Page 66 of The Realm That Falls to Her

Feeling reasonably sure that he’s safe from exposure, I let Vaccia take me by the arm and drag me over to some musicians. I’m wrung out from the last twenty-four hours and I know that I should be exhausted—but I feel a kind of delirious joy in that moment. Looking around, that seems to be the point of this gathering. Blowing away the cobwebs after a difficult time.

The musicians’ playing is nothing like the delicate melodies I’ve heard in the Seelie Court. Instead the beat is loud and primal. The Low Fae hammer on drums and blow on bone horns to create a rhythm that reminds me of working songs sung by fishermen back home. Vaccia starts up singing, her voice surprisingly beautiful, and she tries to teach me the words until we’re both laughing.

“There she is,” says a gruff voice, and I turn to see Elias holding his arms wide to me, his eyes shiny with drink. “The iron tamer, queen challenger, the—” He casts around for a third name just as Wistal and Jasand bound up to us.

“The warrior of the Unseelie?” suggests Jasand.

“No.” Elias shakes his head. “We’re all warriors of the Unseelie. But Lady Thorn, here, won the day for us, she deserves a better title.”

I shift, increasingly uncomfortable with everyone’s praise. As glad as I am that I was able to keep them safe, I’m still coming to terms with what I did in the battle. I killed people: Seelie who thought they were protecting their queen. Yes, they would have done the same to me and my friends if they could have, but that’s for their consciences to deal with. I can only grapple with mine. Never have I used my power for such destruction before. I can still see it now, the spray of crimson as I drove the iron shoots into the Seelie front line.

“I really just did what I could,” I say. “I just happen to be able to fight the cold iron, but if you had my magic, then any of you would have done the same.”

“But you are a human, a stranger to these lands, and you fought for our people like we were your own,” says Vaccia sincerely. “You used your magic swift and sure as a blade to free our land of Evanthe’s curse, and that is something the Unseelie Court will not forget.”

“That’s it! The sword of Unseelie. That’s your name.”

I blanch, but hold my expression neutral. Without realizing it, Elias has just echoed my true name. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but Lunasworn—literally meaning “sword of the moon”—could very well be referring to the Unseelie. They’re known for their affiliation with the moon, after all.

My mood plummets as I wonder what it means. Is this my destiny—to be a weapon, a force of destruction? I’m an inventor, not a fighter. I make things and study them, it’s the opposite of blind destruction. If being a blade to cut things down is my destined fate, then I don’t want it.

“Excuse me,” I say to the four Unseelie, “I think I just need to get another drink.”

I retreat to a quieter corner of the chamber, an alcove beside a statue that means I’m not immediately noticeable to the rest of the party, then catch a servant as they go past. I ask for something from their Styrland stores to clear my head and then lean back against the wall, watching the celebrations unfold. Wistal explained to me why it was called a holding feast. The Unseelie drink and make merry after a battle to hold on to the good things that came from the bloodshed: freedom, security, knowing you’re saving more lives than you’ve taken. But it’s also to hold on to the memory of those you’ve lost. The light and the dark—placing them side by side in your heart.

The servant comes back with my drink and I’m about to raise a toast to that very idea, when I see Turis skulking round the edge of the room with his usual posse. My fist tightens around my goblet, remembering how he threatened Ruskin yesterday. I watch him watching Ruskin, still deep in conversation with the older Unseelie, and decide that sooner rather than later I need to do something about that group of fae. There’s only so many times they get to threaten my naminai before they find themselves at the wrong end of some pointy metal.

The sword of Unseelie. The name comes back to me now, and I roll it round in my mind as I take a sip of my drink. Maybe sometimes, in certain situations, it wouldn’t be so bad to be a sword.

There’s a giggle from someone by the statue beside my alcove, high-pitched and breathy, then a male voice whose words I can’t make out, murmuring in a low, seductive tone.

Ah, time to make myself scarce, then.

I try to slip out of the alcove without being noticed, but I manage to scrape my boot against the stone floor and the giggling abruptly stops. I sigh, deciding the best thing for everyone’s dignity is just to walk past and ignore whatever scene is waiting for me on the other side of the statue, but a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

“Er, Eleanor,” Destan says, sounding half mortified, half annoyed.

Beside him is Dreidana, the Unseelie servant, looking flushed and happy pressed up against the statue. I can’t help but notice that several of Destan’s shirt buttons are undone.

“Don’t mind me,” I say, hiding my grin behind my hand. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Wait!” Dreidana’s expression suddenly turns, and she steps away from the statue, reaching for my goblet.

“That’s not the Styrland import,” she says, examining the wine. “We’re under strict instructions to serve them in different cups so we don’t get them mixed up.”

I blink at her. “But I drank from it and I feel fine.”

More than that, I didn’t notice any difference in taste. The one time I’ve eaten fae food, the difference was unmistakable—it was too delicious and sweet to be anything from the human realm. I take the cup back out of her hand, sniffing it. The wine smells appealing, but no more than human wine usually does.

“Are you sure?” I ask. My confusion is tinged with an edge of worry now, and I willingly hand the cup to Destan when he asks for it. He sniffs it, takes a sip, and shakes his head.

“It’s fae wine, Eleanor. The Styrland stuff tastes completely different to us.”

I take a step back, feeling a little dizzy in a way I know has nothing to do with the drink.

“Are you all right?” Destan asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll go speak to Ruskin. Honestly,” I say, conjuring up a smile that I hope will reassure them, “it’s just strange, that’s all. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” I feel guilty about spoiling their time together, and make a studied effort to wave to them cheerfully as I go.

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