“Lady Weaver.” I nodded, recognizing the Seelie Court’s head seamstress, and stifled the urge to rub my arms. I’d met her before on my first trip into Faery, and like before, her presence made me feel itchy, as if thousands of bugs were crawling over my skin.
“Come, come,” Lady Weaver said, beckoning me with one pale, spiderlike hand. “The battle is about to commence, and your father wished for me to design your armor.” She led me toward the back of the tent, where something shimmered in the gloom, held up by thin white strands. “It is my best work so far. What do you think?”
At first glance, it looked like a long coat of some sort, fastened at the waist and split to flare out behind the legs. Looking closer, I saw that the material was made up of tiny scales, flexible to the touch, yet impossibly strong. The back was strewn with intricate designs that looked almost geometric in nature. Gauntlets, greaves, leggings, and boots, made of the same scaly material, completed the outfit.
“Wow,” I said, drawing closer. “It’s beautiful.”
Lady Weaver sniffed.
“As usual, my talents are underappreciated,” she sighed, snapping her fingers at the two satyrs, who hurried forward. “Here I am, the greatest seamstress in the Nevernever, reduced to weaving dragon-scale armor for unrefined half-breeds. Very well, girl. Try it on. It will fit perfectly.”
The satyrs helped me into the suit, which was lighter and more flexible than I’d thought it would be. Except for the gauntlets and greaves, I didn’t even feel like I was in armor. Which I guessed was kind of the point.
“Nice,” came a voice at the door, and Puck strolled in. I blinked in surprise. He was dressed for battle, too, in a leather breastplate over a suit of silvery-green mail, dark leather gauntlets, and knee-high boots. A green cloth hung from his belt, decorated with curling vines and leaves, and thick shoulder plates jutted out from his collarbone, looking like rough, spiky bark.
“Surprised, princess?” Puck shrugged, causing his shoulder spikes to jerk up. “I don’t normally wear armor, but then, I don’t normally have to face an army of Iron fey, either. Figured I might as well have some protection.” He scanned my outfit and nodded with appreciation. “Impressive. Real dragon-scale—that’ll hold up to almost anything.”
“I hope so,” I murmured, and Lady Weaver snorted.
“Of course it will, girl,” she snapped, pursing her bloodless lips at me. “Who do you think designed this suit? Now, shoo. I have other things to work on. Out!”
Puck and I fled, ducking out of the tent. The camp was nearly empty now, ranks upon ranks of Summer and Winter fey lining the edge of the metal forest. Waiting for the battle to begin.
I shivered and rubbed my arms. As if reading my thoughts, Puck moved closer and put a hand on my elbow. “Don’t worry, princess,” he said. And though his voice was light, there was a hard edge to his smile. “Any Iron bastard that wants you will have to get past me, first.” He rolled his eyes. “And of course, the dark knight over there.”
“Where?” I followed his gaze, just in time to see Ash appear from behind a tent and walk toward us. His armor gleamed under the sun, black marked with icy silver, a stylized wolf head on the breastplate. He looked incredibly dangerous, the black knight out of legend, a tattered cape fluttering behind him.
“Oberon has called for you,” he announced, taking in my suit with a single, approving nod. “He wants you to stay near the back, where the fighting won’t reach you. He has a platoon of bodyguards stationed there to protect—”
“I’m not going.”
Both Ash and Puck blinked at me. “I’m fighting,” I said in the firmest voice I could manage. “I don’t want to hang back and watch everyone die for me. This is my war, too.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, princess?”
I glanced at Puck and smiled. “Are you going to stop me?”
He held up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He grinned and shook his head. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
I looked at Ash, wondering what he thought of this, if he would try to talk me down. He gazed back with a solemn expression, teacher to student, sizing me up. “You’ve never fought in a real war,” he said softly, and I caught the trace of worry in his voice. “You don’t know what real battle is like. It’s nothing like a one-on-one duel. It will be violent and bloody and chaotic, and you won’t have any time to think about what you’re doing. The things you’ve seen, the things you’ve experienced—nothing will have prepared you for this. Goodfellow and I will protect you as best we can, but you will have to fight, and you will have to kill. Without mercy. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes.” I raised my chin and stared back, meeting his eyes. “I’m sure.”
“Good.” He nodded once, and turned toward the looming forest. “Because here they come.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CREEPING IRON