Misrule, page 17
“This was your mother.”
She swallows and nods. Sure enough, I notice a pomegranate brooch on the painted woman’s bodice—the tiny star-shaped seeds dazzle on the page.
“Please.” Elspeth steps forward. “It’s all I have of her.”
She does think I’m going to destroy the book. And why shouldn’t she? The portraits in the throne room are riddled with knife wounds. An uncomfortable feeling slithers in my belly.
Ignore her, Mortania insists.
But I cannot. “Keep it.” I thrust the volume toward her.
Elspeth blinks, her mouth going slack.
“Go on. Take it with you.”
“I cannot.” She shakes her head. “It’s safer here. If the Imps ever found it…”
Oh, yes. This book would not last an hour in their clawed hands. I frown. But then— “I think the princess would appreciate seeing this. Take it to her. I’m sure she’ll keep it safe and allow you to look at it when you please.”
Elspeth gapes at me like I’ve Shifted into some kind of gelatinous slug, and it only makes me feel smaller. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me. She never would have given my happiness or well-being a second thought when I was the Dark Grace. How many elixirs had she and her mother purchased from me to dole out petty punishments to fellow courtiers?
“It is easy to answer violence with violence,” Derek had said.
Damn that ship’s boy.
“Take it before I change my mind.”
That is all the encouragement Elspeth requires. She snatches up the book and scampers away. The slapping of her footsteps echoes in the cavernous space. But just before she reaches the door, she turns back. I might hear a whisper beneath the creak of the walls.
“Thank you.”
And then she’s gone.
* * *
—
The encounter with Elspeth stays with me, even to the revel that night. I watch Imps swing from the chandeliers by their tails, launching one another from one pair of arms to the next. Goblins are clustered together near the windows, playing a game of wager. Pearl necklaces and jeweled brooches collect in the center of their circles as they toss down cards. The Demons are dancing. Some of them are in their shadow forms and skim across the ceiling, at times assuming horrifying shapes to rattle unsuspecting court members.
Little by little, the human servants begin to slip away. I know better than to presume I’m invited to the funeral. But my restlessness will not permit me to remain at the revel for long. I take my leave as soon as I’m sure I won’t be missed. And I wonder where Aurora has decided to hold her ceremony—if I might be able to see their lights from the council chamber windows. I make my way up the endless flights of stairs. But when I reach the dragon doors, I find I was not the only one who sought this chamber tonight.
“She wants nothing to do with me.” Neve’s voice floats into the hall, carrying an edge I’d never associated with the Shifter leader. Usually, she’s all innuendo and sarcasm.
“I understand that,” Torin answers, calm and steady. “Give her time.”
“I’ve been here nearly as long as you have. How much more time does she need?”
“I’m working on her, as I promised you I would.”
My brow furrows. Are they talking about me? They must be. And I sense that there is more than irritation in Neve’s words—there’s hurt. No matter what I’d promised Torin, I hadn’t tried in the least to repair my relationship with Neve. I assumed the Shifter leader didn’t care about the tension between us, but this exchange suggests otherwise. My conscience is already raw after Elspeth and the library, and this does not help to assuage it.
“You can promise the moon and stars. But I will not stay here while she disrespects me at every turn. The others notice. My Starlings notice. Why should they serve a court that doesn’t value them?”
“We value them,” Torin insists.
Neve huffs. “You do. But—”
On some insane impulse, I push through the door and into the light. For a heartbeat, Neve’s eyes widen. And then her calculated stoicism slides on like a mask.
“Nimara,” Torin greets me. The candles are burning low on the table, where the map is spread out. “I thought you’d be at the revel.”
“I preferred the quiet tonight,” I say. Awkwardness hangs heavy in the air. I gesture at the map. “Still strategizing?”
“You know our Demon leader doesn’t know how to have fun,” Neve comments with a slight quirk of her mouth.
The grooves mapping Torin’s body flare an exasperated shade of citrine. “Neve shared a few of her ideas with me.”
“Really?” I try to offer a smile that does not appear forced and disastrously fail. “I’d like to hear them, too.”
I position myself to better inspect the map. Some of the markers have been arranged around the border of the High Court. Others are scattered in the mortal realms.
“I’m not ready to divulge them just yet. There’s a missing piece I need to unearth.”
“But I thought you just told Torin—”
“That I have hunches,” she says. “But I would prefer to present you with facts, Mistress.”
An argument presses behind my teeth. She’s keeping things from me. But then Torin’s amber gaze catches mine. She shakes her head, a warning, and I dig my nails into the flesh of my palms to maintain my civility.
“I think I’ll retire for now,” Neve announces.
“I’ll be up later,” Torin says.
I gesture between them. “You two are staying together?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Neve pauses at the door. “Torin was gracious enough to extend an offer, as her suite is so large—and mine now belongs to a princess of the deposed realm.”
