“The Glamour wore off me this morning,” Aislin whispers. Ah. Though the soldiers whisper among themselves as the princess and her companions pass them, not one of them moves to stop the princess and demand an explanation from her. Croi’s vastly relieved because the soldiers have swords with serrated edges, and she doesn’t fancy finding how they will feel cutting into her skin.

They’re almost at the tent in the middle, a pavilion really, and Croi has begun breathing easier, when the princess comes to an abrupt stop.

TWENTY-FOUR

IT IS NOT WITH A word or a spell that they are halted; it is the mere presence of a Tine fae that causes the princess and her companions behind her to come to a standstill. Croi would have continued walking had Tinder not pinched her. The fae soldier in front of them is much older than they are but not as old as either Uaine or the Hag. He is wearing magically enhanced armor over the dark tunic and pants common to the Tine soldiers. His eyes, a light brown ringed by orange, are narrowed to slits and trained on the Fire Princess. Anger emanates from this fae, scorching in its intensity. He is tall and broad, with a narrow face, a pointed chin, and a sharp nose; his skin is a dark burnished orange, and his hair is the exact same red as the princess’s. His magick, too, is a shade similar to the princess’s. Croi looks at him closer, wondering if he and the princess are related. The similarity in their bones is distinct.

So fierce is the fae soldier’s regard that Aislin and Caoimhe move closer to the princess, while Croi edges away from her. If there are going to be flying arrows or daggers or whatever this kin handles, Croi doesn’t want them hitting her accidentally.

“You were told, were you not, that leaving the protection of the guard is forbidden?” The fae’s voice is low, measured, and without inflection. Yet anger hisses through it. “I will not ask where you have been because I fear I know the answer only too well. You send your brownie mother to distract me? Do you think I will fall prey to her tricks?” His anger builds until his voice is a roar. “You willfully involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you! Your guards”—his gaze flays the soldiers who have just arranged themselves around the princess—“will be replaced and doubled. You will not be allowed—”

“You forget yourself, Lord Lorcan,” the princess says icily, cutting him off. “You do not have the right to tell me what I am and what I am not allowed to do.” She is brave, this princess, to ring her voice loudly in front of this angry soldier. She doesn’t see that her words sit ill with the soldiers this Lorcan calls his comrades.

“Your father—” Lorcan starts.

“Exactly. You are not my father.”

Croi wonders if she has imagined the spasm of pain that distorts Lorcan’s face for a second.