Shadow Cursed by May Sage Page 0,16

a sacrifice of one the caster loves needs to be done and buried along with four elemental stones—water, earth, fire, and air.

To me, that was the important part, but Ciera says, “The queen must be holding the heart of Tenebris?” She sighs in relief. "Thank the gods, we do have the heart.”

“Your Grace?”

“It was taken out of the Wicked Court by my father—with your assistance, unless I’m mistaken.”

I wouldn’t have guessed that the heart of Tenebris would be an actual object, rather than a fanciful notion about her popularity.

Was that the stone we’d retrieved?

“As for the four elements, we have air and earth, but fire and water…" Nero winces.

"We can ask Ash. Creating an elemental stone isn't easy, but with so many salamanders here, they should manage. Water is another matter. Do you think the Sea Court would speak to us?"

The queen and her mate whisper among themselves—I can tell I'm no longer needed.

"With your leave, then—"

Ciera's head snaps to me. "You have to stay. The lords will need to hear it all."

My lips thin. “I'm sure you can relay the information.” Too late, I remember to add, “My queen.”

She's displeased with me, but I can't bring myself to care. I bow, and I get out.

Already, I am tired, weary, and reeling from the day's events, but I have a promise to keep.

From the royal quarters, Vlari's room is close, but I lose my way once or twice in the unfamiliar passages. Soon, I'm back in front of the red door.

This time, I push it open without hesitation.

A Taste of History

Drusk

I slid one of my sister's books into the inside pocket of my cloak this morning, knowing where I'd end up going sometime today. To Vlari’s chamber.

She's been changed into another dress, and her hair is braided today. I wonder who's caring for her. Her mother? Her father? A servant?

The thought of anyone undressing her and taking liberties with her body while she sleeps unnerves me. She's so vulnerable. No woman has ever held more power in her grasp since the day of Nyx, and yet, she's as defenseless as a puppy. Someone could hurt her. Touch her. Steal a kiss.

I clear my throat, stepping forward.

"I believe we had a bargain. I certainly hope you’ve kept your end of it, princess."

A cold silence is the only answer I receive.

I start to read. Nebula is fond of great tales of warrior princesses and cursed knights. This book tells the story of a war I can't remember hearing of; the kingdoms are unfamiliar, but I recognize some names. Names of legendary folk, long buried. This is a story from the Old World, before our kind left to find a land more suited to the needs of the folk.

Alfheimr, our people called it, when they reached it. They were accompanied by three immortals, a thousand folk, and a hundred human servants.

This was supposed to be our world. Now, some three thousand years later, one of the only two fae kingdoms on our continent has been taken by mortals and traitors.

I wonder what Alara the Great, Conqueror of Death, Mavlan Spire, Air Whisperer, and Landrag Vern, Master of Darkness, would think of us now.

I can't say I pay any mind to what I read, until a line catches my attention.

I frown, silently reading it again, and then a third time.

Sir Vern melded the darkness so well, he could drown souls in its depth.

I would have dismissed it as more inane lyrical nonsense had I not done just that, again and again. Taken someone's body and mind, and contorted it under layers of shadows.

They're talking of mysting.

I'm stunned.

When Gendrion Frost found me in my village and told me the power I wielded was called myst, he mentioned no one had seen a Myst for an age. If books ever existed on this power, they'd long been forgotten. I was trained alone, in an experimental way. My tutors had no idea what I could do, what my limits were. I'm still not quite sure of the bounds of my power.

Yet this tiny pocket book printed not two winters ago mentions myst, under the surface. I am sure of it.

I close it, and turn it around, checking the attribution.

"A History of Fae, by Marren—79 AE."

It's a print of a book written not even a hundred years after our arrival in Alfheimr.

I catch a movement right in front of me, and lift my head.

Then I still.

Part of me wants to scream; the other could jump in elation.

Vlari's right