Misrule, page 28
Trust me, pet, Mortania’s voice sighs between my bones.
“Be careful.” Torin pats Chaos. “Take no unnecessary risks.”
“And you,” I say, pulling Aurora up behind me. “I want us all home and whole.”
“Aye.” Renard slaps the haunch of Regan’s steed, which startles and rises into the air. “But let’s give the Fae king a good show first.”
His gravelly Goblin laughter reverberates in the stillness of the night. And as we join Regan and Derek in the sky, chasing the bright streak of Neve’s body, I try to let myself be carried away by the adrenaline pumping in my veins. To ignore the foreboding tapping at the base of my skull—the memory of the last time I broke Fae protections in the black tower and everything that happened after.
* * *
—
The Shifter keeps a swift pace, Callow just behind her, flying high to avoid the teeth of the Fae’s orblike protections. Beyond the borders of the decimated Court of Dreams, Oryn’s domain unfurls. It’s nothing like Briar used to be—the districts mapped out with poplar-lined streets and ornate structures. Instead, there are rolling fields carpeted with flowers drenched in starlight and rivers that appear as silver veins in the night.
And there, in the center of it all, is the High King’s palace.
Derek and the Starlings had not been exaggerating. Like our own palace, this one appears to be constructed of the pink stone of the Etherian Mountains. But it’s as if that stone erupted out of the ground itself. Oryn’s stronghold dwarfs ours in every way. Hundreds of small buildings climb up the side of the mountain in a spiraling pattern, branching out in towers that are connected by bridges and staircases and covered walkways. The pointed spire at the top, studded with dazzling windows, pierces the clouds. But the most spectacular feature of all is the sparkling, gold-tinted liquid pouring out of archways and gates. It cascades over rooftops and rushes down sides. Froths at the base of the mountain, where it pools and then flows outward through the land.
“What the hell is that?” Regan calls, she and Derek slowing beside us.
“It’s the magic,” Derek answers. The Vila leader must have been careless in her flight, for the boy’s brushed-copper face is rather green. And she obviously didn’t allow him to touch her. He grips the saddle instead, his uneasiness clearly annoying the Fae steed. I smirk. “I told you, it’s everywhere here. I think Oryn himself controls it somehow.”
Dragon’s teeth, he might be right. Each Fae court governs an aspect of the natural world, but Oryn’s domain carries no such designation. It must be magic itself that he rules—Fae magic anyway. No wonder he’s so arrogant.
The Starling leader treads the air directly above the spire of the palace. Callow circles over my head, and Chaos chuffs—silver-dusted wings beating out an impatient tempo. Oryn’s protections shimmer far below us, as if the Fae realm is underwater. A late summer breeze brushes against our cheeks, tinged with the sweet scents of mountain laurel and peony.
“The High King’s chambers are in the spire.” Derek points.
Neve chirrups in confirmation.
“The rest of the Fae live”—he sweeps an arm over the sprawling palace—“everywhere else. The court could be a city unto itself. And there are refugees from the fallen courts in residence as well.”
It looks as though triple the population of former Briar, Common District included, could be housed in the vastness of this stronghold. Derek briefly explains what he knows of the general layout: the location of the large cavernous chamber where the court would gather, and the area in which his own rooms were kept. Given the late hour, he thinks that most of the court has probably retired to their apartments, including the High King. Which makes the spire our target.
“And the staff?” I press. “Oryn will have the staff?”
The mount bobs and Derek teeters in the saddle. “I never saw him without it. The Fae are territorial about them. I don’t think Oryn would have permitted even his best guards to handle it.”
I’d feel better if that information were based off more than what the boy thinks, but there’s nothing to do about it now. I roll my shoulders against the nerves fluttering in my belly and turn my attention to the dome of Oryn’s protections. During his interrogation, Derek claimed that the protections simply dissolved to allow him through when he fled our court, which means they can be broken. I just have to determine the best way to do that.
