “Princess Elayne?” one of them finally asks. “Is that you?”

“What are they saying?” Pete asks, reaching me and stopping to catch his breath. “I don’t understand.”

The Fae language. I’d forgotten that humans don’t speak it.

I turn back to the guards. “Yes, I’m Elayne. Is the king all right? Is he inside?”

Another exchange of looks and they bow. “My lady, we received word that the Empress has arrived. You may want to leave. It could be dangerous—”

“I’m not leaving. I came to see how Talen… how the king is. Let me inside.”

They bow again. “He said that this is your palace, that we should follow your every wish. We… I always thought you would come back, but I’m afraid it might be too late.”

“Don’t say that,” I mutter hoarsely and push past them, hurrying into the familiar room.

The fireplace is lit, the red glow from the flames dancing on the furniture, the walls, the books on the shelves, their spines glinting with gold letters.

I half-expect the king to be standing there, gazing into the flames, as he always does, mighty horns curling over his ears, his jet-black hair gleaming, his broad shoulders stretching his black shirt, his braid dancing at his back.

He’s not.

There are a few people gathered around the desk—a few women, and I think I recognize Auria, and a man who is now saying something about having to get ready.

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