Page 16 of The Realm That Falls to Her

I bite my lip. For all his arrogance, Ruskin’s probably right. He is far more powerful than Destan or me, and I can’t deny that I instantly feel safer with him around. With Destan injured, we were too vulnerable, but between us now we could probably face off against the Wild Hunt. Besides, once we’re across the Unseelie border once more, they won’t dare follow.

We trace our way back towards the mountains, the landscape around us turning rocky and steep. Our journey is spent giving Ruskin the context he needs and working out exactly what we’re going to say to Lisinder when we meet him. It’s exhausting, going over everything—Cebba, the curse, Evanthe, and the iron. Each explanation makes Ruskin’s memory loss cut that bit deeper. Especially when he receives them all with an expression of neutral concentration, like he’s hearing a story about someone else that he’ll be tested on later.

“That’s when she killed Halima,” I say, finishing the story of the fight by the founding stone. My voice catches on my friend’s name, and I look away, out across the cliffs rising up on one side of the path ahead of us.

“She sounds like she was a noble soldier and a good friend,” Ruskin says. The sincerity in his voice only makes it worse, because it’s clear that beyond his basic empathy for us, her death means nothing to him. Relaying it to him now just makes it all seem so small and pointless. I can’t find the words to do her—or her sacrifice—justice, and my helplessness to honor her as she deserves makes tears sting at the corners of my eyes, quickly dried by the wind picking up around us. A flash of movement catches my eye up ahead: a piece of fabric fluttering in the breeze. My heart jumps.

“What’s that?”

Destan and Ruskin turn to where I’m looking, squinting at the cliffside. At first I’d thought it was a bundle of flags or something—a string of fabric dancing in the air currents, but now I see they’re far too large for that and wrongly shaped. The bundles of fabric shift into a more recognizable form as we pick up speed and ride closer. Finally, I can see it’s a line of figures.

A deep nausea clutches at my stomach, twisting on my insides.

A trio of bodies have been arranged on the cliff face, hung from their necks with ropes stretched across the rock and secured to stones not far from the path. They sway gently in the wind, their faces blue and bloated from the strangulation, their eyes wide and unseeing.

“They’re human,” I say, my voice sounding dead to my own ears. “What are they doing here?”

“Look at their clothes,” says Destan. They’re wearing what looks to be servants’ garb, but the materials aren’t ones I’m used to seeing in Seelie—a mixture of wool and leather.

“Those uniforms look Unseelie,” I say, finding that talking helps hold back the urge to be sick. “I thought they didn’t have human servants?”

“The settlers near the border are laxer about taking humans from Styrland,” says Ruskin, as if reciting something. He looks surprised at himself. I don’t think he knows where this information comes from.

“But we’re not over the border,” Destan says. “This is still technically Seelie territory.”

“Here.” I search around, my eyes falling on a pile of crushed wicker lying sadly by the path. “It looks like they were here gathering plants. Their masters probably send them over the border to the good foraging spots because crossing territories is safer for non-fae. Or it should be,” I say bitterly. “It was the Hunt that did this; it has to be.”

“What makes you say that?” Ruskin asks.

“Because they left me a message.”

I point to the purple, swollen necks of the humans. Each one is strung with a piece of gold jewelry, looking completely out of place next to their plain servants’ clothes.

“I may be the Gold Weaver, but I’m also just another human who will be strung up by the time they’re done with me. That’s what they’re saying,” I explain, trying to keep my voice from shaking with fear and disgust. I stare into their faces, as hard as it is to look at their empty eyes and distorted features. I want to remember them, to hold on to exactly the kind of violence Evanthe has unleashed onto this world by freeing the Hunt.

“They’d have to get to you first, and they won’t,” says Ruskin firmly. He meets my gaze, his confidence so solid, so familiar, that my uneven breath slows at last. I run my eyes over the powerful lines of his body and the strong set of his jaw, reminding myself that he will protect me—even if he doesn’t truly understand why it matters so much to him. Then he flicks his heels and urges his horse onwards. I drag my eyes from the bodies, but the image of them stays in my mind long after we’ve left the cliffs behind.

We cross the border, the temperature dropping as we crest the highest point of the mountain path. I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a sense of relief, knowing we’re finally where the Hunt won’t follow. But that won’t bring back the humans they left hanging like ornaments on the cliffside.

I hate this. Ruskin and I have had walls up between us before, but never ones so tall, so utterly unscalable. I still feel a pit in my stomach from the scene the Wild Hunt left for us, and normally, he’s the one I would lean on to chase that feeling away, to remind me that there’s something we can do about this horror. But if I reached out to him now, would he just push me away? The thought of his rejection scares me so much that I’m afraid to even try.

So, what can I do?

As we ride on I find myself studying the lines of his face, searching for answers. At last it occurs to me that rather than seeking comfort from him, maybe I should be the one giving him something. Between us, I’m the only one who carries the memories of us, like a pile of precious jewels locked up inside me. I’m hoarding them when I should be sharing them.

The bond. I know we can send emotions along it—consciously feel out the well-being of the other. Why not try to send memories too?

I rifle through the collection of times we spent together, looking for the most powerful, trying to guess what would matter most to this version of Ruskin. The moment he told me his true name, perhaps, and the time we spent together afterwards, exploring each other’s bodies, holding each other close. The feel of him against me, inside me, is still so vivid in my mind that my desire reawakens at the memory.

The fabric of the blankets is gloriously soft against my skin, and I’m fully naked and splayed out before him as he pulls me closer and spreads my legs.

A high-pitched gasp rips from my throat as he lowers his mouth to me.

I close my eyes, letting the heat of that moment curl deep within me. After so much horror and heartbreak, I want to live in those perfect few hours, would give anything to have them again. I release an uneven breath.

“Are you well?” A sharp voice pulls my eyes open, and I feel my face flood with color. I look over to see Ruskin’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t look concerned. Instead, his eyes flash dangerously, and I realize there was an edge of suggestion to his voice, like he can guess the direction of my thoughts. I don’t think he can read the bond as well as I can yet, but Ruskin has always been able to tell when I’ve been turned on.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I shoot back coldly. But then I stop to consider. If the memory of us together can be so strong for me, is there a chance it might rattle something loose in his mind too?

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