AN UNKINDNESS OF RAVENS flew overhead as Rooke escorted Emeline through the dark and winding streets of the King’s City. Few people were out at this hour of the night, but those who were kept stealing glances at the mud-coated shiftling and his human companion.
Am I dreaming this?
Maybe she hadn’t escaped Bog. Maybe she was still back in the swamp, unconscious from blood loss, and all of this was a hallucination.
Except her hand throbbed from where she’d sliced it with Pa’s ax and she could feel the mud hardening and cracking, drying out her skin. She couldn’t hallucinate those details.
When they neared the palace, the path turned to shining white pebbles bordered by rows of weeping willows as high as three-story houses. A white wall encircled the palace, creeping with lichen and moss and rising to twice Emeline’s height. It was set with a copper gate, shut tight. The ravens flew towards it, their black forms settling on its copper ligaments as Emeline and Rooke approached. In the middle, a crest was cast in silver portraying a crowned willow sprouting from a seed.
Four armed guards—hedgemen, Rooke told her—stood outside the entrance. Their hammered bronze helmets were shaped like milkweed pods, and the halberds gripped at their sides rose ominously upwards, the steel tips shimmering strangely.
“This borderlander requires an audience with the king,” a muddy Rooke explained.
The guards exchanged cautious looks. “Is he expecting her?”
Rooke ignored their question. “I doubt very much you want to delay her.”
Two of the guards crossed their arms, their gazes narrowing. As if they were well acquainted with Rooke and didn’t trust him for a second. “And why’s that?”
“She has something the king desperately needs.”
What? This was news to Emeline, who turned to study the boy beside her. His expression was opaque as marble, giving nothing away.
Was he lying to get her inside?
Rooke held up a hand, studying his mud-encrusted fingernails. “You know how unstable he is these days. I wouldn’t want to cross him. But perhaps you—”
The creak of copper interrupted him as the gate slowly swung inwards.
“This way,” said one, leading them both inside as another followed at their backs.
They swept down alabaster hallways lit by candles, their flames burning like fireflies as wax dribbled down their sides. Rooke fell silent beside her, chewing his lip and tapping his fingertips anxiously against his thigh. When he glanced at Emeline, his expression turned apologetic. As if he was suddenly having second thoughts.
Emeline, who had heard the gate shut and lock behind them, knew it was too late to turn back. Not that she wanted to. She’d made it this far; she wasn’t leaving until the king gave her grandfather back.
Emeline reached inside her cardigan pocket and squeezed the cold tithe marker. Yesterday, she didn’t believe in a king of the wood, or that her grandfather had been tithed. Didn’t believe in ember mares, or shiftlings, or earth spirits. Pa was simply an old man with dementia who sometimes wandered at night.
And today?
She wasn’t sure what she believed today.
Emeline couldn’t remember when, exactly, things changed. Only that a moment ago she was walking down palace halls and now she walked a dirt path beneath a midnight sky. Tulip trees lined the path, their flowers unfolding like burning yellow crowns among their green leaves.
The farther they walked, the taller the trees grew, until they were impossibly tall. So tall, they seemed to brush the stars.
The path ended in a grove of silver birches. Moonlight pooled in from the canopy above, illuminating a bone-white throne and a man seated upon it. Atop his head sat a crown of rosebud thorns.
His skin was sunbrowned, his hair moon pale; and instead of robes, water adorned him. It flowed in rivers from his hair, over his neck and shoulders where it began to gush, like a waterfall, down the rest of his body. Emeline could see no glimpse of skin beyond the cascade, but at his feet water pooled and sank into the brown earth. Wherever it touched, gray and purple thistles grew.
The Wood King.
Their guards stopped them ten paces from the throne and bowed low. Rooke poked Emeline hard in the back, making her wince before she realized that she, too, was expected to bow.
When the hedgemen stepped back, the Wood King leaned forward in his throne. His liquid gaze slid over Emeline before darting to the shiftling at her side.
“What have you brought me?” His voice sounded old, like dust and earth.
“This”—Rooke swept out a slender hand—“is Emeline Lark.”
The king’s honed gaze felt like an arrow pulled taut across a bowstring, aimed straight at her heart. Beneath it, Emeline felt like cornered prey. Vulnerable and exposed before this ancient thing.
“Come closer.”
She did as he commanded, her footsteps crunching the fallen yellow leaves on the path. The cloying smell of magic swelled in the air here, like rotting bones.
When she stopped three paces from his throne, she saw that the king’s eyes were the color of liquid ink from corner to corner. Instead of irises, a white crescent moon burned at the center of each eye.