Irritation hums, but I tamp it down. “I wasn’t aware that you weren’t able to secure suitable chambers.” I also hadn’t checked.
She waves me off. “The companionship is a welcome change. I spend much of my time in solitude.”
Neve gets lonely? I frown.
When she’s gone, I stand at the windows and look out into the night. There’s no light to be seen, which is probably better. If the sentries discovered the funeral, they would not be forgiving. And I’m loath to be put in the position of needing to stop them from interfering.
“How much did you overhear before you came in?” Torin asks.
The Demon leader is more intuitive than she has a right to be. “Enough.”
“She is not your enemy.”
I go back to the table and pick up a pewter marker. It’s the Starling one, set in the center of Ryna—the kingdom of the long-ago, star-chosen prince. “Then what is she?”
“I think”—Torin’s long sleeves whisper over the map—“that depends on you.”
An annoying answer. I set the marker back down with a sharp clack. And as I examine the outlines of the Fae courts, I’m reminded of when I first saw this map—in this very room—as the Dark Grace. It was the day Tarkin recruited me to craft his cursed objects. “The old king was planning to invade Etheria.”
“I think you told me that,” Torin half-mumbles as she studies the arrangements. “He wouldn’t have gotten far with nothing but a human army.”
“No,” I agree, trailing my fingers over the faded colors of the ruined courts. “What do you think will happen when our own campaigns are over?”
“Assuming we win, you mean?”
“Do you doubt that?”
Torin consults an open book. “Part of being a strategist means I doubt everything.”
I laugh. “Don’t let Regan catch you talking like that—or Malakar.”
“They wouldn’t hear me if I did.”
She’s not wrong. Regan insists she’s always known we’ll be victorious, and Mortania is nothing but confidence. She trembles in her cave, and I pace the perimeter of the room, unsure what to believe. There’s a table set with a decanter of wine and some Imp food—and a book. The cover is stamped with the emblem of a Vila court.
“Is this yours?” I ask Torin.
She glances over her shoulder. “Ah, yes. An interesting read.”
I thumb through the pages. “Is it a court record?”
“No, philosophy, actually. And quite fascinating. The Vila who wrote it posited that the hatred between the courts of Malterre and the Fae was habitual. There was no real root to it, save that the two sides had always despised each other. And then the hatred was passed down from generation to generation, a never-ending cycle that became more entrenched in our cultures the longer it was repeated.”
That touches something deep inside me. “Do you think it’s true?”
“I’m not sure. And I’d never given the theory much consideration until now. I read that book years ago. But I picked it back up after our interview with Aelfdene.” She taps the jagged line that represents the Etherian mountain range. “The Fae lord’s prophecy—about the mountains crumbling and signaling a new age—made me think of it.”
“What would the prophecy have to do with that theory?”
She moves another marker. “Because, if the writer is correct about the relationship between Fae and Vila, something as drastic as a new age is the only way such bone-deep hatred would ever be eradicated. And I thought it interesting that we should learn of that prophecy now, when the war is coming to a head.”
The candles flicker in the draft. “Do you think it’s our age—the one Aelfdene predicted?”
Her amber eyes shine. “It could be ours. Or the High King could surprise us all, and it means the end of our kind.”
Mortania undulates in the place where my magic lives, despising the idea that Oryn could ever defeat the Dark Court.
“Or,” Torin continues. Wind groans against the glass. “Perhaps it is a force unto itself. And neither side survives.”
A chill races down my spine.
“You need more sleep,” I tell the Demon leader.
She quirks a wry smile. “As do you.”
But neither one of us leaves. And for a long time, I stare into the bottomless black of the horizon, toward where the Etherian Mountains wait like stone guardians. Thinking of Aurora, and what this new age might mean for the two of us. If we could survive it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Aurora and the others must have eventually returned to the palace, for a servant has left a breakfast tray in my solar the next morning. I take my time pouring out my tea and eating the pastries, mulling over the events of the last few days.
Restless, I pull books from my shelves—court records and journals—and comb through the endless diatribe against the Fae. There are probably innumerable books like these in Oryn’s libraries, except stuffed with tales of the Vila’s treachery. Hatred passed down from generation to generation, just as Torin’s philosopher suggested. It is enough to cause me to question the entire purpose of this war. Are we delivering justice to the Etherians as I’ve always believed? Or simply inflicting wounds on one another because that’s all we know how to do? Wounds that never heal because we leave them open on purpose. We like to bleed.
And what is the alternative, pet? Peace with the Fae?
No. I sigh, rubbing my temples. I do not know. But I think Torin may be right—if there is any force capable of bringing the mountains down, I’m skeptical that any of us will survive it.
A soft knock brings me back to the present. And then my breath catches.
“Aurora.”
She stands in the doorway. Her gown is fresh, but there are tired lines bracketing her eyes. She’s been crying. “Hello. May I come in?”
