Page 18 of The Jester

“Are you refusing me, Gloomweaver?” Eldrion’s voice booms like thunder, shaking the stone walls of the arena.

Every single person holds their breath.

The Gloomweaver shakes her head. “No, of course not, my lord. They are yours. You just pay me what you see fit. Take them...” She gestures in our direction. “Take them all.”

“Very well.” Eldrion reaches into his pocket, takes out a small velvet purse, and throws it to her feet. Then he snaps his fingers and, from the sides of the arena, a flurry of royal guards appear.

The pen is opened, and we are dragged out, hustled towards the door, through the dark underbelly of the arena, then out into the light again.

Eldrion does not appear again until, two hours later, after being marched through the streets of Luminael, we arrive at the citadel. On a small island, it is accessible only by foot at low tide because – legend says – Eldrion’s guards will shoot down any fae who dares attempt to fly over its walls.

My pace slows as I look up at it. Home to the upper echelons of Sunborne society, it rises dramatically from the wet sand at its roots. According to books from my mother’s library, within the thick stone walls, a maze of winding streets and tightly packed buildings climb up towards the central keep. And at the island’s pinnacle sits the ancient castle itself. Eldrion’s castle.

From here, we can just about see the spires that stretch up towards the clouds.

“Keep moving,” a guard barks roughly.

We do as he says, our bare feet meeting the cool, wet sand and sighing with relief after so long without proper rest.

It is almost midday by the time we reach the castle. The climb through the narrow streets was arduous. Seeing us coming, Sunborne nobility slammed their doors and windows closed, leaving us to crawl our way towards the man who purchased us with tired legs and aching lungs.

No one speaks as we walk, and it is only when the castle comes into view that I hear Kayan say, “Holy stars, I didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on this place.”

I catch him glancing at me, and exhale slowly. The castle looks nothing like the pictures I have seen. It sits high up, yes, but instead of glimmering resplendently as the sun catches its curves and lines, it looms like a sinister sentinel watching over the city. Its once bright walls are now scuffed and muted. Dark. Too dark.

A shudder racks my body.

Something feels different here.

Yes, the outer districts of Luminael felt dirty, and chaotic, and insidiously dark. But this is different. Even with the gates of my affinity locked down tightly, I cannot help but feel the desperation that hangs in the air here.

As my wings flutter violently, a guard tells me to keep still. “You fly, you die,” he reminds me, jerking his eyes up towards the parapet of the castle where Eldrion’s soldiers wait with glinting arrows.

Thinking of the arrows, my thigh burns. I was not hit with enough of the Gloomweaver’s poison to be killed by it, but I am afraid it is spreading slowly through my body because the wound is starting to feel hot and painful beneath my dress.

As we approach the castle gates, I crane my neck to take in the full scope of the building. It is a testament to Eldrion’s power, a physical manifestation of the iron grip his family have had on Luminael and the wider kingdom for thousands of years.

But, still, I cannot escape that feeling. The one that tells me there is something bigger and more sinister at play here.

We are on the bridge approaching the large wooden doors when something moves. A shadow. Above us.

I look up, and at first I think it is a gargoyle staring down at me.

Then I realise it is him. Eldrion. His ink-black wings tucked behind him, he stares down from the tallest spire, watching us.

Watching me.

Chapter Eight

ELDRION

She is here. This is not how it was supposed to happen. But she is here, and she cannot escape me. Not now. Not without magic.

I watch from the roof as she is herded through the gates. While the other Leafborne look terrified, she shines like a beacon of defiance.

She may not know it, may not feel it, but she is the personification of power. Her hair, her wings, the way she carries herself. As if she will not be beaten. It is both captivating and infuriating because it seems she has no idea who I am or what I am capable of. Which means I will be forced to show her.

Striding over to the fireplace, I mutter an incantation that will fan the flames. They surge, glow bright white, then soften back to orange and continue to flicker in the grate.

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