out what that look had been. Warning? Something else?
The rotunda was just the same, its misty starlit dome full of secrets and whispers, its floor a gold-chased map of Summer’s domains, shifting and wavering as the sidhepaths moved according to whim and their own quixotic laws. He glanced down, noted Copperswood and Fall Reil had switched places, and stepped squarely onto Darweil with a certain queasy satisfaction.
That had been his first duel, so long ago. Fresh from the railway cars and the scrabble of mortal streets, drunk with the possibilities of the sideways realms, and full of petty pride.
He had not always been of the Summer Court. Maybe he should have told Robin as much.
Three steps up, and the doors—still giant, but smaller than the front ones—chimed softly as they slowly opened, flowerlike petals of gemmed metal. The light behind them was bright noon, dazzling after the rotunda’s dusk.
So she wanted to impress him? A lowly Half-mortal knight who had spurned Court and vanished, leaving behind the glass badge?
Just how desperate was the plague? Well, the Gates were still unopened. Summer couldn’t delay much longer, though; the spring would curdle.
The Great Hall, for feasting and ceremony, soared away from him on all sides. The glare was her first mistake, and the second was one he did not realize until much later, even though he witnessed it.
White stone, with green veins shifting lazily through its flow. The columns, fluted and delicate, held the massive carven roof high, and there was a slight tinkling. Apple-blossom scent filled the air, as well as the perpetually falling petals—he had wondered, for a long time, where they all came from, and decided it was a glamour so old it sustained itself with little trouble.
Beware the mask, old gnarled Fuillpine had once sneered at him, for it becomes truth.
Fuillpine had died on the lance, a duel engineered by Summer, for whatever reason. Perhaps she didn’t like his cynicism. Even now Jeremiah’s arms tingled, the marks shifting madly under his coat. He was neither warm nor cold, will holding temperature in abeyance.
Just like any sidhe.
The petals stayed on the floor, pristine snowdrifts, until they were bruised or stepped upon. Then they vanished, puffing up ghosts of delicious scents to match the apple perfume. As soon as they were marred, they died, mortal as any of his coworkers.
The hall was empty, except for her, at the end, her reclining couch on the low dais. White as snow, carmine lips, the green Jewel on her forehead singing to itself, as usual. She was robed in twilight, shimmering heavy fur and velvet, as if she felt a chill.
He took in the changes with a swift glance—there was a column of amber beside her couch on the dais with its star-pattern. Looked like a statue. Naked, a youth with a proud but immature erection, his hands lifted as if he pleaded. There was a marvelous accuracy in the carving, as fine as the bark of the trees in her wood.
The draperies had become dusty blue instead of the deep heart’s-blood red of his youth, and there was no tinkling music. Had she even dismissed the minstrels?
Good God. Summer without her constant music. It beggared belief.
Robin, behind him, barely faltered. Still, the hesitation between two of her steady steps was as loud as a shout in the hush.
The ageless, beautiful face glowed as the Seelie Queen lay on her side, watching them approach. “Here he comes,” Summer murmured, her voice just as beautiful as ever. Just as soulless. “A champion, one who faced plagued Unseelie and triumphed. Hail, Armormaster.”
That is not my name. He restrained himself with an almost-physical effort. He remembered those exquisite fingers against his sweating flesh, her quiet laugh when he spent himself, shuddering with loathing.
Perhaps she remembered as well. She had not called him to her bed often, and even at the time he’d had enough sense to be glad of that. You had to be half insane to couch with Summer; still, she had her ways of enticing even when a man wanted nothing to do with it.
His throat was dry, but he managed to sound crisp and calm. “Greetings to Summer.” Barely polite, not delivered on one knee, and brief. He settled his backpack higher on his shoulders and halted before the dais, gazing up at her. “You sent your errand girl, and she brought me. Speak.”
Even he couldn’t believe he’d said it. It was a relief to find his body, for once, not noticing the