Page 33 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

The answer shouldn’t matter. I’m going home precisely because I refuse to engage with the manipulation and maneuvering anymore. I’ll leave that to the experts. Already I can feel it, the way he’s pulled me into the undertow of his world, putting me at the center of issues that require solutions. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, but it’s still managing to ensnare me, and if I don’t cut this feeling off at the root, it’ll be too easy to consider myself needed again—which will lead to feeling wanted. Then the door will be wide open for him to hurt me again.

“When are we leaving, then?” I ask.

Chapter 11

“Slow down,” I grumble to Ruskin, as my horse, tethered to Ruskin’s, breaks into a half-hearted canter. “You’re getting it so riled up that I’m going to fall off.”

I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of riding a horse, especially not on my own. But it was this or share the saddle with Ruskin again, and that’s precisely the opposite of me putting necessary distance between us.

“You won’t fall off,” Ruskin says confidently, but it feels easy for him to say when he looks like he was born in the saddle, steering the animal with the slightest pressure of his thighs.

I grip the reins tighter, even though there’s no need when my horse is being led, and try to distract myself by examining the plants and foliage of the Emerald Forest. We’d agreed it made more sense to return to Styrland via the common gate, which will put me much closer to home. Jumping water portals between my home and the Kilda is already nauseating enough without adding unnecessary distance to the journey.

I try to relax into the swaying of the animal beneath me, wondering why riding the creature has to put me quite so far from the ground. I will not miss the way everything in Faerie seems to be extra big or extra dangerous—or both. The exquisite beauty of it all counteracts that, of course, but in the same way the pretty colors of a carnivorous plant distract an insect from its deadly intent.

I’ll be glad when we’re back in Styrland, where the most dangerous beast is a broody cow, and where my enemies have fewer tricks up their sleeves.

“How will you go about it, taking Albrecht’s memory?” I ask, thinking of my one true enemy in Styrland. I could survive without knowing the answer to this question, but the conversation keeps my mind off the ride, and I want to remind Ruskin what he’s promised me. Now I’m headed home, my and Dad’s safety is my focus.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ruskin says without looking at me. I pull a face at his back, annoyed I’m so transparent.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” I point out, even if it was the reason why I asked.

“I’ll enquire to see if there’s anything he wants first. A deal could still be made in return for his memories of you.”

“What?” I sit up straighter in the saddle. “You want to negotiate with him?”

“That is usually what a deal involves, yes.”

“You can’t. The man’s a pig.”

“I’m sure. But if I can avoid blatantly breaking my own treaty, I will.”

I silently fume for a few moments, wondering how Ruskin dares play the righteousness card now, when he’s quite happy to cheat elsewhere. It’s possible he’s just deliberately doing it to piss me off.

“Where was the treaty when you killed Albrecht’s men?” I ask.

He squares his shoulders.

“That was different.”

“How?”

My horse gives a little whinny in what I like to think is support, even if the noise does make me jump.

“They were trying to kill me.”

“Hardly. You can’t even be hurt with regular iron.”

“But they didn’t know that. Their choice to carry iron weapons made their intention clear.”

“They must be worried after your last visit to the castle.” I bite my lip, considering the consequences. “I’d never even heard of someone carrying iron weapons. Not in my lifetime.”

Thinking outside the box is unusual for Albrecht, so this experimentation with new weapons still worries me. My mind goes to the piles of notes and papers I left in the castle when I tried to escape. Could Albrecht be trying to take a leaf out of my book? I didn’t know the secret ingredient to cold iron until yesterday, but I had certainly hypothesized enough times in my notes that a catalyst from the land of the fair folk was essential for making new kinds of metal.

“It’s of little consequence,” Ruskin says, as if he’s able to hear my thoughts. “The secret of cold iron died with the court of the king who attacked my mother.”

I shiver, remembering the story. I can easily imagine the brutal death Ruskin visited upon those who tortured Evanthe. If I thought what he did to Albrecht’s soldiers was brutal…

---