Misrule, page 2
“You really stowed away on a ship to come here?” I ask, changing the subject.
She pets the white fluff on Callow’s head. “Wouldn’t you have done the same if you heard of a Vila who had set herself up in a mortal palace?”
Yes. The answer expands through every limb. I would have wanted to anyway. But would I have gone through with it? I never possessed the courage to sneak away on a ship when I was the Dark Grace. And I admit that until Regan walked in I hadn’t given a thought to the other Vila across the sea. I was aware they existed, that the creatures of Malterre scattered after the War of the Fae, which was how I eventually came about. But now I feel that I’ve been neglecting my own kind. Worse, ignoring them.
“Will you tell me about yourself?” I ask, embarrassment nipping at me. “And about the other Vila?”
“If you like.” She shoves the last crumbly bits of scone into her mouth. “But on one condition.”
The walls groan in the wind. “What?”
She points to the plate. “I’m sorry, but even for a starving person, this really was quite terrible. Are you certain there’s nothing better?”
A laugh bursts out of me. And I almost choke in surprise. Because today with Regan is the first time in months that I have laughed. An unfamiliar lightness blooms in my veins—one I haven’t experienced since Aurora was cursed.
Callow settles on my shoulder as we leave the library and head toward the kitchens, where I do my best to scrounge up a decent meal for Regan. She tells me of her life roaming the realms across the sea, of living in hiding and being unable to so much as set foot in a village or town for fear of being executed. Of the loss of her mother and sister. The friendships cut short because someone was captured. And though I do not share her circumstances exactly, Regan’s sorrow speaks directly to mine, resonating in the very marrow of my bones. And I tell her of Lavender House, and Kal, and the medallion. How Mortania’s power joined with mine to create the greatest force of an age. Everything but my relationship with Aurora. I insist that we were friends, and Regan appears to accept my claim that Aurora isn’t like the cruel humans who have sullied our pasts. But I can sense her skepticism, such as any Vila who wasn’t familiar with the sleeping princess would harbor. Perhaps, in time, she might understand.
“I wish I’d been as brave as you,” I say. We’re back in the library, with two bottles of Tarkin’s best vintage in hand. The sun is setting over the horizon, but it feels like only minutes have passed since she set foot in this chamber. “All those years, I could have used my elixirs to bargain my way out of Briar. Seek the life I wanted, no matter the consequences.”
She takes a long swig, then points her bottle toward Briar. “It looks like you did, eventually.”
Yes, pet. We did.
Fizzy wine dances down my throat. “I suppose you’re right.”
“And what now? You’re not the Dark Grace anymore. And you’re not alone.”
Shyness creeps up my neck. “I hope that means you’ll be staying awhile.”
“If you’ll have me.” She scoots slightly closer. “But it’s about more than just the two of us. How many of our kind have wanted to do exactly what you’ve accomplished here? We were pushed out of Malterre. Hunted in the realms across the sea. And you pushed back. That’s why I came here. That’s why the others will come.”
Others? I study the gold-painted waves of the sea, imagining ships of Vila pulling into the harbor. The palace filled with my kin. “You really think they will?”
She reaches over and squeezes my wrist. A jolt gallops through me at the sight of her bone spikes against my pale green-veined skin. “I would have crossed the sea a hundred times over if it meant being here. The Nimara from our history gave us our first home. And now you can give us another.”
Home. The word unfurls inside me like a flower opening. Mortania nudges against my insides, her dark presence filling me up, and even Callow warbles what could be encouragement.
But my focus travels to the bed of bramble. How would Aurora feel about a court comprised solely of the creatures of Malterre—Goblins and Imps and Demons? Or the state of this palace…and Briar?
“Do you think it’s horrible, what I’ve done?” The question—one I’ve asked myself too often in the endless hours of night—bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
“Horrible?” Regan echoes. “You gave the humans what they deserved. Do you regret it?”
“No,” I answer immediately. And I don’t. Any guilt that’s festered in my soul over the last year is nothing compared to the power I command. But the whine of the wind sharpens in pitch, like the screams from the citizens when I was soaring above them. The faint, ever-present smell of sulfur stings in my nostrils. “But sometimes…it haunts me. This was her home, too.”
“Were you ever welcome in it?” Regan asks gently. “Truly welcome? From what you’ve described to me today, it doesn’t sound like you were. She had good intentions, but…”
That touches a nerve. The wine is suddenly too sweet. I set the bottle down and stand, going to the other side of the gap. Smoke curls into the sky. “Aurora would have done everything she promised. You didn’t know her.”
Regan rises. “I can’t argue with you. But if she’s really your friend, wouldn’t she support you? Wouldn’t she have been angry if she’d known what happened after she was cursed?”
I’d never considered the circumstances in that light. Aurora would have been furious to learn of the “protections” the Fae ambassador Endlewild placed on her curse, permitting her to be woken by anyone’s kiss but mine—and then painting me a villain in her memory. She’d be even angrier if she discovered that wedding preparations were already in place while she slept. I think her father was actually going to marry her off before she was fully conscious, if they let her wake at all. Tarkin might have deemed it more advantageous to lock his unconscious daughter in a tower and blame her curse on me.
