29
“Her hair is in a hopeless tangle.” My head jerks to the side as a comb is run through my braid, trying to unravel it.
“She’s human, Gallie,” says a soft voice. “Be careful.”
Am I dead? Is this some sort of hell?
Something clamors against a table. “Hopeless, see? We’re better off cutting the knots out.” Movement, right next to me. Rummaging.
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” I say feebly, hoping they didn’t already take off my clothing and see what’s underneath. “Please.”
A pause.
I open my eyes to see two stunningly beautiful women. Their tan skin is glimmering, like they’ve been brushed by starlight. Their eyes are like freshly cut emeralds. Unlike mine right now, their hair shines, tied into perfectly smooth waterfall braids running down both sides of their heads, before meeting in the back to form an intricate shape. A blooming rose, for one. A bow, for the other. They’re wearing gleaming, otherworldly fabrics, one in pink, the other in purple. I blink, confused, unbelieving. The last thing I remember is gates, crafted from wood. Were we saved?
The silver woman, she— “She’s awake!” the one in purple says. Gallie, apparently. The one who wanted to cut my hair.
“We won’t,” the one in pink says, in response to me.
If my dirt-crusted discomfort is any indication, they didn’t try to change me out of my clothes, whoever they are. I look down to see I’ve ruined the perfect, silk-soft linens they placed me on.
It makes me think of someone else who would be just as dirty as I am right now.
“Where … where is he?” I ask warily, a pinch of worry forming in my chest. I remember the poison. How we both collapsed.
Gallie smiles mischievously. “Just down the hall. Growling at anyone who goes anywhere near him.”
Yes. That sounds exactly like normal Raker behavior. Relief runs through
me, far sharper than expected.
“He’s handsome,” Gallie says, smiling.
I frown. “You saw his face?”
“No,” she says. “But I can tell. Just by the way he walks.” So he’s up and walking? I don’t know who these people are … but clearly, they healed us. I swallow, only to feel my throat smooth again. As if they somehow fed me water while I was sleeping.
The one in pink shakes her head in a long-suffering way.
“He’s a demon,” I tell Gallie.
She shrugs. “Demons can be handsome.”
“And how would you know that?” the one in pink snaps, exasperated.
I blink at them. They seem friendly, but what if they’re not? “Who—who are you?”
The one in pink smiles. “I’m Este. This is my sister, Galice.”
Sister. I feel the familiar pang of sadness, seeing them together,
remembering what I once had.
“I’m Aris,” I say slowly.
Then, suddenly, I feel a rush of panic. Something is missing. “Where’s my sword?” No one is supposed to be able to move it.
I’m still alive … Did it choose someone else? Did it abandon me?
Gallie blinks, unfazed by my alarm. “The blacksmith took them.
Weapons aren’t allowed here.”
“How—how did he move it?”
Este’s voice is more understanding. “Blacksmiths have ways with metal.
They can move any sword, even claimed ones. Even ancient ones. It’s their power.”
My first instinct is to not believe her. I don’t believe any of them. She’s immortal. She’s glowing, though faintly.
But when she puts her hand on mine, I see something in her. Something that reminds me of the mysterious woman who led us to safety.
“The Elders will explain everything.” Este rises, offering her hand.
“Come. We’ve drawn a bath.”
I blink. I should run out of this room. I should find my sword, and Raker, and get the hell out of here.
But I’m still exhausted. And … they clearly helped us. Trust, I think, must sometimes be worth it. So I follow her through the ornate, strange room and into another.
The bath is a massive sparkling geode filled with steaming water, with flower petals and sprigs of lavender swirling on the surface.
“These will help with your pain and injuries,” she says, motioning toward the nature. “The plants have healing properties. We already put some on your forehead while you were sleeping.” So that’s why I feel strong enough to stand. It must have counteracted the poison somehow.
“Here you go,” Gallie says, offering an entire tray of different soaps.
“Use all of them. Please.” There are roses and valerian woven through the thick pieces, but even then, they don’t smell half as good as Raker’s. “And this.” She places vials of oils and liquids on the lip of the tub. “You need to wash your hair like twelve times,” she says, before Este shoots her a look.
