Misrule, page 22
“Wait, please! Take me with you!”
In the tumult, Rose emerges from whatever hole she’s been hiding in and bullies her way through the clusters of Imps and Goblins. Hands reach for her, but she wildly fights them off. My magic leaps out of its cage, barreling toward the Grace. But I’m not quick enough.
Derek lassos the rope over his head and throws it down to her. Rose is barely able to secure it around her waist before the mortal reels her into his protective shield and bounds away, the shadow Demons chasing at their heels.
The Vila swarm the Fae prisoner. Hunt or not, he won’t last the night. Malakar roars for his Goblins to follow him to the stables and pursue the boy. All I can do is stare in the direction that the steed went. We should hear the screams as Derek’s blood begins to boil, and then perhaps the crunch of bone when he falls. But there is only the commotion of the courtyard.
And through it all, the rattling cackle of Fae laughter.
“What,” Regan demands, delivering a vicious kick to Larkspur’s wounds, “could possibly be funny?”
Larkspur does not react to the agony that must be searing through him. In fact, he appears to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “You will not call him back. Will not catch him. He belongs to the High King.”
I stalk through the cluster of Imps and Demons. “What does that mean? Oryn does not concern himself with mortals, especially not a worthless ship’s boy.”
“That was no mere boy.” His dagger-toothed grin stretches wider. “That was the prince of Ryna.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Vila drag Larkspur to the dungeons, where I doubt he survives long, and the council convenes immediately in our chamber. Torin insists that Aurora join us as well, in case she has any clues to offer about the boy and his abrupt disappearance.
No, not a boy.
A prince.
Ryna. The name rolls around like a marble inside of my brain. I can still picture the first prince, the star-chosen prince, striding to the royal dais on the night he was meant to break Aurora’s curse. All those years ago, the Ryna astrologers predicted that their prince’s kiss would be the end to Aurora’s curse. They were correct—just a hundred years too soon.
Let one Ryna prince go in order to have another wash up a century later. They’re worse than the rodents Callow brings me.
“How did you not know of this?” Regan barks at Neve. “This is what you do, isn’t it?”
Anyone else would be cowed beneath her fury, but the questions simply slide off the Shifter leader’s unflappable façade. “Pieces of intelligence often come together swiftly and without warning. Would you like to try your hand at spying?”
Regan seethes and sits back in her chair, jerking her dagger from the sheath in her boot and drawing the blade through her fingertips. I can guess what else she’d like to do with it.
“Was Derek the ‘missing piece’ you said you were investigating?” Torin asks, calm and contemplative despite the events of the evening. It is a disposition I do not share.
“He was.”
My temper rises. “You believed we had a prince in disguise in our midst, and you didn’t think it was pertinent to tell us?”
“I did not want to risk the boy finding out that we suspected his identity until I was certain,” Neve continues. The golden gems on her gown wink. “In Malterre, court leaders understood that some intelligence must be handled carefully. Shifters were granted considerable discretion to perform their duties. I expected this court to be of the same mind.”
Her implication about my leadership—or lack thereof—slinks across the table. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to coil and uncoil, like those in the black tower.
“It’s best you share these theories now,” Regan says tightly, the bone spikes on her knuckles stretched pale around the hilt of her dagger.
Neve rearranges her skirts, taking her time in answering. “Shortly after the light Fae were caught lurking across the sea, my Starlings reported that one of the kingdoms, Ryna, had lost their prince. In my experience, princes are not typically misplaced. And as Ryna was largely—and suspiciously—indifferent about the matter, I instructed my Starlings to probe further. We could not locate the prince, but we did discover that his disappearance coincided with the shipwreck that brought us our Derek.”
I taste the steel-loam of my power. “You’ve been sitting on this information for—”
“Patience, Mistress,” Neve interrupts. She traces the veins of silver in the table. Torin nudges me. My blood pounds hot. “Even after learning of that intriguing coincidence of timing, I remained unconvinced that Derek was indeed the missing prince. For one thing, the Ryna prince’s name was not Derek. And based off the last known sighting of the prince in his realm, there would not have been enough time for his journey here. Unless”—she pauses, her focus sweeping the table—“it had been a Fae ship that ferried him to our shores. And if it was a Fae ship, it would mean that Ryna—not Terault, where the boy claimed he was from—was in league with the Etherians. Larkspur’s actions tonight all but confirmed their alliance.”
Dragon’s teeth. I marvel yet again at my own obliviousness when it came to the boy, the countless details I’d overlooked. Derek’s dashing charm and his grace when he danced with Aurora. Even the way his hands had blistered when he was working in the stables. Not simply because the Imps had sabotaged his gloves, but because he was unaccustomed to hard labor. And then there was Derek’s interest in government. His willingness to do “whatever was necessary” to reform his realm. But he was never a revolutionary. He was a member of the royal family. Mortania rumbles in her cave, and I clench my fists.
“But I’m still confused as to why the Fae are involved at all,” Torin says. “Why would they care enough to send a royal in disguise? What could he have accomplished for them? He cannot have been immune to Nimara’s binding curse.”
