Chapter 11

THE LAST TIME I’d been to court, I was a teenager and no one had made a fuss beyond forcing me to wear a dress.

“Really, there’s no need to go to such effort,” I said, my words muffled as one of the ladies pulled a horrible, crinkly, pale orange dress over my head. “I’m just tagging along. I’m not one of the important guests. No one is even going to care I’m there.”

“Every New Gargoyle who visits a foreign court is a reflection on her people,” Vera said. “As such, it’s our duty to ensure you make the proper impression.”

I snorted. They could dress me up like a doll, but making a proper impression? There wasn’t a lacy frock in the world that would guarantee that.

After much yanking and manipulation, they pulled the dress down into place. It was sleeveless, and the arm openings were so tight they bit into my skin.

“She’s very muscular. Look at her arms,” one of the assistants remarked, speaking about me as if I weren’t standing right there. A slight crease of worry formed across her forehead. “Lord Lothlorien failed to mention it.”

I scowled. I had no shame about my body, but it irritated me that Maxen hadn’t told them I was fit.

Vera had stepped back and was squinting at me, one arm wrapped around her narrow waist and the other index finger pressed to her lips.

“The color is all wrong, anyway,” she said crisply. “Take it off. We need to try a cooler palette.”

“Thank Oberon,” I grumbled.

Off came the orange sherbet dress, and I let out a sigh of relief. Not even my sexy alter-ego, Penelope, would want to wear that mess. Penelope was more ripped micro-minis and off-shoulder tops, not ice-cream-colored taffeta.

One of the assistants rifled through a rack of gowns and pulled out an aquamarine one. It was simple, with a wraparound design that created a V neckline. The hem was higher in the front and cascaded to floor-length in the back. It completely lacked any frilly nonsense.

They worked me into it, and when I faced the mirror, I found the color perfectly complemented my sand-toned skin and tawny eyes.

All the stylists were nodding.

“There’s a similar one in brown,” one of the assistants said. “I’ll pull that one, too, and also pack some riding pants and blouses.”

In court, women were expected to wear dresses at all times, with the one exception of riding pants. The riding pants were intended, of course, for horseback activities. Regardless of the intent of the rule, I planned to take a very liberal interpretation of the pants allowance and make good use of the loophole.

Off came the dress and over my underwear went a bathrobe. Under the direction of the ladies, I sat down in the chair at the styling station while a new trio came in—a man and two women this time—and set to work filing my fingernails, doing various manipulations on my hair, smearing things on my skin, and brushing makeup over my face. After a while, I just closed my eyes and tried to send my mind to a more pleasant place.

Thoughts of my sister, Nicole, crept in. I couldn’t help thinking of my mother, too, with two newborn girls and terrified that they would be killed to fulfill a prophecy. Oliver had told me she’d been unstable long before I was born, but had there been any merit to her fear? Apparently, there could be, if Oliver didn’t want Marisol to know about Nicole.

Another large question loomed in my mind: Why had the Duergar King Periclase taken Nicole?

I had no idea why Nicole was valuable to him. At twenty-seven, she was very old for a changeling to be brought back to the Faerie side of the hedge. Usually it happened well before the seventeenth birthday, sometimes quite young, because a person was still malleable in the right ways at that age. Much older than that, and it was too hard on the mind to try to integrate into Faerie, not to mention almost impossible to effectively learn to use and control magic. And a Fae without magic would never be fully accepted on this side of the hedge.

I honestly couldn’t even imagine what was going through Nicole’s mind. Humans were aware of the Fae, but knowing about something was very different than being yanked from your life and into a world you’d never seen and didn’t know how to navigate. And who knew what Periclase’s people were filling her head with. At their worst, the Unseelie were ruthless manipulators with grudges and jealousies that ran deep and sometimes spanned generations. And King Periclase . . . he was on an altogether different level. He actually cared less for the usual Unseelie manipulations than he did for calculated power plays. I’d met him once when I was a child, and the memory was enough to send a little shiver down my spine, even twenty years later.

“Yes, I believe she’s ready,” the male stylist said. I opened my eyes as he reached out to touch my hair, arranging it over my shoulder.

After what had seemed like hours of primpage, the team of stylists stepped back to scrutinize me. As they shifted, making small adjustments, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I let out a surprised laugh, I couldn’t help it. Leaning forward, I turned my face from side to side.

They’d managed to curl my long, stubbornly straight hair into gentle waves that somehow looked polished and natural at the same time. A simple off-center part and a silver clip held back my long bangs, which were swept to the side. My makeup was expertly done to emphasize my eyes, cheekbones, and lips, but thankfully in neutral shades. They’d stuck a bit of false lash on the outer upper corners of my lids. It remained to be seen if I could manage to get through the evening without accidentally pulling them off.

I didn’t like getting all made up, and within the hour I’d probably be itching to wash my face and throw my hair into a ponytail, but I could appreciate anyone who excelled at their chosen craft, regardless of what that craft was.

“Wow,” I said appreciatively. “You people are magicians.”

