Page 63 of This Midsummer Heart
“We did it,” I exclaim, narrowly resisting my instinct to squeeze Titaine in my excitement.
It’s short-lived.
Seconds later, Titaine goes limp in my arms.
Chapter twenty-nine
The City of Ghosts
Titaine
Iremembernothingofthejourney to the southern continent, nor of arriving in La Ciudad de Nadie—known these days as the City of Ghosts.
I do not see the way the people of this city leap from their beds at the sound of horse hooves after midnight. I can only picture the way the street lights up from candles in every household’s window, a thing the people of this city do for every poor soul who wanders through the city gates too late for their safety.
I do not see the way the shades that roam the nighttime streets of this ancient, stone city bow and part as Auberon rides through its streets, how none of them will touch so much as a hair on the tail of his pure white horse.
I do not see the way the ghosts gather to watch him pass.
I do not hear him bellow for help at the gates of Nadie’s La Casa Encantadora, or give orders like a king, or see the reactions of these fetes, known here as the enchanters, as they see my wounds. I can barely recall how I got them.
And I do not see Auberon collapse the moment I am untied from him and taken into the safety of the fetes’ grounds.
I see and remember none of this, and yet I hear of it, told over and over again, with each new arrival of fetes come to tend to me, everyencantadorcomparing notes with the others as they gather tales from the city folk. Their voices are full of admiration, and sometimes confusion.
“Who is this elf king, to command shades and ghosts?” one of the fetes demands, scoffing. “If I had known all we needed was a dark elf to make the city safe, I would’ve written to them ages ago!”
“Maybe it’s because he’s their king,” another suggests.
“How do you know he’s a king? He hasn’t said a word since we took the lady from him in the courtyard.”
There’s a sigh of fabric, as if the other fete is gesturing or shrugging. She seems at a loss for words. “I just think he’s a king.”
The first speaker snorts.
“Really! The humans who saw him ride in think it, too. They say he is Auberon, King of the Dark Elves and Houselord of all elves.”
“Then that might make the lady Titaine.”
“No—it couldn’t be. Where is her golden glow? Where is her great magic to protect her from enemy blades? And why on earth would she be traveling with her former bonded one?”
“I’m sure there’s a story there, Mercurial. We will have to be patient and tend her well in order to hear it.”
I open my eyes to filtered sunlight in a bed so soft, it could only be made with the auspices of magic. The sheets are like silk against my skin. And yet every inch of me hurts, every movement bringing a burning pain.
“She’s awake!” the one called Mercurial says, still blurry in my vision. I blink the cloudiness away, only to find she remains unclear even after the rest of the room sharpens.
I’m in a spartan room, the walls a honeyed white and the few pieces of furniture faded to the color of driftwood. These sheets, though, are blindingly white, seeming to reflect the sun from the window behind the high headboard.
“Not sure you should be sitting up just yet, my lady,” the other fete says. Again, I cannot quite make her out, as if her features are smudged—but I do not think that’s the fault of my eyes. She is taller than many elves, her body twig-like. There is something of the dark fae in these two, which might explain why they aren’t clearly visible in this bright room.
I manage to sit up anyway, pressing a hand to the pain in my abdomen, as if that will make it stop. “Where am I?” I ask, my voice full of rust.
“Your are in the House of the fae enchanters, my lady. That is Mercurial, one of our best healers.”
“And she is Chartrix Evanora,” Mercurial adds. It sounds like Chartrix is a title.
My skin prickles at the introductions.They practice name magic here.Like the fetes of old, they do not freely give their own names.