“Aye.” Valmar mutters into his wineglass. “Too many details. Makes my head ache.”
Neve grants the Imp leader a look that suggests his thinking is not the only source of his pain. “We all know the Fae conduct their bargains with their words. And among those words are names. Their true names.”
A low tempo of thunder rolls over the realm.
“But Derek isn’t—”
Neve clicks her tongue. “Theodoric, Mistress.”
Understanding swishes at the corners of my mind, but I can’t fully grasp it. Regan’s leathers creak as she leans forward in her chair.
“That name, the prince’s, was the missing piece I was hunting here at the palace. And it was the reason he was able to evade your binding curse tonight. Oryn likely invoked a glamour magic to put a blessing on the boy. Theodoric is the Ryna prince, protected by the High King of the Fae. Derek is the ship’s boy from Terault, bound to Nimara. When Larkspur spoke the boy’s true name, he activated the first bond—the blessing from the High King that undermined your curse simply because the boy was no longer Derek.”
“No.” The word is more Mortania’s than mine. She churns in her sea of wrath like a monster in the deep. “Oryn can’t do that. He can’t imbue that kind of power on a mortal.”
“He did so with the Briar crown.” I startle a little at the comment. It’s from Aurora, who is standing by the wall of windows, studying the horizon. She’s been so quiet I nearly forgot she was here. “Oryn’s blessing is why no one else could wear it. The crown itself would have killed anyone who tried.”
A memory flashes—of Queen Mariel in the throne room on the morning after Aurora and I spent our night in the library. She was brandishing her crown at her husband, daring him to wear it if he wanted to be sole ruler of Briar. Not even Tarkin, arrogant fool that he was, had been brave enough to touch the gilded wreath of bramble and thorn.
“Correct, Princess,” Neve says. “It is much the same idea. Oryn’s magic protected the boy in the same way it did the crown. Just a drop, which carried his blessing.”
“But Derek wore my curse mark,” I insist. “I saw it react on more than one occasion. He wasn’t able to lie. I made direct inquiry into his life in Terault. He had siblings. He wanted to make sure his family survived. The mark would have burned him if he was false, and it would have killed him if he was plotting against me.”
“But did he lie?” Neve tilts her head at me. “Or were his answers sufficiently vague to be considered true? He was, after all, a ‘ship’s boy’ while he traveled on the Etherian’s vessel. A ship that might indeed have sailed from Terault’s shores instead of Ryna’s. He may have had siblings. He cared for his family—you just never inquired whether they were royal.”
The silty taste of my power cuts between my teeth, and I have to resist the urge to hurl my wineglass across the room. Regan spews a stream of curses.
“But why tonight?” Torin presses. “Why would Oryn free the prince now?”
“We do not know that the rider was sent to free the prince, or even why the prince was here to begin with,” Neve replies. “Larkspur could have been dispatched to relay instruction to the boy from the High King. After all, he did not attack.”
“We’ve never seen any others ‘relaying’ messages,” Regan argues.
“That we know of.”
The rain is picking up, glass groaning against the panes. The chamber buzzes with our shared frustration.
“So.” The silver blade of Regan’s dagger flashes in the candlelight. “We’ve had a prince under our roof for months without knowing it, secretly working with the High King of the Fae.”
“And now he’s gone back to that king.” Valmar curses and pours yet another goblet of wine. “After learning the ins and outs of our court.”
“I’ll give the order for more sentries immediately,” Torin says, and the fissures mapping her body undulate from scarlet to yellow. “And we need to start planning what to do when Malakar returns.”
“Attack, is what,” Valmar says. He picks up a marker and slams it down in the center of Oryn’s domain. “Who knows what that mortal is telling Oryn.”
“We cannot be too hasty,” Torin cautions. “Defense should be our strategy, especially if what Larkspur did was deliberate. Part of a larger plan.”
They begin volleying ideas back and forth, but I am not finished with Neve. “You kept this from us.”
She doesn’t even blink. “I have already explained my reasons.”
“And I do not accept them.”
Tension hums taut between us.
“Nimara,” Torin interjects, “this is not—”
But I’m not interested in her opinion on this matter. “This is exactly why I don’t trust Shifters. They lie and manipulate and keep information back.” I point at Neve, signet ring glinting in the light. “She should go to the dungeons, where we can peel back her layers one by one. Find whatever lies are nesting in her rot.”
Neve goes perfectly still. The rest of the table gapes at me in the thrumming silence. Even Valmar’s ears lie flat.
“Nimara.” Torin’s tone is like flint. “That is no way to speak to a member of council. Neve is an integral member of this court. Apologize.”
I do not. Will not. I grip the arms of my chair, pulse hammering in my palms.
“Spare me,” Neve says. “Despite what our mistress thinks, I am not interested in lies. And I will take my leave, if no one objects.”
No one does. The Shifter leader gathers her skirts and stalks from the room.
“That was unacceptable,” Torin hisses when she’s gone. I can almost feel the furious heat radiating from her body. But I don’t care.
“You don’t know them like I do,” I say.
