She lifted her chin as the Wood King waited on his pale throne. Her anger made her reckless—but so did her experience. Years as a musician had taught Emeline there was no reward without risk.
“I fetched the Song Mage’s music from Claw—a feat no one else in your court has accomplished for you.” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. “I’ve been learning your beloved minstrel’s songs in order to please you, my king. Send a message for me, and I will happily sing them for you.”
The unspoken threat was clear:no message, no songs.
The audience behind her murmured. The king’s black eyes narrowed.
Like a shadow moving slowly up a wall, he rose from his throne. “You think to bargain with me further, dustling?”
The hair on her arms prickled. This was dangerous ground she was standing on, but Emeline held firm. Both Hawthorne and Grace had said the king longed for his Song Mage. Emeline was in possession of the man’s music. She’d learned four of his eleven songs in only two days. That had to be worth more than the favor she was asking.
The king prowled towards her. Dead, shriveled petals scattered across the earth in his wake. Standing before Emeline, the shadow of him cloaked her, cold as winter, and his gnarled fingers curled into lumpen fists, like knots in a tree.
“Sing,” he commanded, lips pulling back from chipped, woody teeth. Beneath the scent of him—all earth and moss—Emeline smelled decay.
She held his dark gaze. “I will,” she promised. “Once a message is sent.”
His hands shot out. Before she could move, those coarse fingers grabbed her throat andsqueezed.
The strength of him stunned her. Ice spread through Emeline’s body as she gasped for air, but none filled her lungs. She grabbed his wrists, trying to dig her fingernails into his toughened flesh, trying to force him to let go. But his limbs were hard as tree trunks.
She heard shouting. Saw Pa rise from his chair, yelling her name. Saw her grandfather stumble shakily through the courtiers, trying to get to her.
But if he did, the king would hurt Pa too.
What had Hawthorne said?The curse has twisted his mind.
The king squeezed harder. Any more force and he would snap her neck. Her lungs burned, starved for air. Pain made stars pop before her eyes, which were tearing up. Her grandfather disappeared as the grove blurred.
Only the king’s white pupils stamped her vision now, their moon shapes thicker than before. As if they waxed and waned with the lunar cycle.
She’d made a grave mistake. She’d dared to defy the Wood King, and she would pay the price, dying here while her grandfather watched, his terrified yells the last sounds she heard.
She couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t …
From a world away, a smoky voice said, “Damage her vocal cords and she’ll be of no use to you, sire.”
“She already is of no use to me!”
“I must respectfully disagree, sire. Not only did she liberate the Song Mage’s music from Claw, she sang the dragon to sleep. I think she will prove quite valuable … if you let her live.”
The iron grip around Emeline’s throat suddenly loosened. Cold air rushed into her lungs as she collapsed to her knees. The ground was solid and cold beneath her as she gasped, gulping down air while the world came back into focus. First the Wood King above her. Then the tall trees of the grove. And last, her grandfather’s face as he ran towards her.
When her gasps turned to coughs, Pa reached her, yelling at the king. His trembling arms came around her as he sank down beside her, pulling her into him. Emeline pressed her face into his shoulder, letting him hold her. Silently cursing her own defiance.
She now knew the limits of the Wood King’s mercy.
Only when her coughing subsided did she search for the owner of the voice. Sable Thorne stood between Emeline and the Wood King. Barely restrained. Eyes blazing with golden fire. The tight lines of Sable’s body said she was prepared to draw steel if her king touched Emeline again.
But why? Sable had barely even met her, and all but ignored her when they were around each other.
At the presence of his bladesmith, the feral look in the king’s eyes dispersed, like fog in warm sunlight. His robe of flowers began blooming once more as he rubbed his hand across his eyes, as if waking from a dream.
“Gonow,” said Sable to Emeline without taking her eyes off the king. “Get yourself and Ewan out of the grove.”