“What? She ruined my comb. It was from a siren!” She holds up what looks like snapped sea glass.
I don’t know whether to laugh or scoff, but Este grabs her sister by the arm and drags her through the towering bathroom doors. They whisper shut.
And then I’m left alone.
I look around the room. It’s made of bark, leaves covering the walls, ivy crawling across it.
There are no windows. I lock the doors, just in case.
Then, carefully, I take off my clothing.
My skin is raw and dry. Dirt has crusted around my ankles and wrists. I slowly lower myself into the bath and tense, before sighing in relief.
Este was right. The bath does help. I pour what looks like honey into my hand and smell it. It’s sweet and rich, a nectar that glides across my skin effortlessly. There are a thousand sparkles inside. It makes my body gleam.
The next is purple, like Gallie’s dress. I put it in my hair, sliding my fingers against my scalp, then washing every strand.
Another smells like the sea. It’s a thick paste, with salt and dark sand. I use it to get the dirt off. I scrub and scrub, and for a moment, I enjoy.
This journey is not about pleasure, but right now I let myself sit back and breathe. I’m alive. I’m here in this mysterious, glittering place. I’ve made it this far.
Another brush has been left by the tub. I comb it through my hair, starting at the bottom. It takes several minutes, and winces, but finally, under the oil’s command, it goes smooth again, the knots forgotten.
I mourn the bath the second I step out of it. A cloud of a towel is waiting on a stone surface. It wraps completely around me, like a blanket, and is as soft as one. Only when I frown at my pile of dirty clothing do I wonder what I’m going to wear.
I don’t wonder for long. The door creaks slightly as I poke my head out into the room, relieved to find it empty.
A pile of dresses is stacked on the bed.
Este and Gallie must have noticed the modesty of my clothing, because all of them are long-sleeved and high-necked, unlike theirs, which showed plenty of skin. A warm seed forms in my chest at that notice. At that consideration.
My hands run through the fabrics with wonder. They feel liquid. They glow as if drenched in moonlight, almost as brightly as the ones the woman
who saved me wore.
Who was she?
I choose a dark blue one that molds to my form but feels like I’m not wearing anything at all. It’s a balm against my tired, aching skin, and puddles at my feet. I decide to go barefoot, not in a rush to be in my cramped boots so soon. Instead of braiding my hair back into my typical style, I shrug and keep it down to dry.
The moment I step out of the room, Gallie and Este stop speaking.
They’ve been waiting there.
Gallie blinks. “Wow. The oils work wonders.”
Este squeezes her arm. Her face brightens. “You look vibrant, Aris. You
always did, but now …”
“I’m not covered in dirt and mud?”
She smiles. “Exactly.” She motions me forward. “Come. They’ll want to see you.”
Right. The mysterious Elders she mentioned before. I follow the sisters down bridges that cut through trees and are suspended with dangling vines.
I see him first.
Raker, his sword on his back despite the rules. I almost smile, imagining his fury when he woke up without it. I pity the blacksmith.
His hood is still up, of course, mask still on. His clothes are washed. His boots aren’t covered in mud anymore. I can see by the set of his shoulders that he’s on guard and irritated. He’s very noticeably turned away from the two people next to him.
Este and Gallie bow. “Elders. May we present Aris.”
A man and a woman turn, and I’m momentarily stunned by their brilliance. Their skin is smooth as stone. There’s a soft silver glow around their bodies, and their hair and clothes float in a gentle wind reserved just for them.
The man wears a suit of silk, with glowing leaves accenting his shoulders. His buttons are made from acorns. His skin is dark, his eyes a searing amber. The woman is wearing a dress of glimmering, slightly transparent gossamer. It hardly covers much. Pink roses are stuck on the fabric and on her moon-white skin. She wears several layers of glittering necklaces around her neck.
She smiles, and it’s like a ray of sunshine. “You were asleep for a while.
We were starting to worry.”