“May I tell you something?” The back of Regan’s hand brushes mine, and my breath catches again at the sensation of her touch. Another Vila, after a lifetime alone. “When you were the Dark Grace, they trapped you. Forced you to make elixirs every day of your life. To despise your own power.” She gestures around the library. “And, forgive me, but it doesn’t seem like a lot has changed since then.”
A retort is ready on my lips. But then Mortania’s presence sighs in its den.
Listen well, pet. And look around you.
I’m not certain what the ancient Vila means. But then I take in the books teeming on every surface, and the ingredients haphazardly piled on tables. The entire palace is open to me, and I’ve barely left this library. Even my current gown was pilfered from the servants’ stores. Because that’s all I’ve ever been.
I pluck at the worn laces of my bodice. “I…haven’t really known what to do.”
“How could you know?” she asks. “Your whole life they taught you that you’re nothing. But you, Nimara, are everything.”
Without thinking, I take Regan’s hand and hold it tight. Energy hums between us. No one but Aurora has ever spoken to me with such raw appreciation. And a thought begins to winnow through my mind. Even if Aurora had become queen, she couldn’t have pulled up all of Briar’s rotted roots. But that’s exactly what I’ve done—made it so that we can start entirely fresh. And we will.
Yes, pet. Mortania practically purrs. We will.
“Let them all come. We’ll found our own court.” I say to Regan, a name sprouting in my mind as if it had been planted there long ago. “The Dark Court.”
She retrieves our wine bottles, passes me mine, and raises a toast. “To the Dark Court, then. And its mistress.”
There is a prophecy.
That the High King of the Fae will lose his throne when the mountains crumble.
That a power will be released, heralding a new age. One that shall begin with a forgotten crown.
Ridiculous.
Some drivel spouted by a member of the Court of Dreams after too much ambrosia wine.
There is but one age, one crown, and both belong to me. I have ruled the Fae courts for millennia. Without me, this land would wither and die. For I am its king.
I am Etheria itself.
—From the private writings of Oryn, High King of the Fae, date unknown
ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER
CHAPTER ONE
AGE OF THE DARK COURT, 99
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“She’s breathing, you idiot.”
Tinny voices permeate the twilight space between sleeping and waking. I groan and pull the thick covers over my head.
“See? I tolds you.”
Something hard thunks onto flesh and the screeching wail of an Imp stabs through my skull, erasing any hope that they will find some other entertainment before I’m fully awake. I throw a pillow in the direction of their noise. “It’s too early for your nonsense.”
“Not nonsense, Mistress.” Their squabble ceases. I open my eyes to discover two vermilion faces peering at me, only tall enough that the tips of their hooked noses hover above the edge of the bed. “We’ve brought you something.”
With a chorus of grunts, the Imps heave a text onto the enormous mattress and slide it toward me. I push myself to sit up, curiosity overriding my irritation. “Where did you get this?”
“Valmar says to bring it right to you. Says we weren’t allowed to wait, case it gots lost.”
Which occurs more often than not with the Imps. I run my hands over the book’s cover. It’s not a material I recognize, like leather, but scaled and slightly rough. I wonder if it’s dragon hide. If so, it’s exceedingly rare and old.
“Has Valmar brought more Imps from Malterre?” It’s been years since we welcomed anyone from those blighted lands into the Dark Court.
“Aye.” One of the Imps uses his companion as a ladder and clambers up onto the bed. He points a clawed finger at the book. “Will you read it to us? Been too long since we had a story.”
I trace the sigil stamped into the cover, the unique material made darker against the nearly translucent shade of my skin. A broken Fae orb of the Vila crest surrounded by a circle of raven feathers.
I knew that court, Mortania whispers from her den. It could contain powerful magic.
The tingling of my curiosity intensifies. I’ve learned so much from the relics and books the Imps carried with them from the ruins of Malterre—all manner of rituals and the history of the Vila courts. I cannot wait to see what secrets this one provides. Maybe, impossibly, even something about breaking curses.
“I haven’t even eaten breakfast,” I say to the Imps, hoping they’ll scurry off and leave me to explore the book in peace.
But the first one fishes a stone out of his pocket, tosses it into the air, and claps. By the time he catches it, the rock is transformed into a glazed pastry. He presents it to me with a flourish and a jagged-toothed smile. “Your favorite.”
The other Imp applauds. I accept the pastry but give him a playful pinch anyway. It was a blessing when we discovered the Imps and their small magic. They can turn almost any bit of rock, wood, or material into a feast. And my skill in the kitchen never improved from the months I lived here alone.
“A story, then,” I say around a mouthful of nutty chocolate filling, and crack open the text, releasing its smell of musty parchment.
“With plenty of guts and blood,” one of the Imps instructs, the veiny ridges of his ears quivering.
“Find one with a beheading. We love those.”
