Page 59 of The Blood Queen

“We can provide weapons at least,” Father says, gesturing us all inside.

This room is huge, with no windows. I spot some telltale signs of magic protections in the walls and door, but there are a few cabinets with even more security around them and an annoying spot in one corner that I can’t seem to focus on at all, an optical deflection spell keeping me from even knowing the full extent of the room. Shelves of various weapons, carefully lined-up rows of armor, and bottles of potions hanging from the ceiling give the big room an almost claustrophobic feel.

“Huh,” Samson mutters.

I cast him a questioning look.

“Those are swords, bows, spears,” he says in a low voice just for me as the others file into the room. “Was expecting something, I don’t know, a little more…” He waggles his fingers to indicate magic.

The weapons are all differently sized to accommodate the various types of fae, but he’s right. They look like human weapons.

“They’re all enhanced,” I say, strolling deeper into the room. A sword that strengthens the bearer’s strikes, a bow with a string that will never break.

But he’s right. The fae draw inspiration from humans.

Just like the Red Caps do, hiding weapons in plain sight, using everyday tools.

I wish the high fae, those like my father, could see just how integral we are to each other, magical and human.

How we can only survive if we work together.

But that’s a fight I cannot win today and don’t have the strength to stage now.

The princes stay back as Father draws Samson and me to the other side of the room, toward that shadowed part that keeps slipping from my vision.

“Oy!” Keryth calls, and my father pauses. “They shouldn’t—”

My father turns slowly on his heel, leveling Keryth with such a cold look the prince freezes, his lips snapping shut. This isn’t magic; it’s my father’s imperial disdain radiating off him with such force that it strikes like a physical blow.

Behind Keryth, the others shift nervously. It’s clear they’re not entirely comfortable with me in their armory, much less this area of it, but they’ve toppled like dominoes, mostly for my father’s sake, or perhaps because they realize even the brownies are tired of the princes not doing anything.

“This area,” Father says, swiping his hand at the darkness, “is where we store the most dangerous weapons.”

The slippery nature of the corner slides away, the shelves stored here snapping into focus so strongly that I take a step back, bumping into Samson, who steadies me.

Father waits until he catches my gaze, then gives me a subtle nod.

Dangerous equates to Red Cap.

Sure enough, I spot the cauldron that a Leth used against a border village when I first met Samson. The remains of the crystal vial that held the smoke Darnley used to drive rebels into a mad fury to kill David Rizzio. The needle I found in Queen Mary’s sewing chest that would have drained every drop of blood from her body. Dozens more that I collected in Scotland and sent back here over a lifetime of being the guardian.

“Red Cap magic,” I mutter to Samson. “Touch nothing.”

“Guessed as much,” Samson says, holding his hands behind his back. “Not sure how I feel about using their weapons.”

“Against them?” I contemplate it for a moment. “I could do it.”

Father’s eyebrow lifts a millimeter. “You surprise me, daughter.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you knew her,” Samson says.

Father doesn’t deign to comment.

“Whatever you need here,” Father says, gesturing to the entire room, “is yours to take, with my blessing.”

I let out a slow breath. Tools like these would have been helpful, had I access to them sooner.

Better late than never.