By we, I suppose she means her and the man next to her, because I don’t see a hint of worry in Raker’s posture. If anything, he looks angry.
She picks a flower from the plant next to her and offers it to me. It has a long green stem and curved, bulbous, light pink petals, shaped like a goblet.
Inside sits slightly silvery water. “Drink,” she says, her voice slightly resonant and drawn out. “It will help the thirst and hunger.”
I’ve never drunk from a flower before, but I bring the petals to my lips, and they’re soft as velvet. The liquid smells sweet.
I tip it back like a cup, and the moment the nectar hits my tongue, sweetness melts through my mouth. It’s not just the taste. Instantly, I feel the balm in my bones, the energy through my limbs. It’s as if I’ve slept a full month and eaten a feast.
I throw my head back, draining every last drop. When I finally put the flower down, the Eldress is smiling. “Better?”
I nod, then look around, my vision sharper than before somehow. “What is this place?”
“For us, it’s home. For others … it’s known as the Traveling City.” The paradise that is constantly moving, appearing in various woods. The one Xara spoke of. The place Kira’s sword came from.
“You’re the faelings,” I say, looking at them with even greater notice than before.
The Elders both bow their heads in confirmation, the diadems they wear sparkling beneath the moonlight.
Moonlight. I look up, only to be greeted by a blanket of stars. Panic grips my bones. “It’s night. Shouldn’t we—”
The Eldress studies my brow, the fold in it, as if worry is unfamiliar. “Ah.
The demons.” She shakes her head. “They can’t come here. The light keeps them out.” She motions around her. There’s a shimmer over everything, like a dusting of stars. There are tiny puddles of it, between the crooks of trees, and smeared along branches. Orbs of the light are threaded through some of the treetops, larger versions of the strings she wears around her neck.
“Starlight. We’re descended from the stars themselves. Their glow is in us.” She takes me in with curiosity … and a bit of hesitancy. “A human hasn’t found us in centuries.”
I lift a shoulder. “I can’t take credit for finding you. I was led.” I can almost feel Raker’s questioning gaze on me.
At the Eldress and Elder’s obvious interest, I continue. “There was a woman. She came to me, almost like a dream. She … could fly. She floated right above me.”
There’s a sharp inhale, followed by shattering glass. I turn around as Este apologizes, picking up the pieces of what looks to be a vial.
“Is … is something wrong?” I ask, searching their faces for answers.
But the Elder and Eldress simply share an unreadable look before he says, “What was the color of her dress?”
“Silver,” I say.
The world seems to go silent. I do too, remembering the worst night of my life. Remembering the woman wearing silver. Silver. The color of the gods.
But this woman’s hair was blond. And her eyes weren’t hardened with
cruelty.
“Was she a god?” I ask.
“No,” the Eldress says. “That was the Astral Queen.”
I blink. “Is she … one of you?”
She shakes her head. “She belongs only to herself. She’s older than these lands, than any of us, than many of the gods.” Her brow furrows. “She must want you to complete your journey. Helping a human … how curious.” She
looks at the Elder. He nods gravely.
“What—”
“You must leave. If the Astral Queen is helping you, then the gods are against you.” She’s right.
My chest fills with dread, thinking about that cavalry and bounty. And leaving in the darkness would be a death sentence— “Eldress, Elder,” Este says, stepping forward. Her eyes are fierce, but her voice is polite. “We certainly can offer the mere basics of hospitality.” Her head dips. “They did find us, after all. Even with help … the gates appeared to them.” Pure and utter gratitude for Este smothers any lingering bitterness at the fact that her sister wanted to cut off my hair.
It seems there are rules, or traditions, as old as the Traveling City that must be adhered to. The Eldress lifts her chin. She looks over at the Elder, and I hope they both don’t decide to change the rules now.
“Very well. You can stay until first light. Then, you must go.” Her voice softens only slightly. “Tonight … rest, eat. Dance, if you’d like.”
I don’t think she understands how far away Raker is from ever dancing.
