"But Julian," Cristina said, looking troubled. "What about him?"
For a moment, Emma couldn't speak-she was remembering Julian as the pretty faerie girl had come through the grass toward him, the way she had put her hands on his body, the way his arms had locked across her back.
She had never felt jealousy like that before. It still ached in her, like the scar of an old wound. She welcomed the pain in a strange way. It was pain she deserved, she thought. If Julian hurt, she should hurt too, and she had cut him free-he was free to kiss faerie girls and look for love and be happy. He was doing nothing wrong.
She remembered what Tessa had told her, that the way to make Julian stop loving her was to make him think she didn't love him. To convince him. It seemed she had.
"I think my whole charade with Mark has done what it needed to do," she said. "So if you want . . ."
"I don't know," Cristina said. She took a deep breath. "I have to tell you something. Mark and I argued, and I didn't mean to, but I-"
"Stop!" It was Mark, up ahead. He whirled, Julian beside him, and held out a hand toward them. "Do you hear that?"
Emma strained her ears. She wished it was possible to rune herself-she missed the runes that improved speed and hearing and reflex.
She shook her head. Mark had changed into what must have been his Hunt clothes, darker and more ragged, and had even rubbed dirt into his hair and face. His two-colored eyes glittered in the twilight.
"Listen," he said, "it's getting louder," and suddenly Emma could hear it: music. A sort of music she'd never heard before, eerie and tuneless, it made her nerves feel like they were wriggling under her skin.
"The Court is near," Mark said. "Those are the King's pipers." He plunged into the thicker woods alongside the path, turning only to call "Come along!" to the others.
They followed. Emma was conscious of Julian just ahead of her; he'd taken out a shortsword and was using it to hack away undergrowth. Piles of leaves and branches studded with small, blood-colored flowers tumbled at her feet.
The music was louder now, and grew louder still as they passed through thick forest, the trees above them glimmering with will-o'-the-wisp lights. Multicolored lanterns hung from the branches, pointing the way toward the darkest part of the forest.
The Unseelie Court appeared suddenly-a burst of louder music and bright lights that stung Emma's eyes after so long in the dark. She wasn't sure what she'd imagined when she'd tried to picture the Unseelie Court. A massive stone castle, perhaps, with a grim throne room. A dark jewel of a chamber at the top of a tower with a winding gray stair. She recalled the shadowy darkness of the City of Bones, the hush of the place, the chill in the air.
But the Unseelie Court was outside-a number of tents and booths not unlike the ones at the Shadow Market, clustered in a glade in a circle of thick trees. The main part of it was a massive draped pavilion, with banners of velvet on which was displayed the emblem of a broken crown, stamped in gold, flying from every part of the structure.
A single tall throne made of smooth, glimmering black stone sat in the pavilion. It was empty. The back was carved with the two halves of a crown, this time hanging above a moon and a sun.
A few gentry faeries in dark cloaks were milling around in the pavilion near the throne. Their cloaks bore the crown insignia, and they wore thick gloves like the one Cristina had found at the ruins of Malcolm's house. Most were young; some barely looked older than fourteen or fifteen.
"The Unseelie King's sons," whispered Mark. They were crouched behind a tumble of boulders, peering around the edges, weapons in hand. "Some of them, anyway."
"Doesn't he have any daughters?" Emma muttered.
"He has no use for them," said Mark. "They say he has girl children killed at birth."
Emma couldn't prevent a flinch of anger. "Just let me get close to him," she whispered. "I'll show him what use girls are."
There was a sudden blare of music. The faeries in the area began to move toward the throne. They were brilliant in their finery, gold and green and blue and flame-red, the men as brightly clothed as the women.
"It's almost time," said Mark, straining to see. "The King is calling the gentry to him."
Julian straightened, still hidden by the boulders. "Then we should move now. I'm going to see if we can get any closer to the pavilion." His shortsword gleamed in the moonlight. "Cristina," he said. "Come with me."