All That Burns by Ryan Graudin Page A

to.”
    If I were queen, I would take the risk. Use the Ad-hene to find the fugitive’s trail. But I’m not queen. I’m not even a Frithemaeg anymore.
    “I’ll keep the Guard on high alert.” The queen’s voice is strained, like that of an adult talking to a petulant child. “But for now I’ve done everything I can.”
    Or everything you’re willing . “I wouldn’t consider the Guard the strongest of defenses if they cannot even keep a singleKelpie from diving into the Thames.”
    “The Guard was struggling even before Lady Breena died. With both of you gone, there are only younglings left. If you were truly so concerned about King Richard’s safety, then perhaps you should not have abandoned your magic so lightly.”
    Titania’s words burn. Just as she meant them to. We stand in the cinders of silence for a moment before the Faery queen turns back in the direction of the dance.
    “You made your choice, Lady Emrys. Now you must live it. Go and dance. Be with your king. Let us speak no more of this. This conversation has wearied me. I think it’s best if I go inside, closer to the royals’ blood magic.”
    She glides back the way she came. Silent, silvery grace.
    Maybe Titania’s right. I hope she is.
    But standing here on lawn of the Upper Ward, it’s not a hope I have much faith in. Inside, the dancing has started. I see it perfectly through the glow of the window—dresses and tuxedos whirling like toy tops. Princess Anabelle looks like a phoenix in her gold gown—it twists and flares under the light as she dances with Lord Winfred.
    And Richard. He’s dancing too. His arms are around some woman I don’t know, guiding her across the dance floor with bold, steady motions. A touch made of fearless.
    I watch them and think of the times we danced together—barefoot in his room, classic rock blaring from Richard’s turntable, swaying in the sheer togetherness of it, finding each other through vinyl notes.
    Ache, ache goes my heart. Loving him through the hurt.
    “It’s a good night for dancing. The full moon always is.”
    I don’t have to turn to know that Herne the Hunter stands behind me. I feel his presence the same way I feel that my right hand is attached to my wrist. The night stings with his magic. Against my will I taste some of what was once mine: cloud-strung heights, fire and grace, a palm full of worlds . . .
    The ache in my heart stretches.
    I turn and see him there, a darker tear of darkness through the night, held together by the smolder of his eyes. His cloak sweeps like tar over the lawn. Two horns stab and twist the air like corkscrews.
    It’s times like this, standing in front of the woodlord, that I understand the mortals’ fear. Why they use the word monster .
    He’s not alone. Hounds gather at his feet, their fur as white and pure as first snowfall. Behind them, his horse looms.
    “Herne. How do you fare?”
    “As well as one can in a dying season.” He growls. Ember-bright eyes blaze over my shoulder, scavenge the silhouettes of the dancers.
    “You’ve come for the ball?” I glance back at the hounds.
    “The moon calls. It’s a night for the Wild Hunt.”
    “The princess will be disappointed,” I tell him. “She was hoping to see you again.”
    His eyes narrow. “Four walls and frippery. That is not my world. It would be foolish for me to pretend otherwise.”
    We both fall quiet. I shut my eyes, try my hardest not to feel the flavors of my old powers. They pulse off the woodlord, calling to me in a way nothing else quite can.
    All I’d have to do is ask Herne. Reach out for his gloved hand. One question. One motion. And all of my helplessness would disappear. I could find the prisoner’s trail, take matters into my own hands. The way I once did.
    I open my eyes. Herne is beside me now, his movements made of silence. He seems even taller than before, his horns twisting all the way to the northernmost star.
    “I know what you are about to ask,” he rumbles.