Page 100 of A Soul’s Awakening

The faerie gave her a sympathetic smile. “Much more common a request from humans on the road than you think.” She disappeared into the tent and returned with a tall stack of them. “No charge for this. I will see you at sunup for your travelling clothes and your two strophium.” The Habetrot bowed her head and held out the well-made cotton squares, complete with ribbons to tie them in place.

Helena inclined her head in return, grateful for the items. “Thank you.” She smiled at the faerie before she turned to re-enter her tent. Helena spied a fluffy pink tail peeking out underneath the Habetrot’s floral dress and her smile grew wider.

“Weapons next, Len?” Lance asked, pointing past the other bivouacs.

Helena’s eyes swept over the signs outside the half-circle of canvas tents, following the direction of the Merman’s gesture. An oil lamp illuminated the iconography of a sword and shield carved into the wooden placard. She nodded and they crossed the area together.

Helena’s fingers jingled the bell charm at the entrance into the tent. A tall, middle-aged human with fighter’s shoulders folded his newspaper as they entered. Lance perused the choice of daggers hanging on the wooden stand in the middle of the tent. Helena watched as he picked up one with a blue inlay in its bronze handle.

The bladesmith gave a quick bow of his head in the Merman’s direction. “Like that one, sir?”

Lance looked down before grinning at him. The seller took in his pointed teeth and black eyes. His mouth opened and closed as strangled gasp escaped him. Helena scowled at the bladesmith. She always felt a stab of rage when people reacted to her Merman that way. Lance clearly was not human, faerie, or Fae. The reaction of Landfolk, as he called them, to his looks was sometimes cruel. She saw a brief flash of hurt cross his face before he turned his attention back to the dagger he held.

Lance balanced the blade and hilt on the edge of his hand, before whipping it upwards. It spun several times before he caught it by the hilt with his other hand.

Helena’s mouth gaped open. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Lance smiled down at her, twirling the blade in his fingers, before tossing it behind his back, stepping backward, and catching it in the hand he originally threw it with.

“Well, now you’re just showing off!” Helena chuckled. “Can I see it?”

“Yes, I am, but you know I just love to show off for you.” Lance handed her the blade, handle first.

“Flirt.” She took the weapon.

It felt surprisingly light despite being significantly bigger than her shucking knife. Helena realised she may need a better weapon than the blade she carried in her boot. She rounded on the bladesmith, his expression still fearful.

“How much for three daggers?” she asked, eyeing another two near-identical weapons hanging on the wooden board.

She planned on buying two for Lance, since the Merman had skill with a blade with both hands, and one for her. The bladesmith closed his gaping mouth and snapped out of his stupor, tearing his eyes from Lance, who was still tossing the dagger and catching it mid-spin from the air. He gave her a false smile that prickled her and opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could reply, Helena interrupted. “And yes, I will accept a heavy discount for how rude you’ve been to my partner.”

The bladesmith snapped his mouth shut and nodded his head in response.

For the better part of a fortnight, Eleanor had been isolated and tutored by the Governess. She was the only person Eleanor saw besides the faerie maids and Manor Guards, who watched constantly and quickly locked doors behind her.

The Wraith had been giving the future Queen all the knowledge she could on how to be a monarch in an opulently oversized classroom. To Eleanor, it seemed obscene in its dimensions, seeing as she and the Governess sat side by side and poured over books and papers on Seelie Queen etiquette and expectations.

His Queen. Eleanor shivered, terror pulsing through her body with every heartbeat.

Halfway through the fortnight, Eleanor’s bleed had arrived. The morning she woke with it, the faerie with clipped wings helped change the bedsheets and gave her cotton to wear. Eleanor surmised that the faerie must have reported her bleed’s arrival to the Governess, as the Wraith had made note of the teenager’s cycle. Eleanor spotted it pencilled into the red leather diary the Governess carried.

This sent a cold chill of revulsion up her spine. She remembered that the Seelie King had mentioned heirs, and her heart hammered at the thought of how soon he planned to act on that, especially with the Governess taking such notes. Eleanor knew how children were made, and the thought of it terrified her.

On top of the laboriously long classes and gross invasions of privacy, she had been forced to drink a disgusting tea every day for the past fourteen days. She had to consume it early morning, noon, and late afternoon. The faerie maid who brought it always presented it in a beautifully crafted teacup. The white porcelain, inlaid with golden whorls of roses and briars, came with a matching saucer. The tea it contained was bitter and gritty. Worst of all, it made her violently ill. Hours later, the nausea and vomiting would pass, and she was given another dose to drink.

Her nights were also disturbed, and the reason why Eleanor struggled to resist the whirl of lessons and tea. Every night, Rian made his presence known. As she lay in her four-poster bed in the decadent bedroom she had been moved to, the Seelie King stalked her mind. He would reach a mental talon to her in the darkness. Rian would then caress the obsidian claw up across her chest and forehead, those invisible fish hooks slicing her skin and tugging her to the Fae, just like at the Interview. He would be in her mind for hours, wearing down her mental shields and preventing her sleep. Eleanor, wearied over the days and nights, was too exhausted to fight back.

On the fifteenth night and after the long-promised last dose of tea, Eleanor felt worse than ever. She returned from the bathroom, lips tugged down and limbs weak in exhaustion and misery.

Eleanor threw herself down onto the luxurious quilt. Every door is locked and there are eyes on me all the time. I can’t get away. I can’t… She squeezed her itching eyes shut, despair dragging tears from them. What can I do? They won’t leave me alone… then, even if I do get away, there is the ward. Her forehead panged at the memory of the magical shield. I want mum. She let out a gasping sob, the heave quickly turning into the familiar churn of needing to vomit.

Eleanor swung her legs from the bed, toes landing onto the red plush carpet, and made a mad dash for the ensuite. She shoved herself through the bathroom door and sprinted towards the toilet. Eleanor dropped in front of it, bruising her knees on the spotless tiles, and vomited into the bowl, bringing up nothing but bile from her empty stomach.

Eleanor leant back on her heels, clutching her middle. Her face paled as she dropped her chin to her chest and whimpered. My bleed has finished. Why are the cramps worse? Why do I feel more ill?

She leant forward to retch into the bowl again, sweat from the effort soaking her body. A gentle, psychic talon scraped along her mind. Eleanor recoiled and fell painfully onto her rear. The claw was stronger than all the times before. She felt he was closer. Just then, she realised that King Rian was in the dimly lit bathroom with her.