“Why are you helping us?” Isbe asks quietly.
“Because,” Sister Genevieve says. “If you really are who Mother Hildegarde says you are, and you plan to seal an alliance between Aubin and Deluce against Malfleur, then we might consider you two our only hope.”
Sister Katherine murmurs in agreement. “Only thing more evil than the faerie queen of LaMorte is her dead sister. Nothin’ was ever as bad as the Night Faerie, a’ course.”
Sister Genevieve ignores her comment. “But you two will have to somehow survive the sickness and the mounting presence of LaMorte soldiers. It’s said they’re immune to it—those beaks they wear protect them somehow—which means for all we know they’ve already got plans to seize the palace. Time is of the essence. You’ll never do it without help.”
“And so you’re leading us to . . . ,” William begins.
“The Veiled Road, a’ course,” Katherine answers.
“Veiled Road?” Isbe asks.
“It’s a safe route through the kingdom,” Genevieve explains.
“Mostly servants in noble houses an’ the like,” Sister Katherine adds, “willin’ to help each other out in the case of a military takeo’er.”
Isbe marvels and thrills at the idea of the Veiled Road, delighting to imagine the council’s shock if they were to find out how organized some parts of the serfdom really are. At the same time, this information is only further proof of what William told her back in Aubin—that Deluce’s aristocracy is famous for not understanding the lives and needs of its own peasants. It’s something that really needs to change if Deluce is ever to become the kind of nation that can truly defend itself and respond to the needs of the people. A kingdom divided is a kingdom doomed—that much is obvious. Certainly it is obvious to Malfleur.
Isbe’s heart rate picks up again as she reminds herself of the urgency of her journey. She needs to awaken Aurora, undoing the curse and giving a sign to Malfleur that her country is not as weak as it seems. But then what?
Then they will have to defend themselves, with the help of William’s armies.
They will have to fight.
27
Malfleur,
the Last Faerie Queen
Mountain folk hold a very different view of hunting than plains folk do. Though she resisted at first, the queen has come to learn the nature of the LaMorte people over time, and even to admire their savage, survivalist ways. Still, she hadn’t realized how much she missed the more civilized hunting rituals she grew up with—the rhythmic mass of horses moving in unison across wide fields and then the blur of mottled leaves as they cantered through the royal forest. The hounds’ zealous barks, echoing under the metallic arc of dawn. The rapid pounding of hooves reverberating through her entire being until she felt herself to be both an intrinsic part of the living landscape and its master, its god.
The queen digs her heels into her stallion’s side and leans forward, savoring the wind in her hair as she races across the greenest valley in the territories. It has been a long time since she has been out on a hunt like this. For a moment, she can almost forget that her kingdom is on the brink of war—a war of her own creation.
She hears her cousin Almandine catching up to her now as they head back to the castle, empty-handed.
“Did you invite me out here after all these years simply to show off your superior riding form?” her cousin asks with a smirk. Her courser’s hooves splash across wet mud. “Or to gauge the likelihood of my support for your campaign?”
Neither, Malfleur thinks as she takes in Almandine’s impeccable posture, her body almost an extension of the animal’s. She’s tall for a woman; tall for a faerie too. And unlike most of their other remaining relatives, she has kept up her appearance over the last century, though her hair always has the look of someone who has only recently gotten out of bed.
Yes, Almandine remains one of the prettiest and most self-possessed of the lesser nobility. If Malfleur were to desire the company of other fae, she might in fact choose Almandine over the likes of Claudine or Binks, or that blithering Violette.
“Aren’t I allowed a visit every once in a while, for nostalgia’s sake?” the queen asks.
Almandine shrugs, trotting ahead. Perhaps she even believes Malfleur. After all, a joy in the sports of hunting and hawking was, in fact, one of the few things Malfleur and Almandine used to have in common when they were much younger, though for different reasons. While Malfleur took pleasure in the art of the chase, Almandine was drawn to the athleticism of riding—and the ample opportunities a hunting party afforded for drinking and flirtation, of course.
But this morning, Malfleur didn’t have any real intention of capturing prey—at least, not the type to be caught with a bow and arrow.
She has her eye on a far more elusive prize.
She and Almandine approach Blackthorn, their entourage trailing behind. From this angle, it rises up before them regal and full of old-fashioned elegance, unlike the palace in Deluce. Once her childhood home, the Delucian palace now bears almost no resemblance to what it looked like then. King Henri, along with the string of mortal monarchs that came before him over the past hundred or so years, made continual updates to the architecture and interior—paintings that once depicted the faerie histories were replaced with giant portraits of human kings, with their thick beards and rolling stomachs—until the place began to reek of excess and bombast.
You’d never know that a couple of little faerie twins, Malfleur and Belcoeur, used to run through those very halls, laughing and carving notes to each other in the walls. You’d never know there used to be dozens of hidden passages connecting various rooms to form a sort of secret maze throughout the castle. Now, as far as Malfleur knows, their entrances have all been filled in with cheap plaster.
But ever since Malfleur assumed control of the LaMorte Territories all those years ago, she has taken great pains to keep Blackthorn’s original beauty intact.