Page 78 of The Dead Queen

In the pit of my stomach, my power flares, attuned to my emotions. I know why. I’ve always known.

Fear.

Fear of becoming a corrupt ruler, like my father. Another Fox to be consumed by power and greed.

“Your brother might not rule for decades.” Hunter shakes his head slowly. “Who knows what sort of monster your father will raise him to be? You, at least, had your grandmother to help you see differently.”

I pull my hand out of his grasp. “You can’t just wish me to be queen, Hunter.” My tone is more aggressive than intended. “It’s not like I have any say in the matter. I don’t have that kind of power.” I turn away, nauseous and shaking from emotions I haven’t had time to process.

“But you do,” Hunter says behind me as I walk away. “You’ve always had more than you realize.”

Deep in my core, my light flares as if in agreement. I squash it down as I stomp through the rain, feeling suddenly unsure about every damn thing in my life. I thought I knew what to do, what I wanted, but maybe I haven’t known anything at all.

Inside the stone hall, we’re finally out of the rain, but all our gear is soaked through. Hunter strings a line and helps me hang our blankets and spare clothes to dry while Tristan clears the space and uses an axe to break apart old furniture for firewood. Before long, smoke from a small fire rises upward and escapes out the dripping holes in the ceiling. We shiver as we sit as close to the fire as we dare.

The firelight flickers across the stone carvings in the wall. This must have been an important place for these villagers to warrant such craftsmanship. Beautiful women in flowing dresses dance with beasts of the forest, watched over by the phases of the moon. I don’t see sun imagery or Fox Kings anywhere, unusual for a place of worship.

“This doesn’t look like any temple I’ve ever seen,” I say.

Tristan stares into the flames. “That’s because it’s dedicated to the old gods of the north.”

Behind him, a faded tapestry depicts a tree spirit embracing a woman wearing a sheer white gown. She has a wolf pelt thrown over her shoulders. The imagery is so gorgeously realistic, I can almost hear the lovers’ frantic, love-drunk breaths. I blush when I notice the woman’s hardened nipples slipping out of her silk dress. Artwork like this would be labeled “obscene” in the traditional south. It makes me wonder what sort of freedom Annwyn women must have that love scenes adorn the walls of their temples.

“Would you tell me about your people?” I ask, feeling the sanctity of the space, even though it was abandoned long ago.

Beside me, Hunter shifts uneasily, but he doesn’t protest.

For a minute, I wonder if Tristan heard me, but then he lets out a long sigh. “Places like this are rare in Annwyn these days. It’s a hard life, relocating every few years when the soldiers come calling. Art and religion are often the first thing to go when you’re a refugee, constantly moving, constantly trying to keep your family alive.”

A lump forms in my throat.

The fire crackles while we wait for Tristan to continue. He nods toward the tapestry. “That’s the Tree God, the protector of our great northern forests. He wooed the goddess of the moon. Their love was forbidden, since he was a deity of the earth and she of the sky. But she came to him anyway, in the night. She birthed the first fae. And the first wolves.” He glances up at me. “That’s why wolves howl, you know. They miss their moon mother.”

I smile at this until I remember that the last wolf I encountered was of the undead variety. That was not something from a fairytale, as much as I wish it were.

“And what of the corpse wolves?” I ask.

Tristan picks up a stick and pokes the fire. “Those came later, with the first Dead Queen.”

Hunter’s head shoots up. “There’s more than one?”

“There have been several.” Tristan grabs another piece of wood from his pile—a table leg, by the look of it—and adds it to the fire. “Whenever one decides to pass on to the spirit realm, another must take her place. The first one is known as the Mother of Corpses because she was the first to exhibit the power of reanimation. She started with the wolves first, because she loved them like children. But there were never many, not then.”

“And now?” I ask. The air is thick with tension. Beside me, Hunter’s eyes are shadowed as he watches Tristan.

“And now we need more of them.” Tristan pokes the fire with his stick. “To protect us from the southern invaders.”

I expect Hunter to protest, but he doesn’t. I search his face for some hint of what he’s thinking, but his eyebrows draw together in deep thought. I want to reach out, to smooth away the crease there.

Hunter breaks the silence first. “Tristan, I believe I owe you an apology.”

Tristan tilts his head to look up at him, suspicion clear on his face.

I look between the two.

Hunter’s expression is grave. “Over the last week, I’ve not been my true self. I’ve been cruel, untrusting, and, well … childish.” He clears his throat. “I don’t understand you or your kind, but that doesn’t give me the right to be so … ungenerous.” His voice is thick with shame, a tone I remember from the thousand tiny failures of our youth. When his father would scold him or beat him for being less than perfect.

I want to reach out, to hold his hand to my chest and tell him it’s not his fault.