On the other side, an empty avenue runs down toward what I think is the south side of the city. A few torches flicker at street corners, magically enhanced to stay burning through the night, but most of the roads are swallowed up by shadow, each alleyway stretching into darkness like a deep, gaping mouth.
The fae keep us in that darkness as we move through the city. They’ll have to, I realize, since they lack the glamours to hide their pointed ears, tall stature, and sharp, angular faces. Whatever mechanism they used for this deception back in Otscold must have been taken from them when they were thrown in the dungeon, because I remember my shock when I first looked on the prince’s true face in the throne room. Without the glamour, there’s no mistaking his face for human—it’s too sculpted, too perfect. Now he and Alastor watch each corner carefully before we turn down it.
They steal two horses from behind a coach house, leading them quietly away. I stare up at the dark windows of the coach house, where people are likely fast asleep, mere feet away. I don’t know what I’m hoping for—even if someone did wake up to catch us, what could they do against the Nightmare Prince and his right-hand man?
Then we’re back down the side streets, out of sight of any casual passerby. The two fae mount the horses smoothly, and the prince looks down at me expectantly. When I realize he wants me to ride with him, I start to back away. I’ve never ridden before, and I certainly don’t want to be any closer to this man. The thought of his weight pressed against my back sends a spike of panic through me.
“You’re testing my patience,” he growls.
I can’t move, frozen in place at the thought of being surrounded by him. Something crosses his face—a flash of understanding cutting through the annoyance, I think. Then his surly expression is back.
“Sorry, princess, but I don’t have all night.”
He leans down, hooking an arm under my shoulder. I stiffen, but it doesn’t hinder him as he easily lifts me and deposits me on the back of his horse, behind him.
I’m tense for a few moments more, then something in me relaxes. This is better. I’d been picturing him behind me, hemming me in with his body on all sides. Back here, I get to decide exactly how close I sit to him—how tightly I want to hold on. I loosely tangle my fingers in the fabric of his tunic as he sets the horse trotting down the street. The scent of him invades my nostrils, earthy and warm.
“Are we stopping at the fountain?” Alastor asks.
The prince shifts, and I see he’s looking up at the roof of the palace, looming over the rest of the city.
“Yes, we have time.”
I don’t need to wonder what they’re talking about for long. They stop the horses in front of an elaborate water feature made of ivory stone. Alastor disappears behind the fountain and is back moments later, looking like a different person. His pointed ears are gone, his face slightly rounder, and he’s now the height of a normal man. He hands a ring to Leonidas with a grimace.
“I hate being short,” Alastor complains as the prince slips the ring on.
I watch Leonidas’s ears change, the tips shimmering like a mirage that makes my eyes feel funny. I blink a few times, getting accustomed to the glamours. The fountain must be some kind of drop site where they stashed key items, which makes me wonder exactly how prepared the prince and Alastor were when they arrived in Elmere—and, once again, where the rest of their friends are.
“Shit,” Alastor’s staring up at the palace, where there’s now a huge emerald fire burning on the roof. A beacon. Apparently, the palace is on alert.
“Looks like someone’s finally missed you, princess,” the prince says, then nods to Alastor. They flick their reins, and the horses break into a gallop. In the silence of the city, their metal horseshoes clatter against the stone roads, the sound bouncing off the buildings like rolls of thunder. The fae are done being discreet.
I tighten my grip on Leonidas’s shirt as we whip through the streets. My heart thuds in time to the hoofbeats as I wonder what exactly the palace is doing now they know about my absence. Could they catch up to us? It’s dangerous to hope, but I reach after the idea anyway.
We’re approaching the Potamis, the river that runs through the city. I know from my carriage ride into Elmere that the bridge that passes over it is well guarded. And the fae must know that too. So what are they planning? I slide a look toward Alastor, who is suddenly very focused in a way that makes me nervous.
The river curves away from us, and the bridge is now just yards away, a heavy gate squatting at the far end. Pin pricks of light crowd along it, shifting in darkness—torches, I guess. I imagine the garrison of soldiers carrying them, shouting to each other as they position themselves across the gate. They’re waiting for us. They’ve seen the beacon.
The horses’ rhythm shifts, transitioning from stone to wood as we make it onto the bridge. It occurs to me that now is my best chance at escaping the fae, freeing myself of the Nightmare Prince and whatever he has planned for me. But what option is there other than throwing myself from the horse? There doesn’t seem to be much point in escaping from Leonidas just to break my neck.
But Icanlet the guards know who is coming their way. I sit up as straight as I can and throw my hood back. I look at the back of the prince but figure he can’t do much to stop me while we’re on the same horse moving at high speed. I brace myself and start shouting to attract attention.
“Over here! They’re over here!”
Leonidas throws me a dark look over his shoulder, but Alastor doesn’t glance at us at all. He’s still focused elsewhere, his head tilted downward, as if examining the winding river below.
“That’s all?” the prince asks me. He gives a low laugh, even though we’re about to run headfirst into a small army of his enemies. “I expected a bit more, princess.”
His confidence is both infuriating and terrifying. Especially when, moments later, I see exactly where it comes from.
A light mist rises from the riverbank below us, traveling upward in wide clouds. It’s moving too fast for any normal fog, and something is off about its color—too dark and thick. Alastor is still looking downward, his brow furrowed, as the clouds reach the bridge, blowing up in great gusts. Some catches in my hair, and I realize what it’s made of.
Sand. Thousands of particles pulled from the riverbank below. As well as his strange truth magic, Alastor is a geostri, and this is his power.
The sandstorm doesn’t touch us, but the guards aren’t as lucky. I hear their cries of alarm as the sand hits them, causing chaos.
I lock eyes with one of the guards, forced to her knees by the hurricane of grit lashing against her from all directions. She reaches out her hand as if she might be able to pull me from the prince’s grip, but her fingers close around air. She’s just feet away from me, and yet she can’t reach me.