“Why have you come here, dustling?”
There was something cold and dead in those eyes. It made her throat shrivel. Unable to summon her voice, Emeline pulled the small orb from her pocket and held it out to him.
A rippling murmur echoed through the grove behind her. Emeline turned to see people emerging from the shadows of the trees, gathering to cluster and stare. Clothed in leather and fine wool, delicate lace and soft silk, they held themselves with moonlit grace. Their eyes shone too bright and their shadows twisted behind them, hinting at other shapes.
They were … not quite human.
Remembering Tom’s stories, Emeline knew this was the shiftling court.
I’m really here, she thought, resisting the urge to pinch herself. All the stories were true.
Emeline turned back to the king. He held out his palm, which was lined and weathered like an autumn leaf, his nails thick and chipped like bark. As water streamed down his wrists, dripping to the earth below, Emeline willed her hand not to shake as she placed the tiny orb onto his palm.
He raised it to catch the starlight. It glowed milky white.
“You came all this way … to return my marker?”
“No,” she managed. “I’ve come for my grandfather.”
Those eerie eyes narrowed. His fist closed hard and swift, swallowing the orb.
“And with what do you intend to barter?”
Barter?
Emeline tried to remember the stories she’d grown up with. But in no story had anyone ever sought out the Wood King to demand back their tithe. She had no idea what to offer. Tithes were, by definition, a sacrifice. They were supposed to cost you something. Your favorite milking cow. Your best and only three-piece suit. The last note your mother ever wrote you before she died.
What are my most precious possessions?
“My guitar,” she realized aloud. It was a Taylor, top of the line, and given to her by an anonymous fan. The instrument had been delivered to the green room before her very first music festival, with wildflowers woven through the strings. Emeline had assumed it was a gift from Pa, except her grandfather couldn’t afford such a gift and when she called to thank him, he didn’t know what she was referring to.
She loved her mysterious Taylor like a pet, and more important: she needed it to do her job. But she could buy another. She would just have to put it on credit and pay it off gradually. “I can give you my guitar.”
Several people in the crowd behind her laughed nervously, the sound chiming like discordant bells.
Heat crept up Emeline’s cheeks.
“Or my car?” she blurted out. The one she and Pa saved up to buy before she moved away.
That car had taught her the value of hard work and sacrifice. And, in its way, represented the love of her grandfather, reminding her of him every time she got in—like his cardigans, which she borrowed and never returned. More than this, though: She needed it for her out-of-town gigs. To drive her to and from festivals.
The Wood King continued to stare at her, eyes narrowing. “These things are of equal value to your grandfather?”
What?
“Of course not. No.”
Nothing was of equal value to Pa. That was the point. It was why she was here, demanding him back.
But what else could she offer?
“I have a proposition,” Rooke interrupted from behind her.
The king did not look away from Emeline. His prolonged attention made her skin prickle.
“Proceed.”
Rooke stepped up beside Emeline, brushing his black hair out of his eyes. “I have it on good authority that Emeline is a singer of some repute.”
The king’s head swung towards Rooke. “Is this true?”
Emeline was about to answer yes, that singing was how she made her living, then quickly stopped herself.
What if the Wood King took her voice?
Can he do that?
She hesitated. Was she willing to exchange her voice—the very thing she used to make her living, to pursue her passion, to realize her dreams—if it meant she could take Pa and go home?
Without her voice, what would she have to go back to? Not a singing career. Without her voice, her whole life would cease to have meaning. Her biggest, oldest dream would be smashed on the rocks.
She’d thought none of this through. She hadn’t considered what, exactly, might be taken from her in exchange for getting her grandfather back.
“Yes,” she said, ashamed of the tremble in her voice. “I can sing.”
A smile bent Rooke’s mouth, as if he was playing some game neither she nor anyone else was in on. “Well then. I believe I’ve found your solution.”
Sweat beaded down Emeline’s spine.
Please no, she thought, looking from Rooke’s twitching lips to the king on his gleaming throne. Don’t take my voice.
“You’re in need of a new court minstrel,” Rooke continued. “Seeing as the last one—”
He cut himself off as the king’s gaze darkened and those bark-like hands coiled into ragged fists.
“What if,” Rooke moved quickly on, “in exchange for her grandfather’s freedom, Emeline Lark takes his place in your court—as your new singer?”
“What?” Emeline whirled on him. “No. I can’t…”
She had a life to return to. Weekly gigs. An upcoming tour opening for The Perennials. And a contract with Daybreak Records hanging in the balance.
It was everything she’d worked so hard for.
“I can’t stay here,” said Emeline. “I won’t stay here.”