Mortania strains inside her cave. I lean into the steadying pressure of Aurora’s arms around my middle and inhale the familiar scent of her body. All we need is Oryn’s staff. As long as I trust our plan, the rest will follow.
The limb of my magic lashes out with such force that I’m dizzy with it. Like the walls of Kal’s shadowy cage, the protections around the High Court are solid. And they’re charged, like lightning bolts woven together. As soon as my power makes contact with the barrier, heat jolts into my body, violent enough to shock. I let out a yelp and Aurora pulls me closer.
“Are you all right?”
“I can do it,” I tell her as much as myself. I must do it.
Re-centering my focus, I try again. This time, my power hovers just above the glittering shields, mapping them out. Apprehension begins eating through my confidence.
They will kneel at our feet, Mortania whispers.
That voice. An anchor, as it had been when I Shifted and razed Briar.
Yes, pet.
Letting everything else fall away, I roll my power into itself and build it up. Forge an intent that is stronger even than the High King’s abhorrence of my kind. I think of the first Vila, my namesake, banished by her own courts. Of Mortania, imprisoned in her medallion. Of my mother, driven into hiding and then killed. Of the vicious curl of Endlewild’s lip when he visited me. The scent of charred steel and coppery loam scalds the back of my throat and I release my magic.
It cracks against the Fae protections with enough speed that our mounts are tossed backward. Aurora struggles to keep her seat. Regan yanks on the reins of her steed and pumps her fist, spurring me on. And Mortania—I taste the heady wine of her power steeped with mine.
Yes, pet. Yes.
Magic sizzles as my power sinks its hooks into the Fae enchantment. The Etherian magic pushes back with blistering heat, and I know I won’t be able to hold it long. I burrow deeper, until I inhale the sharp smack of dewed grass and spring rain, the heart of the enchantment. With everything I have, I send my intent through the cord of my magic.
Break, I order. Falter.
Like the keening of some gargantuan beast, the protections begin to tremble. Mortania’s power pounds in an intoxicating current through my blood. Yes. This is who I am—unstoppable.
Loud popping sounds begin to explode from below. Spooked, Regan’s steed vaults higher. I push my commands harder. There’s another groan, a deep, menacing rumble. And then—
The world goes white, as it had in the black tower when I freed Kal. A gust of wind like a sea squall sends our mounts kicking at the air.
“Now!” Regan shouts.
We plunge toward the High Court.
Aurora clings to me as we descend in a furious corkscrew. Callow’s scream resounds from far away. The wind whistles against my eardrums, the mountainous Fae palace looming larger with each one of my iron-clad heartbeats. The spire, painted in moonlight, is perilously close. My magic leaps out of my body, ready to storm through the side of it. But it’s hardly touched the glass and stone before Chaos bucks, screaming in alarm, and we begin to waver.
I can’t see what’s hit us, only the whooshing blur of towers and waterfalling Fae magic. Regan banks to meet me, and Derek gestures wildly at the palace. There—Fae warriors are lining a walkway. More appear in the windows and archways. Callow belts her war cry and goes after them. Arcs of gilded Fae magic crisscross the skies. I curse and command my power to wrap around me in a shield of green Vila magic as Chaos bolts in the other direction. Regan follows, but her own shields are weaker than mine. They collapse in an instant after a double attack slams into her. Her mount spins like a top. Dragon’s teeth. They’ll both be killed.
Aurora points. To our right, there’s a large, wide window about the size of the stained-glass mosaic in our palace’s ballroom. I don’t hesitate. My power pummels into the glass. Shards soar in every direction. Regan avoids colliding with the palace wall just in time to sail after us, into the gaping opening.
Into the palace of the High King of the Fae.
* * *
—
Hooves spark against the floor as Chaos lands. Aurora and I are tossed from the saddle. Bone crunches where my shoulder meets a hard surface, and I flip from back to belly like a fish expelled from the sea. Agony throbs through every limb. Stars dance behind my eyelids. The sounds of bodies thumping and curses being hurled echo in the quiet. I taste my own loamy blood in my mouth.