“Please do.” I go to the hearth and stoke up the fire.
She glances around. “I was never allowed in this room. Father said it was where he did his important work, and I needn’t trouble myself about it.”
The bitterness in her voice is unmistakable. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
A few moments pass. An ember pops in the fire. “Derek told me you helped him…with the funeral.”
Oh. “He wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t intend—”
“And Elspeth brought me the book you let her keep.” There’s a light in her violet eyes I’ve not glimpsed in a hundred years. “It was wonderful to see those portraits. It meant so much to her. And to me.”
Emotion makes me fidgety. I set the poker down. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Aurora drifts to the bookcases. “These look a bit like the ones you’ve been sending me. But I don’t recognize them from Briar’s collection.”
“They’re from Malterre,” I explain, somewhat grateful for the change in subject. “The Imps brought all sorts of relics here with them from the ruins of those courts.”
She trails her fingers along the spines. “I thought the blight killed everyone in those lands.”
“Mostly. But the Imps’ magic wasn’t strong enough to be touched by that poison, which is why their food won’t harm you.”
Aurora selects a volume and sifts through the pages. “And they were really used as slaves in the Fae courts?”
I lean against my desk. “Slaves and playthings. I know we associate the Etherians with light magic, but they can be brutal when they have a mind.”
“I’m not surprised. I remember how cruel Endlewild was with you.”
Aurora hasn’t uttered a word in my defense since she woke, and hope flutters in my chest.
“And the rest?” she asks. “The Goblins and Vila and Demons? Where had they been, if not in Malterre?”
“Exile,” I explain. “Those who escaped the blight remained in hiding in the realms across the sea. Families were often separated. Regan lost her mother when a village caught her and blamed her for a plague. They murdered her.”
I don’t tell Aurora about Pansy. It doesn’t feel right to share that story without Regan’s permission.
“I’m sorry for her, then,” Aurora says.
It is a much gentler tone than the last time she spoke of the Vila leader. The funeral clearly did something to soften her heart. And I decide to further test the waters. “I know you’re not particularly fond of Regan, but I think you two might like each other. She’s as fierce as you are, in her own way.”
Aurora doesn’t reply to that, and I immediately let the matter drop. This is as close to a normal conversation as we’ve shared thus far, and I don’t want to spoil it.
“What’s this one?”
She’s found the latest book the Imps brought, letting her fingertips trace the wreath of raven feathers stamped into the cover.
“A court record,” I tell her. “The oldest I’ve ever encountered. From the time before the Briar Queens, in fact.”
She picks it up with a speed that betrays her interest. “Really?”
“Yes, here.” I help her navigate through the book, and our hands brush, sending sparks firing over my skin. I think I see a blush paint her cheeks. “Did you know there was another realm that attempted to negotiate with the Vila during the Fae challenge? I always thought Leythana was the only one who didn’t go in swinging swords. But this prince from Cardon apparently tried his own hand at diplomacy.”
“Cardon.” She leans over and scans the passage. The tip of her curl brushes my bare wrist, and the lilac and apple blossom scent of her fills my nose. It’s like a drink of water after nearly dying of thirst. “But isn’t that where—”
She goes still, and the ghost of the story about the doomed Briar princess and the woman who broke her curse shivers between us. Without thinking, I squeeze Aurora’s wrist. She pulls away, but not before offering me a small grateful smile.
“It doesn’t detail what he put forth in exchange for the staff,” I say, clearing the hitch in my voice. “But whatever Leythana promised the Vila was obviously preferable.”
Aurora bites her bottom lip as she does when she’s thinking. “Maybe her dragon ships convinced them that she could keep the peace.”
“Maybe. We’ll never know now.”
“Actually”—she indicates the shelves—“would you mind if I borrowed some other volumes? I’d like to see what I can find.”
I laugh a little, wholly unsurprised that she wants to investigate the mystery, and pull a few texts off the shelf. “Take as many as you like. Here.” I select one that I know contains information about the various creatures of Malterre. “You can read for yourself about the other members of court. I think you’ll find that they weren’t the monsters Briar portrayed them to be.”
She accepts the books and hugs them to her chest. Her cheeks redden. “That story I told…about the monster. I was angry and—”
“Don’t.” I grasp her elbow. “I understand. And I was a complete idiot to think you would wake and immediately accept everything that’s changed. That there wouldn’t be…painful moments for you. But please believe me when I say that I’m so glad you’re awake. That you’re here.”
We are still so close. She doesn’t back away. And I let myself drink in every inch of her face. The curve of her cheek. The shape of her lips. The lines of her collarbones, and plane of her chest before it disappears beneath her neckline.
“Alyce.” I will split apart at my name on those lips. “Thank you. For letting me grieve. I think I needed that ceremony more than I realized.”
I nod. “It went well?”