The Wood King’s lip curled as he sat back in his throne. “If she were a human male, of course I would consider it. But seeing as she’s…”
“Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but perhaps that’s the problem: you only ever take the men, and they only ever displease you.”
Emeline stared at Rooke. What did that mean?
The air tingled then, making her skin itch. The damp, rotten smell of magic intensified. She took a nervous step backwards, wanting to put distance between her and the king, but her shoulders brushed against the armor of the hedgeman she hadn’t known was standing behind her.
She glanced back. The guard grinned beneath the rim of his helmet, revealing rows of sharpened teeth.
Emeline shuddered and stepped quickly forward again.
“Why not try her?” Rooke pressed. “If her singing displeases you, you can do away with her like all the others.” He flicked his fingers, as if flicking away a bug. “You have little to lose.”
Do away with me? She glared at Rooke. But he had warned her, hadn’t he? Back in the swamp, when she’d thanked him for his help.
The king drummed his fingers slowly, the cracked nails clicking on the arm of his white throne. He looked from Rooke to Emeline.
Meeting his cold, calculating stare, she managed to say, “And if I refuse?”
Silence followed her question. The courtiers gathered at the edges of the grove stopped talking.
Suddenly, the king threw back his head and laughed. The sound boomed through the clearing like thunder, shaking the earth at her feet. Rooke glanced her way, and there was pity in his gaze.
The Wood King snapped his fingers at something in the distance. Emeline turned to find armed hedgemen dragging someone out of the crowd of murmuring courtiers.
“N-no,” stammered a too-familiar voice. “S-stop. W-where are you t-taking me?”
The guards shoved their prisoner into the middle of the grove. The old man stumbled in the starlight. His gray hair was mussed, his blue shirt wrinkled.
Pa.
“W-where’s Rose?” Her grandfather’s voice was loud and frantic. “Where’s my Rose?”
Her heart snagged in her throat. He always asked for Emeline’s mother when he was frightened and confused.
When she caught sight of the thick green vines binding his wrists, anger flooded her. He was a harmless old man. There was no need to restrain him.
“Take those off!”
When no one did, Emeline moved to do it herself. The guard at her back grabbed her wrists, halting her. Hot fingers dug into her skin.
She tried to twist free. Tried to elbow her captor in the ribs, but the guard only yanked both arms up her back. Pain lanced like lightning from her fingers to her shoulder blades, shocking her into submission.
Helpless, she watched Pa cower before the advancing guards. Two stepped forward, forcing him to his knees in the dirt with their spears.
“Don’t touch him!”
She struggled, but the guard only tightened his hold.
“Emeline.” Rooke’s voice was edged with unease. “Don’t make this worse.”
“Help him,” she breathed. “Please. Help him.”
“Only you can help him now.”
Her eyes filled with furious tears. Her grandfather blurred before her.
“Choose, Emeline Lark,” the Wood King boomed. “Be my minstrel and save his life; or refuse and watch him die.”
Die? Emeline shook her head. Her next words sounded small and scared: “You can’t…”
“Can’t? Am I not king of the wood?”
His voice grew shrill as a whistling wind as he rose to his feet, the water gushing faster and thicker around him, flowing down the steps of his throne, rushing over the grass like a tide. Something desperate and wild scrabbled through her as the king stepped down, moving towards Pa. Like a predator closing in on its quarry.
Her grandfather lifted his head, blue eyes wide with fear as he knelt in the shadow of the king.
“You will be my new court minstrel, or I will take him into the Stain and feed him to the shadow skins while you watch.”
Emeline’s spine straightened. The very thought of that thing she’d met in the woods tonight, inside Pa’s mind, killing him slowly with his own terror …
She would never let that happen.
But staying here in the Wood King’s court? Forever?
It would require giving up everything: the life she was building, her budding music career. She’d worked so hard to get where she was; she couldn’t give it up now.
Maybe there’s a way to do both.
To save her grandfather and keep her dream.
If Emeline agreed to be the king’s singer, Pa would go free. Once he was safe, all she’d need to do was find a way to escape. Rooke had gotten her inside the city; surely, Emeline could find a way to get herself out—preferably before her tour started.
Maybe she didn’t have to lose everything.
Maybe she could save Pa and herself.
She calmed her trembling voice until it was smooth as a river stone. “I’ll stay and be your minstrel. Just let my grandfather go.”
Emeline’s guard loosened his grip on her wrists but didn’t release her.