“Enjoy all the city has to offer, as our … esteemed guests.” She says that last part with more than a little reluctance. Then, she lifts a hand, and glimmering stardust falls from her fingers. “Welcome to the Traveling City,
home of wonder and whimsy.”
She turns to go.
“My sword,” I say, stumbling forward, knowing I’m pushing my luck.
“I’d … I’d like to speak with the blacksmith, if that’s okay.”
The Elder’s eyes move from Raker back to me. “He is currently … recovering. He should be able to see you tomorrow, before you leave.”
I glare at Raker.
The Eldress and Elder bow in unison before finally leaving us.
“Come,” Este says, still looking a little haunted. “Let’s get you some food.”
As much as I want to eat an entire feast, after consuming just a few fruits and vegetables, my stomach twists, as if it’s still adjusting to having something fill it. I excuse myself from the meal early and lie in bed, trying and failing to find sleep.
Hours later, I finally get up. If I’m not going to rest, I might as well explore this famous Traveling City. Maybe I can find something useful for either killing the gods … or speeding up our quest.
The stone floors, cold and smooth beneath my bare feet, are long shards of different shades of marble, like a giant mosaic I can’t fully see. The wooden railings are carved in legends, stories of battles long fought and won. The windows don’t have glass; they’re just gold arches that look out into a courtyard of trees brimming with endless flowers of every shade.
The palace is quiet. Most faelings must be sleeping. I should be sleeping too, I think, especially with the Eldress’s warning and her insistence that we leave first thing tomorrow, but instead I wander down the stone steps, and out into the night, knowing I’ll likely never get this chance again.
I walk down roads lined in thick oaks, so wide that houses have been carved into their trunks. Up above, strings of starlight glisten like an extra sky, draped over bridges that dart through the trees in half a dozen levels, each one looking like a completely different market. I imagine they house the world’s rarest, most coveted relics. Specks of silver cover most surfaces,
making everything gleam like a galaxy.
Home of wonder and whimsy.
No wonder so many people try to find this place.
I keep walking until I reach the golden tree that sits in the center of the Traveling City. It has an energy. A force. A feeling. I reach out to touch one of its weak branches, hanging like hair. It’s surprisingly sturdy beneath my fingers. And the leaves— They’re pure gold. My thumb runs across one of them in wonder.
“It’s a gild willow. Their bark is coveted. So is their nectar.” Este.
The faeling steps next to me, running her fingers over one of the branches. “Look,” she says, dropping it against another. It emits a high- pitched, beautiful ringing. “In a strong breeze, it’ll play a song.”
A song. My mother would have loved to see this tree. She would have loved every single thing in this Traveling City. So would my sister.
“You lost someone,” Este says, knocking me from my memories.
I turn to look at her.
She lifts a shoulder. “It’s the eyes. They’re hardened, like they can’t ever light up again. I lost my mother.” She nods and repeats herself. “You lost someone.”
I shake my head. “I lost … everyone.” I drop the branch, and the full note it emits is completely at odds with the hollowness of my heart.
“I’m sorry.” Este studies me. She must have guessed I’m on the Questral.
“Pain is a powerful motivator, I suppose.”
I shake my head. “No. Pain is paralyzing. Revenge … revenge is
galvanizing.”
Her mouth tightens.
“What? Judging me?” I strum the branches again.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m afraid for you. Revenge ruins. It corrupts.
I’ve seen it.” I wonder what, exactly, she’s seen. Is she hundreds of years
old? Thousands?
However old she is, she’s right.
I know that. I’ve always known. This rage is choking; it’s all- encompassing. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter.
“How does it end?” she asks gently. “Your quest?”
“With death,” I say simply, dropping another branch. It rings.
And Este takes a shaking step back. Her eyes are wide. She looks startled, like she did a few hours ago when I mentioned the woman in silver.
“What is it?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “I—Sometimes words … they crystalize.
Harden, in my mind. They—” She shakes her head, and her expression is replaced by a tight smile. “I—I should go.” She turns and runs off. I watch her pink dress and rose-styled hair shift wildly before she disappears.
