Page 85 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

Then my world shifts.

Power, warm and rejuvenating, floods into me, flowing into my toes and fingertips, wrapping me up in its aura. I feel strong and alive, recognizing the familiar feel of Ruskin’s power. Even the pain in my leg seems to dull, drowned out by this new sensation.

I glance up to the edge of the pit and see him staring down at me. His expression is one of intense concentration, but when he meets my gaze, we exchange a look of understanding. He knows it’s worked.

I don’t waste time. The beast is eyeing me with fresh ferocity, now sporting a gash across its face. It’s warier of me now, but that won’t keep it at bay forever. I need to act. I throw my magic—Ruskin’s magic—upwards towards the chandelier, and now there’s no doubt in me that I’ll be able to reach it. It feels like he’s right there beside me, giving me a helping a hand, urging me on.

A familiar coldness touches me when I take hold of the chandelier’s fixtures, and I realize with a jolt what it’s made of: cold iron. It distracts me, the strangeness of finding it here, deliberately placed in the middle of a fae court.

The beast crouches on the other side of the pit, bunching its muscles as it readies itself for another attack. I throw myself into working on the structure hanging high above me, taking hold of the fixtures buried deep into the rock, bending them to my will. A trickle of dust rains down from the ceiling, though I don’t think anyone notices.

The beast bares its teeth.

There’s a resounding grinding noise from above. I sense hundreds of heads turning upwards, but I keep my eyes straight ahead, fixed on the animal, while my mind keeps working on navigating the chandelier. I need to time this right.

The animal leaps forward.

There’s a whistle of air—that’s all the warning it gets—and then a ton of cold iron comes crashing down on top of it.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see the damage done, but when I peek at the ground, I see my shoe is damp with the beast’s blood, spreading from beneath the chandelier.

The court erupts in a flurry of energy, though it all sounds like indistinct noise to me. I use my sword as a makeshift cane to help push myself up, then limp back up the stairs. Ruskin doesn’t wait for me to get to the top, he runs down to meet me halfway, then half guides, half carries me the rest of the way. His touch is so tender, it makes me want to immediately collapse against him, but I know I should maintain some show of strength for the Unseelie. I didn’t work this hard to earn their respect just to lose it now.

King Lisinder is staring down into the pit, looking thoughtful.

“Well, that was certainly a more inventive solution than my nephew’s,” he says, stroking his beard. “It seems you are indeed worthy of the power you wield, Eleanor Thorn.”

“Cheat!”

The rest of the court is quiet enough now that the word rings out clearly across the chamber. I wearily turn, still supported by Ruskin, to see a fae with bronze-colored hair standing up from his seat.

“You think so, Climent?” the king says.

“A human could not have done that. Even if some claim they’ve seen her perform magic.” He jabs a finger at Ruskin. “The Seelie one must have helped her.”

“You mean Prince Ruskin?” Lisinder says, and it’s clear he’s correcting Climent for his rudeness. The bronze-haired fae looks slightly abashed.

“Yes, Prince Ruskin. He must have intervened in the trial.”

I focus on maintaining my exhausted expression, rather than showing an ounce of the guilt bubbling inside me. He’s right, I didn’t do it on my own—not completely. I can see some of the court even now looking suddenly doubtful, with a wave of suspicious gazes being thrown our way.

Lisinder walks back over to the edge of pit, pointing to the fallen chandelier.

“You see that? Don’t tell me you can’t all feel what that’s made of. Cold iron. A reminder of our greatest weaknesses, hanging above the kings and queens of this kingdom for centuries so that we don’t develop blind spots—so that we don’t forget how easily strength can be stolen. Prince Ruskin could no more used his magic on that thing than you or I could. But she is human,” he says, gesturing to me. “And does not feel the burn of that cursed substance. She couldn’t have cheated.”

I flush at his support, feeling guilty over letting him believe the lie. It’s true, on his own, Ruskin’s magic can’t affect the iron. But that doesn’t seem to be an issue as long as the power is channeled through me. Still, I’m certainly not going to be the one to bring that up, and I doubt Ruskin is either. We’ve got problems enough without adding more to the pile.

The king turns to us.

“Welcome to the Unseelie Court,” Lisinder says. Though his tone is still as dour as ever, I feel a rush of relief. “I grant you your audience.”

There are no more protests. Looking at the court, I take in the sea of hard, intense expressions, but some are nodding, even murmuring noises of approval. Nonetheless, when I glance at Climent, he’s still glowering darkly in our direction.

Lisinder offers us a place to get washed and changed before the audience, and I jump at the opportunity.

Some Low Fae with skin like polished opal show us to adjoining chambers along one of the stone corridors of the mountain. I almost want to sit down and weep when I see that mine has a bath in it. A moment later there’s a knock at the door, and an Unseelie healer comes in. He looks at me with confusion when I say I’d prefer not to keep the scar from where the beast—a manticore, it turns out—clawed me. It takes a few minutes to convince him, but eventually he relents, leaving me with smooth, unblemished skin on my leg and no trace of the venom burns on my arm.

Once he leaves, I don’t wait, stripping off my filthy dress and climbing into the water that magically appeared, warm and inviting when I entered the room. I let my head droop back, a groan of satisfaction leaving me as the heat soothes my aches and washes away the tension of the last few hours.

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