I thumb through the pages, scanning entries detailing various events in the fallen court. Council meetings and ceremonies and special occasions. Births and deaths. Logs and ledgers. A few diagrams illustrating how to conduct rituals I’ve not yet encountered, which I make a mental note of to revisit later. “This isn’t a storybook,” I tell them, tapping a corner of the page. “And these dates suggest that it was written before the War of the Fae, so I doubt there are any beheadings. Vila courts didn’t do that to their own.”
“Sounds boring.” An Imp yawns.
The other nudges closer. “You sure there’s not anyone having their innards ripped out?”
I eat the rest of the pastry, lick my sticky fingertips, and am tempted to ask for another. “Not that I can see.”
Their ears droop in disappointment. One scrambles from his place and scurries to the foot of the bed, which, as this is the former royal suite, is fashioned to look like the head of a roaring dragon just landed from battle. Its massive mahogany tail winds down one of the bedposts, and taloned wings dip down over the sides. “I shall tell a story, then,” he announces. “Of Mistress Nimara and how she turned beastie and toppled the fat old king and rescued us Imps from the Fae courts! How she swooped in with her green fire and—”
“You’re telling it wrong! You left out her claws. And her teeth. Thems the best bits.” The other rushes across the bed and barrels into him. Both fall in a tangle of limbs onto the floor.
I rub my temples. I definitely should have asked for another pastry while I had the chance. Or at least tea. An impatient tapping draws my attention to the window. I kick free of the bedclothes and draw the curtain back.
“Where did you get off to?” I crank the panes wide, and my kestrel wings past me with a peal of pleasure. She completes a lap of the room and then settles on the back of a chair. The Imps greet her with a cheer. Everyone at court adores Callow. “There was a storm last night. I worried about you.”
She clacks her beak in a way that informs me that she has no patience for my fussing, and the Imps turn handfuls of pebbles into dried beetles and fling them at her. She catches them midair, and they are beside themselves with glee.
Of all the surprises of the last century, Callow’s steadfast presence is by far the best. In truth, I’m not entirely sure how the kestrel hasn’t aged. Regan’s theory is that I unknowingly bound Callow sometime during my years in Lavender House. We learned of binding curses in the Vila books, and I could have unwittingly initiated one anytime the kestrel nipped me hard enough to draw blood, allowing my magic to enter her body. My power centers on intent, and I’d wanted Callow to stay with me badly enough that I ensured she always would.
There’s a knock on my door, and then Regan enters. She stops short at the Imps. “What are you lot doing in here?”
But they’ve invented a game in which they toss the beetles to each other instead of Callow, and the kestrel is swooping back and forth between them, extremely annoyed.
I thread my arms through an ermine-lined cape to ward off the cold. “They brought me a book from Valmar.”
Regan dodges out of the way before one of the Imps smacks into her. It’s been a century since she first arrived in this palace, but she looks the same as when she discovered me in the old library. Both of us do, our magic slowing our years and preventing our appearances from significantly altering. Even though I can Shift, my human form is easiest to maintain.
“Anything interesting?” she asks about the book.
“I’m not sure yet.” I go back to where I left it on the bed, keeping out of the line of Imp fire. “But I’m fairly certain it was written before the time of the Briar Queens, maybe even before Leythana.”
Regan disappears into the wardrobe, which is a cavern unto itself. Before Briar’s fall, this suite belonged to King Tarkin, and he cared about his clothes almost as much as he did about his army. “You’ll have to read it later,” she calls from within. “Torin is waiting in the council chamber. The Goblins sent a report of their progress in the Fae courts.”
She returns with a gown draped over her arm. A rich garnet velvet cinched at the waist with a thick chain belt. Metal clasps form an inverted triangle down the front in an almost military style. I shrug off my dressing gown and step into it.
“Bad?”
“Wonderful.” She helps me tighten the laces in the back, her fingers deftly familiar with the task. The bone spikes on her knuckles graze the nape of my neck. Sometimes it seems impossible that there was ever a time here without Regan. We’ve become closer than sisters. “They have the Court of Dreams on their toes. It’s sure to fall soon, which makes six of the seven courts destroyed.”
The Imps let out a feral cheer and complete a series of celebratory somersaults. I hadn’t envisioned a second war with the Fae when we founded the Dark Court. But then we heard of the Imps being used as slaves in Etheria. In the course of liberating them, and as more joined our ranks, the cry for vengeance against the Etherians became all but deafening. It started with Goblins and Demons sneaking over the Etherian Mountains border just to tweak the noses of the Fae. But when the Etherians retaliated, the conflict swelled to a wildfire.
You did not argue against it, pet.
No. The Lord Ambassador Endlewild treated me like I was vermin when I was the Dark Grace, poisoning my mind against my own kind. And the Fae are responsible for the supposed protections on Aurora’s curse, which ensure she will not recognize me if she wakes. I may not have set out to start a war, but I intend to finish it.
“It needs something,” an Imp says, rubbing his chin and examining my gown.
“I know.” The other claps.
In a puff of smoke, the skirt of the dress is transformed into a cascade of scarlet and black peacock feathers. It’s excessive, but I know better than to criticize their work. “Another masterpiece.”
They beam with pleasure, and tumble over themselves and out the door.
“Do you remember when you advised me to assign guards for my chambers?” I ask Regan.
