Misrule, page 3
“You said you didn’t want a barrier between yourself and the rest of the court.”
Callow settles on my shoulder. “I was mistaken.”
* * *
—
The rest of the palace is waking as we make our way through the halls. The former Briar King Tarkin would weep to see his monstrosity of stained glass and pink stone as it is today. When Tarkin ruled, the aristocrats living in the affluent Grace District would drink their weight in wine every night and spend their coin on pearl-encrusted slippers and gowns with embroidery that was brought to life by the magic of the innovation Graces. The parties at the palace were the stuff of legend, with Briar roses that changed shade every few moments and elaborate costumes. Desserts dipped in edible gold and dragon-snouted fountains flowing with fizzing wine.
Now, a century later, green rust clings like barnacles to solid gold sconces. Crystal chandeliers are chipped and coated with silt. Cobweb curtains drape over the busts of former Briar Queens, their crowns of bramble and thorn now packed with clumps of spiders’ nests. The plush carpets are muddied and moth-riddled. Fine tapestries depicting Briar’s early history—scenes of the first queen, Leythana, besting the Fae challenge that earned her the throne, and those of the first Fae war—are all but unraveled.
If I listen carefully, I can imagine the laughter of the former courtiers, the slivers of gossip dealt out like hands of cards, the rustle of silks and the clip of heels. Now, Imps scurry back and forth with platters of food, lobbing handfuls at one another more often than not. Bowlegged Goblins are still blearily scratching behind their horns as they head to the practice yard, wicked weapons of their own design strapped to their backs. Demons patrol on their sentry duties, all of them trodding upon the dead king’s bones. It is deliciously fitting.
Deep in the place where my magic lives, Mortania’s spirit thrums with laughter.
* * *
—
The council chamber is the same war room Tarkin used as Briar King, complete with the massive doors fashioned to look like a dragon. The ruby-eyed beast is the only surviving motif of the old court. It reminds me of Leythana, and of the might and strength it took for me to raze Briar and establish the Dark Court—the same determination Leythana herself exhibited when besting the Fae challenge that earned her Briar’s throne. I walk through its broad belly with my head held high and look out at the sprawling ruins through the wall of glass. I think Leythana would be proud of what I’ve done. After all, there wasn’t anything left of her warrior-queen rule when I took charge. Her heirs—except Aurora—were shadows of their ancestress. Weak and inefficient. Not anymore.
“Nimara.” Torin, leader of the Demons, greets us from her place as I transfer Callow to the back of my chair.
Six chairs surround the ebony table. One for me, and another for each clan leader, a representative elected by their own.
“How are the rescued Imps faring?” I ask.
“Well enough.” Like all Demons, Torin’s long, lithe body appears to be sculpted from living coals. Bright fissures map their way over her deep black body, glowing and fading from orange to gold to amber, as if her very blood is made of molten fire. “Valmar and his party scared them nearly to death. They’d burrowed into some of the oldest ruins and lived almost entirely underground. Valmar says they’re skittish at seeing a court as large as ours.”
It’s a common complaint among new arrivals to the palace. When refugees aren’t hiding in corners, they often gorge themselves until they’re sick, as it’s been so long since they’ve eaten any decent food. There was a Goblin some years ago who barricaded herself in a suite of rooms for a month because she was convinced it would be taken over if she ever left. I’d delivered a few of her meals myself, glimpsing only the flash of warty green hands snatching up the tray before the door slammed shut again.
You gave them a home. Mortania swirls in her cave.
“We’ll have a revel,” I say. “That will lift their spirits.”
“You never have to convince me to throw a revel.” Regan props her heels on the silver-veined table. Her staff leans behind her chair. It’s a twisted yew bark that is spotted with the dried Fae blood of the Etherian she’d taken it from during a campaign. Nearly every council member carries such a trophy, including myself. “And what of Malakar’s report? More boasting?”
Torin holds up a parchment. “I’m sure we’ll hear plenty of that soon. He’ll be home in the next days if all goes well—with Neve accompanying his party.”
I frown and pick up one of the pewter markers. It’s in the shape of a starling bird, which is the symbol of Neve’s network of Shifter spies. Shifters—with their changeable forms—make excellent spies. But though I’ve had no official cause for complaint among the Starlings, I cannot help but continually compare them to Kal. He was the only other full-blooded Shifter I knew, and he turned out to be just like the duplicitous creatures I’d read about in the book Endlewild had given me. The sharp edges of the marker bite into my flesh. All those traps he’d laid—which I stupidly stepped into. What similar traps might Neve be setting?
Worry not, pet. I shall not let you be led astray.
Callow chuffs and flares her wings, as if even she can sense the ancient Vila’s presence.