It’s only then that I notice them—wings on her back. They’re hanging limp, spilling down her spine in thick gleaming strands, like sparkling
ribbons. What—
“Already scaring people away?”
Raker.
I turn and give him a pointed glare. “If only.”
He takes a few steps toward me. “This place—”
“Is wonderful.”
“—is ridiculous.”
I reach down and run my fingers through the silver glitter that coats everything. Without losing eye contact with the shadow beneath his hood, I
smooth my fingers up his armor, smearing the glimmer toward his hidden face, until his hand reaches up, fast as lightning, and stops my wrist.
I try to move, but I might as well be battling stone.
“Don’t,” he warns.
Fine.
He releases his hold, and I flick my fingers, glitter exploding into the darkness of his hood. He propels himself away from me, coughing and sputtering, as if he’s been poisoned. It’s then that I realize he must not be wearing his mask. Did he take it off to get some fresh air?
I can’t see anything, though I try.
“Oh no. The pile of snakes beneath your hood is now covered in sparkles.
What a shame.”
“Witch,” he says.
“Demon.”
He takes a step forward, anger radiating off him. “Fool.”
“Bastard.”
Another step. “Weakling.”
He’s right in front of me now. I tip my head up, and in the dark, with that hood, I still can’t catch a glimpse of his face. “Is that all? I’m disappointed.”
“Duel with me,” he says, not missing a beat.
I blink. “What?” I say, shocked and breathless.
His head lowers. “Your words are weak. Your blade isn’t. If you’re going to fight with me, then fight with me.”
It sounds as much like a threat as an invitation.
I swallow at his proximity. He’s right there. Blocking everything. He’s so close, I can smell him, and—he smells like his soap. Like he used it instead of the ones here. I breathe it in, fighting back a groan, burying the shameful memories of my lips against his throat. “My—my blade is with the
blacksmith.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Then get it.”
I don’t even know where the blacksmith is, but I make to step around his body, mostly just to get away from him and the confusing thoughts that bloom in his presence, but he takes a step and cages me in.
“You said—”
He tilts his head at me in a clear challenge. That’s when I remember the times he called to his blade—how it spiraled into his grip.
“I can’t do that.”
“Try.”
I think back to before, when I almost lost it and attempted the exact same thing. “I have tried.”
His voice is unimpressed. “So that’s it? You try something once and are
done with it?”
No. Asshole.
He takes a step back, as if he has all the time in the world to stand and watch me fail at this.
I don’t want to fail. I want to wipe what is a no doubt smug expression
off his coil-of-snakes face.
“Fine.”
I dig my feet into the ground as if I’m about to fight. I take a breath. I clear my head. I remember watching Raker do this, over and over.
I extend my arm to the side with every ounce of force— Nothing.
“Call to it,” he says. His voice is right above me. “Like you’re calling out a name.”
“My sword doesn’t have a name,” I say through my teeth.
“Every sword has a name.”
I frown. Was I supposed to name it? Suddenly, I can’t think of a single word to save my life. I don’t know— Breathe. Sometimes, I just need to remind myself to take a full breath. I do, and then I imagine vines digging through my feet, rooting me in place, keeping me in this moment. I imagine a wave washing through my head, clearing it of any worry or pain.
Then, I think of my sword. Of its patterns. Of the moment I first gripped its hilt, and the sound of silver shattering against it. I imagine it in my mind’s eye, and then, out of the darkness, out of the quiet— A voiceless command. A word, written into my mind, with a different sense. I can’t see it or hear it—I just know it.
Stellaris.
I don’t know if that was always its name. Or if its name merged with mine, though the pronunciation is different, sounding like the words are and is combined. Or if I—subconsciously—named it as a tribute to me and Stellan.
But I whisper it into the night, and it sounds like a spell.
“Stellaris.”
Glass shatters. Branches snap. Chaos erupts. There’s a high pitch as metal cuts through sound and space.
Then something heavy crashes into my hand, threatening to break my wrist or send me stumbling back.