The stylists left, and the wardrobe ladies returned to get me into my blue dress, some matching shoes with heels that were only about two inches, thank Oberon, and some opal jewelry that complemented the dress.

When one of the assistants came at me with a mister bottle of perfume, I held up a hand to stop her.

“Sorry, I have to draw the line there,” I said. “I can’t stand the smell of that stuff.”

She inclined her head, giving in. “I’ll add it to your trunk in case you change your mind later.”

As if he’d been waiting for a signal, a young page came in from a side doorway with a large piece of luggage, which he set down near the main door. When the stylist tipped back the lid of the trunk to add the perfume bottle to the toiletry tray that sat on top, I caught a glimpse of the clothing carefully folded within it.

“At least one pair of riding pants in there?” I asked, craning my neck.

“Khaki and navy,” Vera confirmed.

“Boots?”

Vera nodded. “Riding boots to match.”

As I took a few steps to test out the high heels, I tried to console myself with the prospect of being able to change clothes and shoes later.

I got the sense the ladies were waiting for me to dismiss them.

“Your services were performed with skill,” I said. I winked at Vera. “I’m sure my impression in court will be a worthy one.”

I didn’t even want to think about how much the services that had just been performed and the items packed in the trunk had cost, but as part of Maxen’s royal contingent, I wouldn’t have to foot the bill.

The ladies filed out through one of the doorways into one of the side rooms, and the page opened the door that led into the hallway.

“My lady.” He swept out one arm, indicating I should go ahead, and he bent to lift the trunk.

I retrieved Mort and put the scabbard on over my dress, not caring at all how it looked with my outfit.

Emmaline was waiting for me. She’d changed into a simple silver-gray gown, but still wore her navy page’s vest over it, and her auburn hair was pulled back into a businesslike bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes popped, and her mouth fell open when she saw me.

“You look incredible!” she said. “Like royalty.”

“Very kind of you to say so.” I gave her a wry side-eye with one brow raised. “Okay, what torture awaits next?”

“We join the rest of the traveling party in one of the reception halls for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.”

“A party before the dinner that will be followed by another party,” I said under my breath, followed by a tortured sigh and a look skyward.

She gave a small smile. “I’ll take you to the hall now.”

She led me to one of the upper floors of the fortress, to a large room I’d been to before. But last time, it was to be honored along with my class for our graduation from advanced weapons training. My clothes had been a hell of a lot more sensible for that event.

The walls of the reception hall were decorated with enormous geode slices that served as natural artwork. There were granite pillars interrupting the marble floor at evenly-spaced intervals. Swoops of velvet softened the right angles where the walls met the ceiling—decorative touches that were cleverly disguised echo dampeners.

There were already about two dozen guests gathered, and at least that many servers and attendants like Emmaline. Pages in black serving attire and white aprons circulated with trays of some pinkish bubbly cocktail in tall glasses. My stomach grumbled loudly, and I looked past the drink servers for any with food platters.

“I’ll bring you a small plate,” Emmaline said. She lifted her chin, her eyes cast across the room. “It looks like you’re being summoned.”

I followed her gaze to find Marisol with her arm lifted toward me. She flicked her fingers, beckoning me in a way that set my teeth on edge. There was nothing specifically condescending in her gesture—it was inviting, if anything—but standing around at a formal reception making polite talk with the New Gargoyle matriarch was not my idea of a good time. I just wanted to get to the Duergar palace and on with my mission.

Fat chance of that. This was only the beginning of the night’s painful formalities. My best hope was to slip away after dinner. It should be easy to sneak out once everyone had been drinking a while and the dancing started.

But at the moment, duty was literally calling to me, so I strode across the marble floor to join Marisol. As I approached, people shifted, revealing Maxen standing in the small crowd surrounding his mother. In a split-second, he took me in from head to foot. One corner of his mouth crooked up almost imperceptibly, and he gave me a subtle nod. I knew he was trying to play the stoic New Gargoyle prince. But I also knew him well enough to read his small changes in expression, and he was quite pleased by what he saw. I channeled Penelope and shot him a sultry little smile while Marisol’s attention was elsewhere. The quirk of his lips bloomed into a full grin, and he gave a tiny shake of his head. He knew I was just playing with him.

“Lady Lothlorien,” I said with a deferential inclination of my head as I approached Marisol and dredged up what I could remember of formal etiquette. “Lord Lothlorien. Ladies, gentlemen.”

I couldn’t look directly at Maxen, or I would have busted up laughing. I knew it was juvenile of me, but calling him “Lord” gave me a case of the giggles.

I recognized a few of the New Gargoyle political figures milling around Marisol and Maxen, if not by name at least by face. Seeming to sense that Marisol wanted to speak to me without an audience, they all drifted away except Maxen.

“I wanted to express my appreciation for your willingness to accompany the attaché to the Duergar palace,” Marisol said. “I know it’s not your usual scene. But we need our changeling to come home.”

