When she asked who was supplying the clothing, she was told it was at the discretion of the queen.

Despite the fact Rhoswen had done her best to kil her this afternoon, she wanted Lyssa to be suitably dressed for the Hunt. Perhaps it had to do with her meeting the Seelie king, and not wanting to appear petty.

Jacob had donned Catriona's stone pendant, and it complemented the short tunic, boots and hose that suited him so well. From the first moment she'd seen him at the Eldar, the spa where he'd come to “audition” for the role of her servant, he'd reminded her of the knight he'd once been, long ago, the one with whom she'd spent one memorable night during the Crusades. He hadn't remembered that right off, nor had she connected the two so intimately, but as their bond had deepened, she had become certain he and that knight were the same soul. As time passed, Fate had been kind, giving him the memory she had of that night in bits and pieces.

What he didn't remember from that time, but learned from her in their present day relationship, was that she'd conceived a child that fateful night.

The babe had been stil born. She vividly remembered that pale and fragile little daughter she'd buried alone. Her knight, the Jacob of that time period, had died three days after the night of conception. If the babe had lived, if Jacob had survived to return to her in his incarnation as the knight, she was sure that little girl would have been adored and cherished by her father all his life.

Girls with daddy issues. She wondered again at the nature of her father, what he'd thought of Rhoswen and her mother. It was a dul twinge, thinking he might have turned his back on them.

They were prepared to their attendants' satisfaction, and it was time to go. Taking Jacob's offered arm, she let him lead her from the room, the two of them moving down the winding staircase.

Though she was aware of his quiet scrutiny, she couldn't push the memories back.

From the first, she'd known Kane wasn't the incarnation of her daughter. The near-term fetus had been delicate and soft, so feminine and sensitive.

For all that he was an infant, Kane was a bowling bal of testosterone. But she'd wondered if Kane, when in the Hal of Souls, had touched her little hand.

Of course such thoughts were fanciful and maudlin, for the soul of that long ago baby had certainly gone into the body of some other fetus, hopeful y to be born in better times. Born to a mother who'd gotten to hold her, live, hale and hearty, with kicking feet and a scrunched-up face, squal ing irritation at being so rudely born. Not stil , like a little ghost in the womb.

She'd stopped on the stairs, was staring vacantly out an open window on the staircase. As she focused, she saw an array of luminaires had been strung along the drawbridge. Similar decorations outlined all the castles, with the exception of the Castle of Fire, of course, though she noted the fire had myriad colors tonight and the flame was more animated, jumping high and swirling out wide in fanciful shapes, like a light show.

“My lady.” Jacob slid his arm around her, picking up the tone of her thoughts.

I'm all right. She nodded, acknowledging the comfort. Those who lived much shorter lifespans assumed the past grew dim after a while. That memories didn't have as much power to hurt. That was true, somewhere in the middle of one's life. But as the years accumulated, they came back with a renewed power. Though they didn't hurt the same way, poignant regret was there, more sharp. The desire to reach back and change things increased.

Giving her a look of quiet understanding, he offered his raised hand, in true courtier fashion. She laid hers upon it, tightening her fingers on his knuckles, and let him lead her down the staircase to the main hal . The tables were set, the decorations a profusion of autumn color. Ice sculptures that looked like Fae maidens, undines, satyrs and other dancing creatures glistened, thanks to the gentle light of the three candelabras hung from stout chain. Hawthorne, ash and rowan branches were woven into the black wood frames, dotted with the gold, red and brown colors of flowers appropriate to the season.

As they moved out into the courtyard, they found the Queen's Guard had dressed for this event as well. Jacob drew her to the wal so they could safely survey all the activity. They were meeting up with the main Unseelie host out on the front field before the castle, but well over a hundred of the males were getting mounted up here and it was a sight not to be missed.

The guards were all on black horses tonight, painted with white, skeleton-like slashes along the flanks and neck. Through some magic, the horses' hooves appeared to be wreathed with flame, though the creatures seemed unconcerned by what would spook a normal animal. Their riders were dressed all in black, with long cloaks and silver painted faces, which made their expressions seem remote and eerie.

In the center of that formation, she saw a handful of younger Fae, perhaps the ages of her earlier group.

They were dressed in a variety of masks and scary costumes like she'd seen sold at the pavilions.

When she and Jacob arrived, they were cavorting about the courtyard, laughing and loud, but at a sharp word from Cayden's lieutenant, they settled into an open carriage. A pair of black centaurs took up the yoke, bearing breastplates with the queen's dragon insignia. Apparently, this smal group of young had been awarded the privilege of accompanying the Haunt, but only with close supervision.