But I stand strong and wrap my fingers around it, holding my blade with one hand for the first time. It glows for a moment, as if it’s speaking. As if it’s recognizing me, the same way I’ve recognized it.
I fall into my fighting stance and face Raker.
For a moment, he’s very still, watching. I’ve never wanted to see his face more, if only to see if he’s pleased, or surprised, or anything at all.
Then, a moment later, his blade is against mine.
Stellaris hums, and both blades glimmer for one startling second. I don’t give in to the distraction. I move, slicing my metal down his, turning, almost meeting flesh.
But he’s fast. He’s fast as if he’s spent every waking minute fighting.
Armies have fallen against his sword, but mine is strong too.
Now that I know its name, I can feel its presence. Its energy. Its desire to win.
It pulses in my grip, as if pushing me forward, and I move. The flower’s healing nectar running through my veins, I lunge with strength I’ve never known, with conviction and trust in myself and my metal.
Another clash of weapons echoes through the city center, seeming to rumble the surrounding trees and the homes built into them, and the bridges that span several hundred feet above, intersecting one over the other in ethereal crosses just like our blades.
Raker turns, aiming for my side, but I block his metal, then immediately strike, sending him moving. Again, again, again, this is forgetting, this is bantering, this is playing, this is my mind emptying for a moment and my instincts taking over. Because nothing—nothing but being in the forge has ever felt like this.
This is clashing, gasping, heart-thundering, metal-pulsing, exhilarating madness.
And it’s not just this way for me. I can tell, by the way Raker’s moving.
By the way he’s actually trying.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say, breathless, turning, brushing strands of the tree with my body, the gold clinking together in its haunting song.
His voice is annoyingly steady, reminding me that if he really wanted to end this, he could. “Winning? I can’t say I hate it.”
I whirl around and feel the clash of our swords in my teeth. No. It’s more than that. “You asked for this. Why?”
Another strike. He goes for my gut, but he did the same move last time we practiced. I remember. His metal meets mine.
“I’ve never been able to duel before,” he finally admits.
I blink as the realization sets in. His sword. It’s always been more powerful than the rest. He’s never had a fair rival.
“Met your match, then?” I ask. I go for his side, and he turns quicker than I can see. By the time my mind rights itself, I’m being slammed up against the tree and his blade is settling against my throat.
“Hardly,” he says, right above my mouth. Then, he just stays like this.
I can feel his gaze traveling down my body like it’s casting flames. That’s when I realize he’s never seen me in a dress. Or with my hair down. His stare is like a brand. He moves the slightest bit closer, until he’s just inches away. So close … that I can see his jaw. It’s a strong one. Then, he dips his head, and I see the shadow of his mouth.
And his mouth— “Blue,” he breathes, like he didn’t even mean to. He’s looking at my dress. Slowly, his head lifts. I can almost feel his gaze snag onto mine, like a key fitting into a lock. “Just like your ridiculous eyes,” he murmurs.
Irritation flames through me. Of course, he would make my favorite part of myself seem inferior. I raise my chin. “My eyes are not ridiculous,” I spit in a harsh whisper.
He doesn’t respond. He just reaches up … and takes a strand of my hair between his fingers. It’s dry now, in loose waves that curl messily around my face. My heart is racing. My chest is rising and falling deeply, almost reaching his. He pulls the piece of hair the slightest bit, and chills erupt down my skin. “This is dangerous,” he says.
He’s right. This … is dangerous. This heat spreading through the core of me is fucking treacherous.
But he’s talking about my hair—it’s a liability in a fight.
“I’ll put it up before we leave,” I whisper.
He leans in. I stop breathing. He’s so close, curved over me against this tree. His fingers are still tangled in my hair.
I don’t understand him. He told me not to get near him again, but here he is, pressed against me. Worse, I don’t mind it. No. I want him closer.
He doesn’t have his mask on. Those lips … they could be against mine in half a moment. My back arches slightly, meeting him halfway there.
“Pity,” he finally says. I barely hear the word. Then he drops his hand, sheaths his blade in one smooth motion, and turns away.