Page 49 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“They kill. Every time. When shot by an elven hand, that is. It’s not a pastime. More of a survival strategy. But creating them is something I do enjoy. It’s a repetitive activity that frees the mind. Knitting intrigues me too. One day I might take it up.”
“So you can knit deadly sweaters?”
He grinned. “Now that’s a worthy goal.”
They walked down a short flight of stairs onto a wide, roofless colonnade. Tall columns that served no apparent purpose lined their path. They were only halfway down the walkway when a screech pierced the air. Bristol reeled backward as the marble of one column came alive, a monstrous head jutting toward her with teeth and scales and flared nostrils. She screamed as a marble dragon strained toward her, nearly pinning her against the opposite column.
Cully grabbed her arm and pulled her a safe distance away. “It’s all right. All show, no bite. Sorry, that hasn’t happened in years. He must have sniffed new blood passing by.”
He stepped toward the writhing head of the beast, placing his palm on the creature’s marble snout. “Lovely, isn’t she, Pengary? We all think so, too. But you still have centuries to go. Back with you.” Cully gave him a small shove and the creature keened with a pitiful whine before it retreated, and the column became smooth stone once again.
Bristol’s chest pounded. “What wasthat? What is this place?” she asked, still staring at the now smooth column.
Cully smiled. “Judge’s Walk. We sometimes have banquets down here to rouse them from their stupors. Looks like we only need you.”
“Rousewho?”
“The worst of the worst. Malefactors who’ve committed crimes against the people of Elphame.” He motioned for them to continue walking. As they did, he told her Pengary was a shape-shifter during the eighth epoch and a trusted counselor to Queen Breona, but organized a plot to kill her in order to take control of the throne. Criminals who perpetrated regicide were sentenced to something worse than beheading and death: a millennium of imprisonment to contemplate their treachery. Cully stopped and pressed his hand against the smooth side of one column, explaining that from their marble prisons they could see but never touch, smell but never taste, desire but never have. “Life passes them by on a daily basis, but they can’t be part of it. By the time their sentence is over, they beg for death.”
“Is he a dragon?”
“Of sorts. An avydra. A fair-enough-sized one too, but not like the giant wild ones of the north seas. His kind are far more cunning. Like I said, he’s a shape-shifter, sometimes fully human, sometimes the beast you just saw. They’ve been banned from Danu and most of the kingdoms of Elphame for centuries. Their thirst for power is legendary. Luckily, their kind is dying out.”
“Did Pengary do it? Murder her?”
Cully nodded. “Burned her to death, actually. Then ate her. And her three young heirs, to be sure the job was done.”
Ate her?
Bristol gawked at the tall columns lining their path, her gaze trailing their entire length. “Do all these have prisoners?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “Like I said, these are only for the worst of the worst. Those who need to suffer before they die.”
Bristol’s heart was finally settling back into a normal rhythm when she said goodbye to Cully. She shut her door and leaned against it, closing her eyes.
Tyghan loomed in the darkness behind her lids, his hair dripping onto his bare chest, the towel low around his waist—and his scar. He’d been furious that she saw him that way, like she had discovered a dark secret. His scar wasn’t from a physician’s knife. Someone had tried to kill him.Who?she wondered. Maybe the worst of the worst that Cully had mentioned. It was surprising he survived at all.
She eyed her bed longingly, but forced herself to walk to her wardrobe and fling open the doors. It was time to go make friends, to seek out whatever information she could find. Her new apparel ranged from practical to ridiculously extravagant. One side of the wardrobe was full of trousers, plain shirts, jackets, and sturdy boots, useful for classes and drills, and the other side held dresses and gowns that would ordinarily be far too fancy for Bristol to wear—but every night in Elphame was a grand celebration.
She rubbed the silky fabric of an aquamarine dress between her fingers. Whether plain or extravagant, every garment was exquisitely made, and on close inspection, she saw every tiny painstaking stitch. It must have taken an army of skilled hands to make them so quickly.
She’d worn the plainest dresses so far, still accustomed to not drawing attention, though she noticed at evening festivities, most fae reveled in flamboyant styles—long capes that shimmered like a hummingbird’s throat, jeweled head coverings draped over hair, horn, and fur, flowing gowns made of thousands of small copper plates that rustled like wind chimes, each plate embossed with symbols that Bristol thought might be spells. She was careful not to brush up against those.
When she had remarked about the excessiveness of her wardrobe, Kasta explained that the tailors found great joy in their labor—Danu was well known for its fine fabrics and clothing—and if she never wore the clothing they made her, it would be an insult. They would think she wasn’t pleased with their work.
After her disastrous encounter with Mae, Bristol definitely wanted them to think she was pleased. That she was kind and agreeable. A Seelie sort of mortal. Friendly. That she was someone who could be trusted with their secrets. Someone theywantedto help. She pulled out a beautiful rust-colored gown trimmed with gold on the bodice and hem, and held it up to herself, staring at her reflection in the long oval mirror.
The shimmering dress was breathtaking, and the color brought out elusive red highlights in her brown hair—as if the tailors had known it would. Highlights even she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was only the lighting of the room, but it filled some holes inside her. It gave her a tiny connection to the gene train she always thought she had missed.
She put it on and smoothed her hands over the cool, silky bodice.
A worthy opponent.Tyghan’s words about her father slipped into her head.
It was true. And what she had said was true, too—her father taught her well. By the time she was nine, she had graduated from practicing with Cat to sparring with her father. He had pulled her aside so Cat wouldn’t hear and whispered,You’re the one with a fighter’s spirit, Brije. One day it will be up to you to protect your sisters.Except Bristol had never envisioned that day, and she had let those skills grow rusty.
No more.
She prayed that wherever her father was, he wasn’t suffering, and that somehow he knew she was coming for him.