The king’s crescent pupils burned into her. “You do not make commands,” he said. “Your grandfather will remain here until you demonstrate your suitability for the position. When I am satisfied that you are sufficiently biddable, and your singing acceptable, then Ewan Lark will return home. You have one week to impress me, singer. If you fail, I’ll feed you both to the shadow skins.”
One week?
This was bad.
The bronze-armored hedgemen grabbed Pa beneath his armpits and hauled him to his feet.
“Wait! Where are you taking him?” At her voice, Pa turned his head. From the look in his startled eyes, he didn’t recognize her. His mind was too clouded by terror.
“H-help me,” he begged her.
Emeline struggled against her guard’s hold, but his grip was a vise, forcing her to be still. She held her grandfather’s gaze and made herself sound certain and calm.
“Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to get you home. I promise.”
They shoved him onwards. Pa stumbled and looked down to his feet. Emeline watched as they led her trembling, stammering grandfather out of the grove, down the lantern-lit path, and into the night.
The moment she couldn’t see him anymore, Emeline’s guard released his grip on her. The shock set in, and her legs gave out. She fell to the cold ground, hands planted in the dirt.
What if I fail?
She couldn’t fail. That was clear. Emeline needed to find a way to please the king and prove herself suitable—long enough to save Pa, at least.
And then she needed to escape. Somehow.
You are a professional musician, she told herself. You can do this.
“Emeline.” Rooke crouched down beside her. “If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your rooms.”
She glanced up into his pale face. His dark brown eyes shone with something like regret.
“You.” Her hands fisted in the dirt. “This was your plan all along.”
“Something like it, yes.”
“But why?”
“You want to save him, don’t you? This is the only way you can.”
A sudden movement interrupted them, fluttering at the edge of her vision. Murmurs rippled through the crowd of courtiers.
“What is this?” said a rough-soft voice.
Emeline looked to find the crowd parting and someone familiar striding through. Maple-dark hair. River-rock eyes. The same boy she’d met in the woods earlier tonight. The one with the ember mare. The one who’d lied to her.
At the sight of Emeline, he halted, the lines of his body drawing tight and tense.
Dirt spilled from her fingers as she rose to her feet.
“Emeline,” said Rooke, rising alongside her. “This is Hawthorne Fell. The king’s tithe collector.”
The words made Emeline’s heart skip.
Tithe collector?
But that meant …
It meant the boy before her was the very one who’d whisked her grandfather away. The one who left the marker on Pa’s pillow and then, when Emeline had pulled it out to prove he’d been stolen, pretended like he didn’t recognize it.
He told her Pa wasn’t in the woods. He told her she was looking in the wrong place.
How many times had he lied to her tonight?
Her blood turned to fire in her veins.
“You didn’t tell her,” Rooke murmured, seeing the murder in Emeline’s eyes.
Trembling with anger, she jabbed her finger in the air towards the gray-eyed tithe collector. “This is your fault, asshole.”
If he hadn’t taken Pa, neither of them would be here, imprisoned in the Wood King’s court.
None of this would have happened.
“My fault? If you…” Hawthorne’s words faltered as his gaze swept over her muddy form, catching sight of the bloodied cut on her left hand. A frown thundered on his brow as he turned towards Rooke, who was also caked in mud. “Did you bring her here?”
Suddenly, a girl stepped up to Hawthorne’s side, equal in age. Her russet-brown hair was pulled off her face in a messy braid. She was tall and lean, and her golden eyes shone in the darkness. Two long blades were sheathed at her back in a crisscross, and the sleeves of her rust-colored shirt were rolled to her elbows.
She looked almost feral, more wild creature than girl.
Emeline glanced to her shadow. Sure enough, the dark shape behind her had wolflike ears and sharp fangs.
A shiftling.
“Emeline,” said Rooke. “This is Sable Thorne. Sable, this is Emeline Lark. The king’s new singer.”
“What?” Sable and Hawthorne said in unison. The former, shocked; the latter, furious.
Sable moved like the wind, grabbing the lapels of Rooke’s coat and nearly lifting him off his feet. “What have you done?”
Rooke seemed entirely unfazed. As if he was used to being manhandled by Sable. Emeline couldn’t tell if they were good friends, or mortal enemies.
“I’d love to catch you up, but I’m sure Emeline wishes to see her grandfather.”
“Rooke.”
“If you’ll excuse us.” Peeling Sable’s hands off him, Rooke turned towards Emeline, took her elbow gently between his fingers, and began leading her away.
Emeline glanced back once, shooting a murderous thought at the boy responsible for the mess she was in. I will pay you back for this.
He stared after her, looking far less sure of himself as he ran both hands uneasily through his hair. As if Emeline’s presence here wasn’t just unwelcome, but something far worse.