Thread of Frost

Ch. 27: Humans Are Fickle

Isaac had done some stupid things before.

He'd slid down the castle stairs on a shield. He'd ridden a goat through the guard's barracks. Once on a dare, Isaac had rappelled from the castle roof using an old fishing rope, tumbled five feet into a hedge, and dislocated his shoulder. He'd been out of commission for three days. His commander had been furious.

But threatening to harm the Prince of Faerie and then accidentally summoning his father to a remote location in the woods?

That took the cake.

Isaac gripped his knife. He struggled to remember everything he knew about faeries. Camille had read a book on them once, hadn't she? She'd said they made blood bargains. They were naturally shrewd. And the king's name was...

Torin. No, Torine.

Thoraine.

That was it.

"Well met," Thoraine said.

Owain rose. "You must excuse our intrusion."

Thoraine studied his son, the same way that a scientist might study a particularly interesting slug. Then the King of Faerie turned away. "Tristan Beauchamp, I presume."

Tristan looked like he might throw up. Wasn't nice to discover you had the hots for the Prince of Faerie, Isaac supposed. Thoraine turned to him next.

"And Isaac Webb."

Isaac inclined his head. "Your Highness."

His heart pounded in his chest. He was hyperaware of the smell of rain on the cobblestone, the faint crackle in the air. Soldier's instincts, Isaac supposed; he could feel his body shifting into a fighting stance. Owain looked at his father.

"It's unusual for you to journey alone," Owain said.

"He's not alone," a voice said.

Isaac spun.

Three men stood on the bridge. Well, not men, Isaac realized; the strangers wore circlets of thorns around their heads, and their ears were slightly pointed. And they looked.... unnatural, somehow. Or perhaps too natural. Like they'd sprung from the depths of the earth.

"Wellow." Owain's voice was flat. "Riven. Bow."

Owain crossed his arms. They all shared the same red hair, Isaac observed, although Owain was slighter, his features more delicate. And the other men had no Salvatorian heritage. Of that, Isaac was certain.

"Little pea." The tallest one — Wellow — smiled. "And you've brought entertainment. How thoughtful of you."

Isaac took a step forward. "We've come to ask a question."

"Just one?" Wellow asked.

Isaac's hand was slick on the sword. "Will you give us an answer?"

"Depends on the question," Wellow said.

He sounded bored. Wellow looked bored, as if he regularly lurked beneath bridges, waiting for mortals to feed their blood to carnivorous flowers. And maybe he did, Isaac thought; he had no idea what faerie princes did for fun on a Sunday afternoon.

"They'll want something in return," Owain said.

He was staring into the water. A blue mark stood out on his neck, bright as a slap, and something tightened in Isaac's stomach. Had that been where Isaac had grabbed him by the collar? Probably. The realization made him feel...

Well.

Not great.

Isaac turned to Thoraine. "What do you want?"