These Twisted Bonds (These Hollow Vows, #2)(28)

He studies me for a long beat, and I wonder if he’s reading all my thoughts, seeing all my heartache over the reality of these divided families. “I told you what’s to be found beneath the Goblin Mountains.”

“Fire gems,” I whisper.

Misha rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms. “She’s been sending Unseelie children into those mines for twenty years. If she hadn’t maintained her supply, the price of her curse would’ve killed her long before you broke it. She claimed that she captured the Unseelie as a warning—that she was trying to keep them out of her lands to protect her people—but the truth is that she needed those children to retrieve the gems so she could survive the curse.”

“Why Unseelie children?” I ask. “Because they’re small? Aren’t they defenseless?”

“It’s not just that children are small, although that helps. It’s that the young have an innate ability to sense the fire gems’ presence within the walls. It’s an awareness that fades with years. And why Unseelie? Perhaps because of their gifts with the darkness, or perhaps because her heart is filled with vile hate. Some never made it back out, and the ones who did . . .” He shakes his head and speaks the rest directly into my mind. Most adults would die in the face of the terrors beneath those mountains.

I’m almost afraid to ask, but the residue of the child’s fear still clings to me. “And what’s that?

What’s waiting in that darkness?”

“The monsters that dwell beneath the Goblin Mountains . . . well, one cannot access great power without facing great horrors.”

“But she didn’t face them. She sent in children to do it for her,” I say darkly, and rage boils in my blood. In the mortal realm, children are tricked into contracts that lock them into lives of servitude, and here children are sent underground to face unfathomable monsters. Is it so unreasonable to believe the powerful should be protecting those most vulnerable?

Maybe Misha is manipulating me for his own political scheming. Maybe I truly cannot trust anyone in this realm. But that child’s fear was real, and I’ll do anything to keep the golden queen from gaining more power and exploiting more children. In the human realm, I always wished I had some way to protect the weak and vulnerable—I still think about that stack of contracts in Creighton Gorst’s vault. Here, I actually do have a way, and I refuse to waste it just because I’m struggling with my own broken heart.

“She sent in children, ” I say again. “Sacrificed children.”

“Yes,” Misha says gravely.

“Death is too good for her,” I breathe, not even thinking before letting the words out of my mouth.

But Misha smiles. “It certainly is.” Blowing out a breath, he shakes his head, as if clearing away some haunting image.

And what more might she do if she’s successful in expanding her territory into the Unseelie lands?

What might come of the children in that part of the territory if her greed goes unchecked?

I frown. “It seems like everyone suspects that the queen killed her parents. I’ve never understood that.”

“Mmm.” Misha’s eyes go wide, almost intrigued, but his response is carefully noncommittal.

“That can’t be true, right?” I ask. “I was told that a crown couldn’t be passed to the heir if the heir murdered for it. So if that’s true, then how did Arya get the crown?”

“That’s the question,” he says. “And many believe that if we could find the answer, we’d know Arya’s weakness. But we don’t know.” He shrugs. “I somehow doubt she just got lucky.”

I swallow hard. “I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.”

He shakes his head. “You never had the chance, Abriella. Don’t let brief proximity fool you. She goes nowhere without dozens of the most powerful and fiercely loyal guards. If you’d tried, particularly as a human, you would’ve failed.”

I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t find that comforting, but I do.

“Come with me.” He leads me several doors down to the school he pointed out earlier. Its doors are wide-open, and there is a cluster of children playing in the little flower bed out front.

Inside, a dozen chairs face a large chalkboard, and in the corner a silver-haired female sits at a large desk that faces the room. She stands when she sees Misha, and he waves.

“Hello, Della. We’re just here to look at the children’s art.”

“Anytime, of course.” Her cheeks are bright pink, as if his presence alone is both elating and embarrassing. She can’t seem to make eye contact, but I don’t think it’s because she’s not allowed. I think she’s just awed by the presence of the Wild Fae king.

He nods to the wall behind the desks, where pictures of all shapes and sizes hang. I step closer, fascinated by what I see. Drawings of families, of starry night skies, of mountains and rivers and flowers. But the ones I can’t stop staring at are of monsters—drawings of eyeless and sharp-toothed beasts that are rudimentary yet also look like they’re emerging from the paper.

“This is Abriella,” Misha says, and I force myself to look away from the art and turn to greet her.

The woman steps forward and offers a hand. “It’s always lovely to meet a friend of Misha’s.”