Lyssa saw Keldwyn, striding out of another corridor. He was also all in black, but wore an elaborate mask of layered feathers that fanned out in rust and gold colors, accentuating the stern lips and firm chin. His dark hair was clasped at his nape and, as he turned his head, she saw the clasp was a silver skul .

She didn't see Cayden, which was surprising, since Rhoswen made her appearance next. She rode out of the stables on a white charger painted in black slashes, the mirror opposite of her escort.

When her eyes settled on the Fae young, her expression cool, they immediately became even more somber and well behaved.

“The Lady in White,” Jacob murmured, his hand tightening on Lyssa's. “Jesus.”

The queen of the Unseelie was garbed in a creation of white silk that turned her into a ghost with her pale face. Her long skeins of white hair were unbound so the ends spread over the blanket on the rump of her charger. She had those sparkles of snow and starlight upon her skin, as did her antlered headdress.

A belt made of heavy chain rested low on her hips, the excess of it running up to a set of loose manacles she bore on her wrists. She looked ready to drag some unsuspecting mortal back to the Fae world against his will , pul ed behind her horse in those chains.

She made her way past the assembled guard.

They sat straight and expressionless as her gaze passed over them, assessing. When at last she reached the lieutenant, she nodded. Though his expression didn't change, it was obvious the minimalist praise was the equivalent of a roaring accolade to him.

As she continued toward the drawbridge, the guard fel in line behind her, the center carriage with them. Seeing several others of the high court on foot, walking out behind the formation, Jacob and Lyssa accompanied them, moving to the drawbridge and beyond to join the main host of the Unseelie entourage. The high court members drifted over toward outfitted horses being held patiently by castle stablehands, but Lyssa and Jacob were caught by the spectacle of the waiting cavalcade—and the sudden sharp screeches that split the darkening night.

Lyssa found the banshees, long, thin-bodied creatures draped on the shoulders of several giants in the procession. The banshees looked much like normal men or women, though their eyes were luminous gold, and they all seemed to have burnished red hair.

Harpies winged swiftly up and back, reminding her of her own batlike way of flying as they took teasing passes over the heads of the others. They looked much like the stories, with skeletal faces, burning dark eyes and long, grasping fingers, their gray hair streaming out behind them as they turned and rol ed in the air, impressive aerial maneuvers in a sky already populated by hippogriffs, griffins, dragons and phoenixes.

Interestingly, there was also a large murder of crows. The black, glossy-feathered creatures col ected on the branches of nearby trees, making a substantial cacophony when not taking flight in sudden explosions of synchronized movement around the other flying folk.

Beneath the spreading branches of the oaks the crows seemed to favor, Lyssa saw a woman even more pale skinned and white haired than Rhoswen.

She was in a silver sleigh drawn by a foursome of horses. The sleigh seemed to be made entirely of ice.

“The Snow Queen,” Jacob murmured. “She coaxes a child into the sleigh with her, and then takes him to her castle of ice. To make him her own child, she erases the memory of the parents from his mind.”

“Remind me to never let Kane go out in the snow,” she responded.

The trol s and ogres were banded together in a tight group. Viewing their round, glittering eyes and broad faces, Lyssa realized a happy-looking ogre was downright disturbing. Yips and bays announced the arrival of the hell hounds. Their handlers were a satyr and a centaur. Instead of straddling the centaur, the satyr squatted on his back on shaggy haunches and cloven hoofs. Though he had a steadying hand tented on the centaur's withers, it was obvious they were companions, not mount and rider. The satyr made a short, musical tril on his pipe, bringing the hounds back to mil around them. Before that, they'd been running about, slathering on any person who let them jump up on them. Their red eyes glowed, long, curved fangs glistening with drool. It made Lyssa miss Bran and his siblings.

It was awe-inspiring, magnificent, macabre. As several shadowlike creatures passed them, she drew in a quick breath at a blast of icy wind. An overwhelming sense of desolation came with it.

Jacob drew her close, giving her his warmth. “The Gaoth Shee,” he said. “Sometimes, when you pass over a fairy line in the mortal world, you'l feel their touch. And when you do, the lore is you suffer a malady soon thereafter, like a stroke. I assume we're immune.”

“Let's hope.” It reminded Lyssa that, despite the festive air tonight, there were other, far darker things happening. When she studied her half sister's serious face, her intent scrutiny of everyone in the procession, she realized Rhoswen didn't consider this a night of mirth at all. She wanted to terrify the mortal world. She wanted them scurrying back into the safety of their homes, not venturing into dark, old sections of forests and other places where they might find their way into her world. Tonight had a deadly, determined purpose.