Page 80 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

The wind whips between the peaks as we ascend towards a vast rock face on a winding track.

“That’s the Unseelie Court?” I ask.

“One and the same,” Ruskin says. Like its Seelie counterpart, it seems the structure houses a complex of High Fae residences. But rather than being linked by bowers and courtyards, this place is carved deep into the mountainside. The sun shines less strongly here, obscured behind a bank of gray clouds. When I glance at Ruskin, I see he’s donning a crimson cloak I don’t recognize.

“Where did you get that?”

“One of our Unseelie friends,” Ruskin says, and I remember that the fae he’d felled was indeed wearing a red cloak when we encountered them. “It should be enough to mask my scent against anyone else with too keen a nose,” he murmurs.

We slow as we pass under a magnificent archway carved with the phases of the moon, which opens onto a paved thoroughfare where scores of Unseelie mill about, passing with carts or carrying goods. No one looks our way, and I assumed Ruskin’s cloak is working.

We trot on, down a street that runs along the side of the mountain. When I glance over the low wall marking out the edge, I can only see sheer rock face below. It would be so easy to fall, I think, shuddering at the thought of the impact.

“Now, if I remember right, Magister Cragfoot lives somewhere around the Quartz Quarter,” Ruskin says, glancing up at the corners of the buildings as we pass, looking for something.

“You don’t think he would’ve moved in all this time?”

“Ha! Never. Old Cragfoot is a creature of habit, and he never stopped going on about the place…There it is.”

He points to a street shadowed by rocks punctuated with cloudy white crystals, making it look like the rock has developed haphazard rows of teeth.

But before we can turn down it, a tall, High Fae woman steps from the shadows. She has yellow eyes that flash like a viper’s and waist-length, black hair, which parts at the top to show a pair of small black horns that aren’t dissimilar to Ruskin’s. She twitches her wrist, and for a moment, I think she’s reaching for the knife strapped to her thigh. Then a swarm of Unseelie surround us and I understand it was a signal.

At least up on our horses we’ve got a clear view of everyone, and I scan the group. It’s not just their sharp teeth and claws that make them seem ferocious. A male to my right has a scar running deep across the center of his face, taking out a chunk of his nose and one of his eyes—it looks like he was almost cleaved in two. Another is missing a horn, the curling bone severed at the root, and another lurking behind Ruskin has a sharp hook where a hand should be. I try not to let it scare me, but I wonder exactly how brutal a place the Unseelie Court must be, if this is the average state of their nobility.

“Prince Ruskin Dawnsong,” the woman says. Her face is neutral, reminding me of Halima’s usual business-like expression, but there’s a hint of something in her voice: curiosity, maybe.

Ruskin inclines his head, but I notice he keeps his eyes fixed on the fae around us.

“Magna Lunis.”

“And may its light bless you, Your Highness,” the woman says, surprising me by addressing Ruskin by his royal title. “His Majesty King Lisinder would like to invite you to an audience, now he’s heard that you’ve traveled all this way.”

Her manner isn’t exactly hostile, but it’s still very clear to me that the invitation isn’t optional.

“Then we can hardly refuse,” says Ruskin. His tone is light, but the double meaning of his words confirms my own thoughts.

“And may I ask after your companion?” the woman says, tilting her head at me. I can feel her snake eyes probing at the shadows of my hood, wanting to root out my secrets. I swallow, but push back the hood of my cloak, showing them that I’m both human and have nothing to hide from them.

“Eleanor Thorn,” I say, introducing myself before Ruskin can answer.

The yellow-eyed woman examines me, and I meet her gaze, unwavering. Again, there’s the hint of curiosity in her manner, and I think she’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or not. The fae we skirmished with on the road must’ve gotten word to the court, but whether they worked out I was the source of some of the magic that attacked them, I can’t say. I think some fae would look for a hundred different explanations before they considered that a human might have that kind of power.

Eventually, the woman nods and gestures to the fae around us, who part to allow her to take the lead. Ruskin dismounts and I follow suit. We lead our horses through the streets in a kind of procession. The viper woman takes a left, down a passage that feels more like a tunnel than a road. The stone rises up around us, like a great mouth swallowing us up, and I can tell we’re heading deeper into the mountain.

“Should we be worried?” I whisper to Ruskin, checking the nearest Unseelie for a reaction, but I don’t think he hears me.

“That depends,” Ruskin murmurs back. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my uncle.”

Not exactly comforting.

“What happened to them?” I ask even more quietly. “Why do they so many have scars?”

“They’re war wounds,” he says. “From the Great Divide.”

The images of the battle at Amethyn Valley swirl at the edge of my memory. What I saw of that day certainly lines up with the brutality of the Unseelie’s scars, but Halima always made it sound like the war was evenly stacked—that no side had a clear chance at winning.

“But the Seelie don’t look like this,” I say.

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