Page 69 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Human, by all appearances.

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I spare one final glance at the birds circling the Ramvik River below.

On shaky legs, I step down from the window ledge, toward my father.

And, swaying, immediately tip forward into his arms as darkness finally claims me.

When I wake in my bedroom, groggy and disoriented, I blink at the sunlight streaming through the window. It catches on my desk’s silver candlesticks,flashing bright lights against my retinas that are hauntingly similar to fey lines.

I groan and shade my eyes as everything rushes back.

Someone knocks on the door. Before I can croak for them to go away, a round-cheeked maid enters with a fresh pitcher of water. When she sees me sitting up in bed, her eyebrows shoot upward.

“Highness! You’re awake. I’ll alert King Rachillon?—”

“Wait.” I practically claw my way out from under the fur coverings to slam the door before she can leave. Her eyes widen as I press my back against the door, trapping her. “Wait. Tell me what day it is.”

“It’s—it’s Wednesday, Highness.”

Wednesday. So, I’ve been out for a day. Not good, but it’s better than knowing I’ve been lying there as soft and helpless as a baby doe for a week.

“Who dressed me?” I tug on the neckline of the fresh nightdress I’m wearing.

“I did, Highness.” She sees how I’m desperately pressed against the door and sets the water pitcher on my washbasin. She tuts gently, “There’s nothing to fear, Lady Sabine.”

“Half the fae court are traipsing around this castle’s halls!”

She refolds the towel draped over the washbasin stand as though biding time for my outburst to pass, then says softly, “Everyone knows what happened at the feast in Immortal Thracia’s honor—there’s still a hole in the Hall of Vale’s ceiling. And we all thank the gods that you didn’t jump out of that window. Do not be frightened. The fae are a blessing, Highness. We’ve been praying for their return forone thousand years, and we are among the fortunate few who get to witness the Third Return.”

As I listen, I can’t help but sniff the air—something smellswonderful. And my stomach is growling.

I spy a plate of cranberry scones someone must have left earlier on my desk. I surreptitiously thieve a step toward it. “So, everyone in the castle knew their true identity? My father’s? And the Blade Boys’?”

“Yes, Highness.” She hesitates. “We were told to shelter you from information you might not be ready for. Letting you know only about Lady Iyre was meant to ease you into the full truth.”

I don’t like the pitying tone in her voice, like I’m a child who needs to be told the monsters under her bed aren’t real. Still, she knits her hands in what looks like genuine concern for me. And, frankly, I trust what a maid has to say more than my father.

Shehas much less reason to lie.

She notes where I’m headed and picks up the scone plate to offer me one.

Slowly, I take the closest, trying to resist devouring it whole. “In Astagnon, people are as likely to curse the fae as worship them.”

She chuckles. “Power can frighten the unenlightened. Not to say you aren’t enlightened, Highness! Only that here in Volkany, we’ve never wavered in our devotion. Consider all the good Immortal Vale and the others have already bestowed upon us.”

“Good? What good?” I nibble at the scone. Gods, it’sdivine.

“Why, just last week, Lord Artain cleared the forest of a wolf pack that’s been picking off farmers’ sheep. Lady Iyrevisited elderly soldiers still traumatized by the Twenty-One Day Battle—she eased their minds by taking away the worst memories. And Lord Woudix helped a priest crushed under a cart to have a peaceful death.”

I knit my mouth to the side as I chew, but can’t manage to hold in my real thoughts. “You know they drink human blood, right? Artain probablyatethe wolves. Iyre certainly bottled up those soldiers’ memories to use later. And Woudix? Who knows if the priest would have even died without the Ender’s “peaceful” assistance.”

I expect a gasp, but the maid only looks at me with that same piteous gaze. Gently, she sets down the plate of scones before heading to the door. “I feel sorry for you, Highness. That you were taught to see the cruelty in the world before the kindness. I’ll tell your father that you’re awake.”

She gives me a sad smile before leaving.

As soon as the door latches, I stomp over to the plate and stuff another scone in my mouth, but now, it tastes as dry and flavorless as sand.

I spit the mouthful out the window, staring southward over the mountains—the direction of Astagnon.

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