Instinct pushes through the pain. Get up. Move before they find you. Get the staff.
I manage to roll onto one side and raise myself onto my elbow. The tendrils of darkness recede from my vision. Aurora is taking stock of her own injuries a few feet away. Regan is snarling at Derek, blaming him for the Fae sabotage. Colorful glass litters the floor. Moonlight spills in through the broken window, and I can just make out the shadowy curve of the walls. Hooves clop, and hot, chuffing breath brushes my cheek—Chaos. I don’t see Callow.
The struggle to stand is like hauling myself through thick mud. But I use Chaos for support and force my muscles to obey. “Are you—”
The chamber blazes to life. The Fae steeds whinny in panic, both galloping out the broken window.
“Nimara,” a deep voice resonates. “Welcome to my court.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Oryn, High King of the Fae, regards me with a contempt so pronounced I can feel it like a brand on my chest.
His identity is unmistakable. Though he’s sitting, the length of his limbs suggests that he’s taller and broader than most Fae. His golden gaze is stark against the grooved reddish-brown of his skin, which is like the bark of an ancient redwood tree. No such trees exist in Briar, but I’ve read about them. Some were said to be as thick around as a palace turret and as old as the land itself. A crown of tall alabaster branches rests atop Oryn’s long moss-green curls and comes to a point at his forehead, where the jeweled sigil of the High Court is like a beacon in the light of the sea of candles.
Members of Oryn’s court surround us in a wide ring, a living forest. I’ve never seen this many Fae gathered in one place. Their bodies appear cut from the trunks of peeling sycamores and delicate spotted birch and crimson-tinted mahogany. Their outfits would make even the richest nobles of former Briar fume with envy. Elaborate headdresses comprised of antlers and strung with blossoms that rebloom into varying shades and species every few moments. Entire gowns constructed of living butterflies. Capes that look as though they were spun by a thousand spiders, studded with gems as tiny as grains of sand. Rings set with real robin’s eggs are stacked on knobby-boned fingers. One of them hatches before my eyes, and a miniature bird shakes off bits of shell and twitters away.
I will my racing heart to quell and slide a murderous glare at Derek. But the useless prince appears as shocked and terrified as we are. His face is chalky, the complete opposite of the pallor of a spy returning to his master. But if Derek didn’t betray us, then how did Oryn know we were coming?
“I’m ashamed to find we are underdressed.” I smooth my clothing, attempting to appear as though we intended to crash into the High King’s audience chamber, and not like all of our carefully made plans are unravelling at our feet.
Fae laughter echoes in an eerie symphony of babbling water and rustling leaves. Dozens of staffs pulse with Fae power, glazing the room with gold.
The outside of the High King’s palace might look like a mountain, but this cavernous chamber resembles more of a forest glen. The walls are covered in bark. Dripping candles nestle in small nooks and cavities. Songbirds take up residence in hollows, calling and answering in their ethereal language. Flowering vines of every color meander their way over branches and climb the boughs of the vaulted ceiling, petals glowing in undulating shades of opal and citrine and periwinkle.
Oryn himself lounges on his throne, a gargantuan stump with a high back that bears an enormous crest of the High Court above his head. Roots snake their way from its base and through the chamber like tentacles. One winds around my ankle, and I have to restrain myself from flinching.
“It matters not what one wears to one’s defeat,” Oryn replies.
A half-dozen more roots slink from the throne and find Regan and Derek and Aurora. Regan growls and tries to hack her bindings away with a dagger, but it’s pointless. My own power is depleted from the effort it took to break the shields and fend off the Fae attacks. Even if it weren’t, we’d be overwhelmed in seconds if we attempted anything. Hulking Fae, their breastplates constructed of interlocking gilt branches and gauntlets of hammered-gold laurel leaves are stationed throughout the chamber. Mortania paces inside me like a caged tiger, and my very skin itches with the desire to set my magic free.
“You do not care for our hospitality,” Oryn drawls on.