Ah, Marisol and her dependable bluntness. She wore it easily, like an invisible crown she’d been born to. The leader of the New Gargoyles was the very definition of regal, standing rod-straight in a crystal-white dress that somehow made her sapphire eyes even more blue.

Maxen shifted his weight next to her, outside her field of vision. I knew he was confused about why Marisol hadn’t told him about Nicole earlier and probably wondered why I was being sent after the changeling. I was barely a member of the Stone Order, and my involvement had to seem strange.

“I can’t say I’m disappointed you’ll be by Maxen’s side,” Marisol said. “He’s extremely capable, of course, but backup never hurts.”

I pulled back slightly in surprise before I could control my reaction. Marisol had to be aware of her son’s long-standing interest in me, and we all knew she had absolutely no intention of letting him make such an un-strategic match. That she’d admit she was glad I was traipsing off to court with Maxen was a bit of a shock. She must have been more worried about King Periclase than she let on.

Emmaline appeared at my side, offering me a little plate piled with finger foods, which saved me from having to come up with a suitable reply to Marisol and gave the New Gargoyle ruler an easy out. She excused herself to speak to some new arrivals.

I glanced at Maxen before stuffing two cubes of cheese and an olive in my mouth. I was amped up, antsy from standing around and thinking of the mission ahead, and with no means to expend my energy, I just wanted to eat. He was drilling me with his blue eyes.

“I want to know why you’re really going,” he said, tipping his head down to look at me from under his brows. “You of all possible people.”

I shrugged. “Did you ask Marisol?”

His blue eyes remained intent on me. “Must be something dire if you’re willing to put on a dress and go to court,” he said, ignoring my question.

I gave a short laugh.

“I’m glad you’ll be there.”

“You don’t really think you’ll need backup, like Marisol said?”

“The thought crossed my mind. It’s often occurred me to ask you to join in some of our missions. But I never would have expected you to say yes to an invitation,” he said.

I looked away again. I knew what he was implying—that I wasn’t likely to be a dutiful New Gargoyle. He didn’t expect he could depend on me for things such as backup in a foreign kingdom. I had to admit, it stung a little. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about him or the Stone Order—I did. But my work kept me mostly outside of Faerie and almost completely isolated from the matters of the Order. I couldn’t do both—be fully active in the Order’s affairs and hunt down vamps.

“I guess you never know what the answer will be if you never ask,” I said mildly, my gaze still fixed across the room. I was trying not to sound defensive, but he probably saw through it.

“On that, you are correct,” he said, his voice soft.

I shifted my weight and shoved a few grapes in my mouth. I didn’t like what was hanging in the air between us—some vague sense of disappointment on his part but confusingly mixed with what almost seemed like a hint of apology.

I swallowed and wiped my lips with the little napkin Emmaline had tucked into my hand when she’d brought the plate.

“Well, I somehow ended up with Marisol’s approval,” I said with a light tone. “Temporary, I’m sure, but still, this is an historic occasion.”

I swiped a glass from a passing server, clinked it against Maxen’s, and took a long drink of the pink liquid. I recognized fizzy, flowery rose amrita. He chuckled and sipped, too, allowing the tension to dissipate.

The rest of the reception passed relatively painlessly, despite the fact that I only allowed myself the single glass of bubbly. Soon Marisol and the others who weren’t going to the Duergar palace departed, and Emmaline was coming at me holding a jacket that was really more of a cape.

“Seriously?” I said as she settled the garment around my shoulders.

“It’s tradition and protocol to cover the shoulders when you arrive in a foreign court,” was all she replied.

The envoy, including Maxen, began moving out of the reception hall. Emmaline walked beside me with her ever-present tablet.

“So how do we travel there?” I asked. “Horse-drawn carriage?”

She snorted a laugh at my sarcasm. “You haven’t been part of many diplomatic parties, have you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“We’ll be traveling by doorway,” she said. “In fact, the porters have already gone through with all of the luggage.”

She told me the sigils to trace to go to the destination doorway, which she said was near a road leading to the Duergar palace. I’d been in the Duergar kingdom before, of course—Morven’s pub was located there—but never to the palace.

A little sliver of ice crept up my spine as I remembered the wraith trying to kill me in the netherwhere. I shook it off. That wraith was dust. It still irked me that my mark was at large, but I’d told Oliver I’d rescue Nicole, and of course I had to. Even if she weren’t my sister, I couldn’t leave a New Gargoyle changeling in Duergar hands—in spite of what Maxen believed about my lack of duty to my people.

Emmaline and I followed the others through the corridors of the fortress and out into a small, circular courtyard that was ringed with what appeared to be a solid wall. But in the sculpture of the wall were several arches, designs that would catch any Fae eye. Doorways.

The man who seemed to be the head attendant, the one who was personal servant to Maxen, was leading the party. He took us to one of the arches that looked the same as the rest, until the page began drawing sigils in the air. The area under the arch shimmered, as if inviting us through.

I waited my turn while others entered the doorway, and then I stepped into the void of the netherwhere.

It was time to find my twin.