Page 33 of King of Storms and Feathers

In the dream, pride swelled in my chest as the woman clapped her hands, and the man shouted indistinct words of encouragement, laughter warming his voice.

I raised a heavy sword above my head, my muscles straining, then ran toward the boy who lifted his own blade and met my attack head on.

Using his panted breaths as a gage, I timed my lunges, twists, and strikes to the staccato rhythm of his breathing. With my mouth sealed tight, I inhaled lightly through my nose, controlling my heartbeat.

We circled the clearing, lunging forward and back with speed. When he moved into the right position, I raised my sword and invited him to strike, blocked his blade high in the air, then gave a swift kick to his balls. With a pained grunt, he stumbled before recovering and lifting his weapon again.

In a few quick moves, my sword kissed the side of his neck, poised to remove his head from his shoulders. Above us, the man and woman cheered.

“Well done,” she said, her green eyes flashing.

“And so, you won again,” said the boy, squeezing me in a one-armed hug, his smile charming as he wiped sweat from his brow with an embroidered sleeve. “Congratulations. Your viciousness is admirable.”

“I’m not vicious,” I replied. “I’m determined. You’re an accomplished fighter, but you’re lazy and don’t train as often as I do.”

“Don’t worry, sister. I aim to remedy that one day and surprise you.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully. “I won’t hold my breath.”

Sister, the boy had called me.

He wasn’t my lover or my friend.

But my brother.

The couple who stood smiling in the ruins were our parents. They had to be.

“Come,” said the man, beckoning us forward with a strong arm. “Van will have returned by now. Let’s go home.”

Van? Who was Van?

My brother opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, a sharp pain stabbed my bare foot, and I bent to rub it. Then something hit my cheek.

“Wake up,” said a familiar voice. “It’s the middle of the day. Why are you sleeping again?”

“What?” I lurched up and saw the Sayeeda crouched beside me, a wooden fork lying near my foot. “Did you poke me with that?”

She smiled, flashing her golden teeth. “Several times.”

I squinted in the blinding light of the pavilion. The tiles beneath my palms were hot, and I was as thirsty as a desert rat caught in a trap. Noises from the streets below drifted up, carriage wheels grinding over paving stones, snippets of conversation, laughter, and the mournful notes of someone singing a murder ballad.

“What day is it?” I asked.

“It is your second day in the king’s apartment. Your eighth in Coridon. And for most of the fae in the city, it’s lunchtime, but… if you prefer to sleep through it, well then, I’ll happily take this tray of food back down to the kitchen.”

“A rare joke from the Mistress of Slaves and Spices,” I said, taking the cup of water she offered and draining it.

As cold as Ari had first seemed Underfloor, I’d since learned she possessed a dry humor, cutting in its directness, but a sense of humor, nonetheless.

“Only day two of my enslavement to your king, is it?” I stretched my arms and rolled the kinks from my neck, feigning a calm confidence, while mild terror simmered in my blood. “Feels like I’ve been up here forever.”

“Yes. It certainly does.” Ari inclined her head at the floor in front of me. Freshly baked rolls stuffed with greens and strips of juicy meat teased me from a lunch tray. My stomach groaned its approval.

Today, the Sayeeda looked relaxed, unperturbed by tending a dirty, disrespectful slave, but I supposed she was used to seeing people at their worst Underfloor. A bronze headband kept her long gold hair from her eyes, then it fell in loose curls around her shoulders like a glittering cloak.

“This king of yours seems to have disappeared,” I said around a large mouthful of bread. “He didn’t sleep in his bed last night.”

“He’s busy,” Ari answered.

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