Rey looked down at his bound wrists and ankles, then up at Eli. “Of course.”
“Just bear with me.” Eli dug in his bag for a paper he’d ripped out of a Gerakian book that a traveling scholar had lent him. It had a drawing of a sword on it—simple and elegant, with a basket hilt shaped like thorny vines twisted around a skull. Rey took one look at it and blanched. “So youhaveseen this before.”
“Possibly,” Rey said. “On the belt of the King of the Wild Hunt.”
“But it isn’t on his belt anymore. It was stolen by my ancestor, Emeric de Valois, several hundred years ago. But he didn’t steal it alone, did he?”
It had taken Eli three years to uncover the truth. The first year was just survival, dragging himself from shelter to shelter. Then he’d run across a group of dancers in a village in Eastern Staria, and they’d told a story of a trickster fox who helped a man steal the sword of a dangerous warlord. In the past, Eli would have just taken it as a story. Since he’d met Tristan, he’d learned to pay attention.
He’d found scraps of the truth all over Staria, listening in on travelers over their fires and asking storytellers in town squares. He’d tried old folk magic, superstitions people said would draw spirits toward them, and read runes made out of beech roots and petrified wood. He’d stood under a full moon with a coin under his tongue to summon a wind that swept toward the border. Finally, when he had seen the cart trundling down the street toward him, he’d realized that the trickster spirit he was looking for was the same man who’d let him sleep in the back of his cart so long ago.
Rey tilted his head as though trying to avoid looking at the paper in Eli’s hand. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Eli said. He folded the paper. “Maybe Emeric came to you. He had an adventure for you, and you can’t say no to that. It’s in your nature to take risks.”
“He was a charming fellow,” Rey said. His voice was light. “Even if the same can’t be said of his descendants.”
Eli’s smile was grim. After a lifetime of being complimented for his charm and grace, it was almost nice to be called charmless. “He wanted you to steal the sword of the king of the Wild Hunt. It would be a lark—a way for a little spirit like you to piss off someone powerful and get away with it. But it backfired, because the sword meant more to the king than you thought. And now, if he ever found out, he’d skin you alive.”
Rey shivered. “Hypothetically.”
“Yes. Hypothetically.” Eli leaned forward. “I want to offer you an adventure, Rey. Something grand.”
“No.” Rey raised his bound hands in front of his face. “Absolutely not. No chance. You did hear the story you just told, about the king skinning me alive? I don’t take adventures from mortals anymore. You lot are too dangerous.”
“But this one can fix it all,” Eli said. Rey scooted around, turning his back on Eli. “Imagine, Rey. The great trickster fox,who stole the king’s sword and sold it back to him for a favor a few centuries later. A real trick. A proper trick, not just a theft. Your adventure with Emeric didn’t go wrong, it just wasn’t over. You can do it right this time.”
It was a gamble. Rey had no reason to trust Eli, and Eli hadn’t exactly come across as the most trustworthy person. He knew what he looked like, scarred and travel-worn, his softness beaten to a hard edge after years spent fighting for every hour of sleep and scrap of food. He wasn’t a good man, not after what he had done to the crown and to Sabre, and he didn’t have any illusions of pretending to be. But this was his only chance to find out where the sword had gone, and he couldn’t let it slip through his fingers.
Rey twisted around. “We’ll return it to him?”
“I have to,” Eli said. “I’m under a…a curse, of sorts.”
“A cursed prince,” Rey said, softly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “And you’ll break this curse if you give the sword back?”
Eli nodded. “If you help, that means the king will owe you a boon. He won’t know you stole it in the first place, because he already thinks my ancestor did it.”
Rey stared at Eli. Eli could almost see the thoughts whirring in his head, and after a minute of silence, Reynard slammed a fist on his palm. The ropes Eli had carefully spent minutes tying were already undone, falling over his lap.
“You turned around so you could get loose!” Eli cried.
“You’re the boy from the Blanchet house!” Rey said at the same time.
Eli fell silent.
“I knew you looked familiar!” Rey grabbed Eli by the shoulders. “Arthur, right? You said your name was Arthur.”
“You remember me? And it’s Eli, actually.”
“Of course. It was a Wild Night…no matter.” Rey was grinning. “So youarea cursed prince. I thought you were something special, you know. Boys don’t just appear covered in blood in front of a burning house.”
“I’m not aprince.” Eli saw the ropes lying loose around Rey’s ankles as well and sighed. “And you were about to run away.”
“Forget that. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t really a prince. You’re one so far as thestoryis concerned. Story matters,” he added, when Eli gave him a dubious look. “It’s what drives me, what makes me. Most people’s lives are chaotic and random, with no proper beginning or ending, but look at you.” He cupped Eli’s face in both hands. “A surly, cynical prince who desperately needs a bath, cursed by the Wild Hunt. You could do with a proper ending, I suppose.”
