Page 54 of The Realm That Falls to Her

“You fool,” she crows, her voice nearly a screech, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was under some kind of enchantment.

Maybe she is.

This isn’t the old Evanthe, the mother who Ruskin idolized. It’s not even the one who woke up in the rose garden—cruel but calculating and always in control. Cebba’s magic may have pulled her into the darkness, but now it seems like it’s consumed her. If Ruskin lost memories in Interra, could the space between realms have taken her sanity as its price?

The surface of the pool ripples, obscuring her face, and when it re-forms, the image is from a farther distance than before. We can see more of Evanthe, plus a set of shadowy figures behind her. But there is one person in front of Evanthe, on her knees, whose face is deathly clear.

Pyromey.

Chapter 15

She’s bound and gagged, the material cutting into her skin as she stares into the portal with her fierce, viper eyes. Dread curdles my stomach even as my mind tries to make sense of how this can be possible. Wasn’t Pyromey with me just yesterday, drinking in the tavern?

Where I’d told her to go visit the borderlands.

I’m so angry at myself I could scream. It’s my fault that Evanthe captured her, that she was away from the safety of the court in the first place. I’d suggested she go check on the murders at the border, inviting her to investigate. I thought it would convince her of Evanthe’s treachery and that she could use that evidence to convince others, but now Pyromey is paying the price for my political games.

When Pyromey’s face flickers in the surface of the pool, Lisinder makes a noise and steps forward, as if he could reach in and pull her through. But the portals can’t be traversed across kingdoms—there are too many protections at the borders. It’s a fact I’m sure Evanthe is taking advantage of now.

“What are you?—”

Before Lisinder can speak another word, and without even bothering to issue another threat, Evanthe places a foot on Pyromey’s ankle and presses down. The Unseelie woman writhes, trying to break free, but hands from figures beyond the portal’s view hold her in place. She screams, a sound made more guttural for the way the gag muffles her, and then her ankle snaps.

The sound is loud enough to echo through the cavern, and I fight the urge to vomit as Evanthe raises her foot and stamps down on the broken joint once again.

Pyromey howls as the stamp forces the bone through the skin, twisting her foot so that it’s almost turned back on itself. The Unseelie around us are a hardened group—no one screams or cries, but I hear the intake of breath in collective horror all around me.

This is insane. She is insane. The Unseelie see it too. I’m sure none of them expected a queen of the Seelie—one famed for her peaceful nature, no less—to respond like this.

Lisinder growls, his voice thunderous.

“You will stop at once, Evanthe, or make yourself a mortal enemy of the Unseelie Kingdom.”

Evanthe ignores him as if he hadn’t spoken, as if she is not about to unleash a world of deadly consequence upon this realm with her actions. Instead, she raises her voice, ensuring it rings out from the portal like a death knell.

“Ruskin Dawnsong.”

Ruskin takes a step towards the pool. I grab his sleeve to hold him back, afraid of what might happen if she sets eyes on him.

“I know you’re listening,” she says, sounding horribly pleased with herself. “A mother always knows. You can save your cousin, Ruskin. That’s right—I know who she is.” Her voice is gently coaxing, but she says it all with a mad, gleeful smile like this is just a game to her. A game she is very much enjoying. I feel a lurch at the realization. The old Evanthe was certain that she was doing what she had to, but she didn’t take pleasure in it. That’s changed, and I’m certain Interra is to blame.

“Don’t you have enough Unseelie blood on your hands?” she continues. “Why shed more? Give yourself up, and I will release her.”

I don’t trust the words, even if she can’t lie. She might release Pyromey from the bonds currently holding her in place, but with a ruined ankle, how far could she go? And Evanthe hasn’t promised mercy—not from her or her followers.

“Don’t listen to her,” I tell Ruskin, hoping he can see past her taunts for the deception underneath. For the first time, I’m glad he doesn’t have his memories—there’s no guilt for Evanthe to mine, no shame about his past. Even her face means little to him.

When Ruskin doesn’t answer, Evanthe licks her lips, positioning her foot above Pyromey’s other ankle. I can’t bring myself to look at the broken one, trying to keep my eyes away from the splintered bone and mangled flesh.

“And what about you, Eleanor Thorn?” My throat goes dry when she says my name. “Never far from his side, are you? But shouldn’t you be home, helping your father? Albrecht is not treating him well, I hear. I can have him freed, you know, if you would just surrender.”

My blood heats and a series of rage-filled words rise to my mouth, but now it’s Ruskin’s turn to soothe me, and he puts a hand on my arm, stopping my reply.

“He still has my spell in place,” he murmurs. “From what you tell me, that will protect him from the worst.”

From the worst, maybe, but how many creative, cruel ways could Albrecht find to harm him without touching him? Faerie magic, after all, always has a loophole.

“Touch her again, Evanthe, and we will hunt you until the end,” Lisinder says. His voice is fierce, primal with rage, like the roar of a beast, and I think it’s a testament to Evanthe’s insanity that she doesn’t flinch.

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