“The same sort of hospitality you demonstrated to ours?” Regan brandishes her dagger in his direction. I’m surprised she hasn’t cut herself to try to use her own blood as a weapon. But that wouldn’t be enough to save us now.
“Are you referring to the Shifters or the Goblins?” One of the High King’s spindly fingered hands goes to his doublet, where a thick chain set with jeweled renderings of each emblem of the Fae courts is draped from shoulder to shoulder. My own signet ring burns on my finger. “In either case, I simply mirrored the treatment demonstrated by your own court. A custom I am eager to repeat when we welcome the rest of your paltry company. They should be arriving shortly, should they not?”
His implication slithers across the floor. Oryn knew about everyone—not just us. But I still can’t figure out how.
Regan pokes her dagger at Derek, straining against her bonds. “I knew you were in league with the Fae. I will—”
He puts up his hands. “No, it wasn’t—”
“Let the princeling be.” Oryn waves their argument away. “He was of use to us, but his pathetic mortal brain is too feeble to comprehend precisely how. In fact, he judged himself very clever indeed, nosing about in places he did not belong. Cataloging our palace. But we allowed the boy to see only what we put before him. To learn the details we wished him to learn. And then to return to you.”
Dragon’s teeth. The High King has been plotting this for some time. My mind combs back over the last few weeks. Had this been why Larkspur was dispatched to free the prince? Oryn wanted Derek in the High Court. Wanted him to learn of the enchantment, then to use that information to spur us into attacking. Because the High King wanted us here all along. Derek bristles. I almost feel sorry for him.
“But this is a tiresome subject.” Oryn rises. Fireflies swirl around him. One of the butterflies on a Fae’s gown untethers itself from its fellows and floats to the High King’s shoulder. “Let us come to the heart of the matter. Our bargain.”
“Bargain?” I echo. “We have not come here to—”
“Alyce. Listen to him.”
Aurora’s tone pulls me up short. When Oryn revealed himself, she looked as frightened as we were. But now she sounds as though she knows what the High King is going to say next. As if she—but no. She couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have.
Roots skitter out of Oryn’s path. Flowered vines unspool and drop from the ceiling, as if longing to be near him. “The real threat to our realm is not you, half-breed, but the power that resides within you. I have it under good authority that you would be willing to surrender that power. If that be true, perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”
I round on Aurora. “Do you know about this?”
Her chin is high and her hair is coiled in a braid on top of her head, as it was when the Etherian envoy came—like a crown. “You told me that you’d thought of cleaving Mortania from your body. She was trapped in a medallion before. High King Oryn could cage her again, and this conflict would be over. You would be free.”
Mortania snaps and sparks in her den.
“This isn’t possible,” I go on, reeling. “You asked Oryn to do this? But you rejected the envoy. Refused to parley with the High King.”
Oryn extracts something from his doublet and holds it out for us to see. It’s a flat silver disc, like a mirror, but the surface does not reflect this chamber. I see another room instead. “The princess did dismiss my messenger. But we initiated other avenues of communication. Tell her of our discussions, Princess. I enjoyed them well.”
The vision in the glass registers. It’s Aurora’s bedchamber. “You’ve been watching her.”
“I am not a voyeur, half-breed.” Fireflies weave and wink around him. “We cannot craft these portals without invitation. You will find this mirror’s twin in the princess’s chambers, one that connects to mine. It was she who suggested this method.”
I don’t want to believe it, am desperate for Aurora to say he is lying. But she remains stubbornly silent. And pieces begin clicking into place. The books Aurora was reading about the first war and the Fae. The hours she spent strategizing, which I stupidly believed was for the benefit of the Dark Court. And then she’d wanted to be alone that last night. But not because she needed space. Because she was scheming with the High King.
I’m hardly able to think—to breathe—around my wrath. “How dare you.” I do not recognize my own voice. “You had no right to bargain anything on my behalf. None whatsoever.”
Regan growls her agreement. If the roots weren’t holding us in place, I’m not sure what she would do. Or if I would stop her.
