Ambrosia (Frost and Nectar, #2)(51)

In the distance, a red glow lit the sky, a spark of ruby against shadows. It took me a moment to understand. The volcano was erupting. Tonight, the goddess of ash was alive with fury.

We made it about twenty feet in the grass before I heard the groan of the tree shifting behind me. My stomach flipped.

With rising dread, I turned to see the queen’s dark vines snaking out from the stone walls.

The breath left my lungs.

I had only enough time to call out a brief warning to Torin before the vines wrapped around my waist, tight as a noose, and yanked me off the ground and into the sky.





32





SHALINI




Istood before the stage in a hall I’d never seen before, listening to the murmurs of the crowd around me.

My teeth chattered uncontrollably. It didn’t feel much warmer in here than it was outside, and cold iron bound my wrists behind my back. I glanced to my left, my chest clenching when I saw Aeron. His blond hair hung before his bowed head, and he wasn’t even looking at me now.

Behind me, a row of armored soldiers gripped swords. Above them, grotesque figures of giants were carved in the stone over the hall entrance. Between the giants stood scales of justice. Because that would be today’s performance, right? Inspired by the aesthetics of justice. Just not the actual concept of justice, I was sure.

This place was called the Guild Hall, and I was pretty sure that its soaring ceilings were designed to intimidate, along with everything else in its design. Aeron had told me that the Guild Hall was where the city guilds met to discuss their business, but it was also where important trials were conducted—such as treason trials.

A blood-red carpet stretched from the back of the hall to the stage. Narrow stained glass windows stretched to the ceiling, and chandeliers cast wavering light over the people crammed into the hall to watch us condemned—and we all knew the outcome already. This didn’t end with me walking free and bringing Aeron back to a dive bar.

Aeron met my gaze, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “We’ll get out of this,” he said quietly.

He was being kind, and I nodded, pretending to believe him.

The only way I could stay sane right now was to vividly imagine my little apartment at home and the Golden Shamrock. In this situation, my world of fantasy was not the fairytale world. It was a beer-stained bar with mediocre nachos. That was my heaven. And I would keep that comforting world alive in my mind as long as I could.

When Moria crossed onto the stage, her dress trailing over the red carpet, I knew we were in for another show. Her burgundy hair tumbled over a snow-white cape, and her crown gleamed on her head like icicles.

“It pains me,” she began, “that we must continue to burn out the scourge of treason from our kingdom. But we are still starving, still freezing here in Faerie. Because even with a queen, my magic cannot compete with the curses that the Unseelie and their allies hurl at us. Here, in Faerie, the Unseelie have wicked agents doing their bidding. Consorting with Torin after his betrayal.” She strode across the stage like Lady Macbeth, gripping her stomach, as though it weren’t a load of absolute bullshit.

She whirled dramatically to face us, and I wondered how, exactly, the legal system worked in Faerie. It didn’t seem we were going to be afforded the courtesy of legal representation.

As she droned on about treason and secret demon spies, Aeron lifted his head. His jaw tensed, and ferocity gleamed in his eyes.

“Everything she’s saying is a lie,” he snarled. “King Torin has not betrayed us. You have betrayed us by refusing to sit on the throne.” He glanced at me, his eyes burning. “I have been with Shalini for weeks. She’s no more a spy than I am a princess.”

My heart swelled at his attempt to defend me, but I knew there was no point. Aeron’s defense was cut short when soldiers yanked him by the arms and dragged him out.

Panic gnawed at my ribs. I called his name as he was taken from the hall. A hand was clamped hard over my mouth, and I was forced to look at the queen. I struggled against my attacker, my arms burning with the strain of having them wrenched behind my back.

Queen Moria’s lips were a thin red line. “Are you quite finished with your little temper tantrum?” she asked. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and her maroon irises glistened. “When I was a child, if I did anything naughty, my father, king of the Dearg Due, would give me time to think about what I’d done, time spent outside the castle in a small cage. There, under the taunting gaze of the peasants, and in the freezing cold of winter, I learned the value of obedience.” Her gaze roamed the crowd again, her eyes gleaming. “He wanted me to be strong, like King Caerleon in the old days, the strongest leader of the Seelie. And while I was out there, growing strong, only my older sister would come to help. She secretly fed me and brought me water. She brought me cloth to wash with to try to preserve some of my dignity. And where did that kindness, that softness, get her? The king buried her under the frozen earth.”

She turned to face us again, and tears streaked down her cheeks. For the first time, I thought her display of emotion was actually real. “In this world,” she went on, “women cannot be weak. People expect us to be soft and pliable, and when we are, they crush us in their fingers, like a child mashing a flower. That is why an Iron Queen stands before you, as strong and as ruthless as a king.” She raised her fist, and her cheeks went pink.