She sighs, smoke curling from the surface of her skin. “You do not know her at all. Nor, I expect, do you even want to.”
I grind my teeth. Valmar clumsily tries to change the subject back to how we will respond to the High Court. But my attention travels to where Aurora stands by the windows. She might as well be made of stone, staring through the seamless glass, toward the second Ryna prince and the future she might have had. One she might wish she could reclaim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The court disperses while we wait for Malakar’s return. Sentries are doubled, and I walk the battlements until the cold drives me inside. But I cannot be still. A prince was right under my nose for months—Oryn’s informant. But my rage toward him pales when compared to that for Neve.
I cannot believe the council will not recognize her for what she is—another, far more sinister version of Kal, every one of her actions tailored to suit her own agenda. But what is that agenda? Kal wanted me to become the physical embodiment of Mortania so that he could be reunited with his love. Is Neve colluding with the mortal realms? Is she thinking to wait until the war is over and become head of the Dark Court? The possibilities swirl through my mind until I’m dizzy with them.
Worry not, pet. We will take care of her.
Not soon enough.
Before I know it, I’m back in the abandoned library. I haven’t been here since I wrecked it, and the unspent adrenaline in my veins begs me to do so again. But I resist. The satisfaction of destruction would be too fleeting to be worth the effort. It’s strange to me that the same place can house both wonderful and terrible memories. Moonlight shines through the gap in the wall, and I remember the way its pallid silver glowed against Aurora’s bare skin. There is the place where we slept, tangled together. Where she touched me with a tenderness that made me ache. Where she told me she loved me exactly the way I was. That she thought I was beautiful.
Emotion claws up my throat. She’ll never look at me like that again.
That stupid, wretched prince. If only he hadn’t come. If only Laurel hadn’t lied.
But would you take any of it back? Mortania asks. If you had to do it over again?
I fold my arms over myself and walk to the gap in the wall. Bits of bramble and debris crunch and pop under my footsteps. Former Briar is wrapped in a misty, post-storm haze.
No. I wouldn’t.
“I thought I’d find you up here.” Regan picks her way through the mess to stand beside me. And I’m suddenly self-conscious.
“Are you here to scold me about Neve?”
“On the contrary,” she says. “I’m beginning to understand your reasons for hesitancy regarding the Starlings.”
At least someone does. Pages ride the salty wind blowing in from the sea. Their fluttering movement almost sounds like laughter, the same sort that hounded me every day when I lived in Lavender House. The laughter of the Graces and the nobles. I’ve built my realm upon their bones, and yet still I cannot outrun it.
“I take no pleasure in telling you I told you so.” But I did tell her. “Why did you come looking for me if not because of what happened with the council?”
She picks up a ruined book. Dust motes glimmer in the air. “I want to talk about what happened at the party, with the princess.”
That is the last thing I want to revisit. I try to cross to another part of the library, but Regan follows.
“She rejected you. You offered her a place here, and she threw it back in your face. Literally.”
The memory surges, all claws and fangs.
“And what? You want her taken to the dungeons now?”
“I don’t know. But she’s not one of us. She made that perfectly clear tonight.”
Mortania flickers in something like agreement, the scent of her power stinging in my nose. I rub at the ache in my temples. “She was confused. I lied to her, and—”
“And how many excuses will you make?” Regan’s green eyes gleam like twin blades in the gloom. “You spend all your time thinking of how best to please her. Gifts and parties and grand gestures. And she doesn’t even appreciate them!”
“You don’t know that. In the garden, she—”
“I know that you love her.”
I take a step back. “What? No. I said that she—”
“I know what you said.” Her jaw works. “And I also know you. Even when you lie.”
“But.” Panic begins to set in. My breaths come fast and short. “When did you…”
She laughs a little, but it’s not unkind. “From the first day I saw her. There was no other reason you would have kept her here. Or why you would have burned down a realm and spent decades trying to wake her.”
I chew my lip, entirely exposed. And it kindles my anger. “I suppose I’m to have nothing of my own, then? I’m so predictable. Anyone could guess my secrets.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—you don’t need to have secrets from me. I crossed an ocean to be by your side. I see every part of you.” Regan’s touch trails along my forearm and up to my shoulder, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “Parts that others might consider wrong or evil, but which I wholly adore.”
Confusion ripples through me. Regan…adores me? Not like that, I tell myself. It’s not what she means. But then her lips are on mine, tasting of cool, wet earth. Of spice and charred leather. Of Vila, a taste I would know anywhere, though I’ve never encountered it before.
For a moment, I allow myself to melt into an embrace that is warm and inviting. Regan’s strong, sinewy muscles are firm beneath her leathers, bone spikes like tiny mountain ranges along her shoulders and collarbones. She guides me backward, both of us landing in a chair, limbs tangling. I’d forgotten how good it feels to be desired. And Regan does desire me. I can feel it in the caress of her fingertips. The nipping of her teeth on my neck. And it would be so easy to let myself be swallowed by this—lose myself in the heat coursing between us.
But she is not Aurora.
“No,” I say, gently pushing her back. “I cannot.”