“Good riddance to the Court of Dreams, then.” Regan slips her favorite dagger from her boot. Its handle is carved from bone, fashioned as a jade-eyed snake with its jaws screaming wide, blade protruding from its throat. “It’s about time it fell, after ten years of laying siege to the place. Tonight’s revel shall have dual purpose.”
“Are you certain the Imps can conjure enough wine?” Torin curls a half-smile.
“That”—Regan sits up and reaches for the pitcher—“sounds like a challenge.”
I hold my hand over her goblet before she can start pouring. “It isn’t even midday. What of our losses. Did Malakar write of those?”
Torin’s smile dims. Our power is formidable against the Fae and is sweeping through their courts the farther we push in. But Oryn’s ilk are more than equally skilled in weaponry. And, though their magic is the exact opposite of our own, stemming from good intent, they can bend that intention to encompass all manner of retaliation in the name of “protection.” And that is nothing compared to their skill with blades, which is not governed by their magic at all. “The Fae army wove enchanted nets that trapped my regiment in their trees and tainted their minds. I lost nearly fifty to madness.”
Wind groans against the glass. Mortania surges in anger that matches mine. Such losses are inevitable, even expected, but I can’t stand the thought that the Dark Court was supposed to be a haven for our kind. And too many have been killed in the Fae courts. I twist the band of my signet ring, designed like the broken-orb crest of the Vila, surrounded by ebony bramble and thorn.
Regan intuits my thoughts, as always. “There’s nothing we could have done, Nimara. No one is sent against their will. They accept the risks.”
“They do,” I agree. “But we’ll honor them before any revel. Add their names to the throne room walls.”
“Plans are already in place,” Torin assures me.
“And I am sorry about your regiment,” I say to the Demon leader. “Was there anyone particularly close?”
The fissures mapping her limbs fade from umber to pale gold in a tempo that tells me she’s melancholy. I’ve noticed her flit from one romantic entanglement to the next, with various court members. But she’s never remained with one lover for long.
“No one I knew well,” she says. “But I mourn them all.”
“As does the court,” I say.
A moment passes, brimming with shared grief.
“Which is why”—Regan picks up a marker and puts it in the center of the narrowing sphere that is Oryn’s domain—“we need to focus on what’s next. Our plan for razing the High Court and ending the war.”
Torin holds up her hand. “I’ve no wish to deal with Malakar if he finds we’ve been strategizing without him.”
She’s right. And I can’t focus on war planning anyway.
“Nor do I.” Callow flaps to my shoulder as I push back from the table. “I have other matters to attend. I’ll leave you two to plan out the particulars of the revel.”
“What matters?” Regan asks as I head for the door.
“That book Valmar brought. I want to see if there’s anything of value to be learned.”
“Book?” Torin asks, straightening. The Demon leader shares my fascination with the relics of Malterre.
“An ancient court record. There might be something useful in it.”
“I doubt it.” Regan rearranges the markers. “Unless it can tell us how to vanquish the High King.”
Regan has never possessed the patience, nor the love, for reading. Not like I do—or Aurora. A pang of grief hits me as I imagine us together in my Lair, our heads bent close as we debated the meaning of some obscure passage. The memory is so old that the edges are dimming.
But perhaps this book will be able to bring it—and her—back to life.
CHAPTER TWO
I return to my chambers to fetch the book, having decided to bring it to the old library and explore it with Aurora. I visit her daily and usually read to her in the hopes that she can hear me. But my suite isn’t empty. A human servant, who should be changing the linens and tidying the mess the Imps made in my bedroom, is stealthily pawing through my drawers. She lifts a string of luminous black pearls and inspects it.
“Are you looking for something?” I ask from the shadows.
She leaps out of her skin and whirls. The pearls clack as they hit the marble floor. “I…” she stammers out. “I didn’t see you there, Nimara.”
“Clearly not.” The peacock feathers on my skirt whisper behind me. “And it’s Mistress.”
She scrapes the barest of curtsies. “Mistress.”
I take my time approaching her, savoring her obvious disdain—and that she can’t do anything about it. “What is your name?”
A muscle in her jaw feathers, like she does not want to tell me. But she knows what will happen if she refuses. “Elspeth.”
“Elspeth,” I repeat, studying her dirt-smeared face and lank copper hair, which is devoid of the shine and luster she probably used to purchase from the beauty Graces. “You look familiar. Did you ever visit my Lair at Lavender House?”
The crimson flush on her cheeks is answer enough. I smirk. I love reminding the human servants of when they were haughty nobles, demanding elixirs for leaden feet or scratched voices to inflict upon one another. Of how far they have fallen and who rules now. Sometimes I brew batches of my old elixirs and force them to suffer the petty punishments they once commissioned from me. It’s been a while since I’ve done so. Perhaps I shall send for Elspeth at our revel this evening.
“Were you stealing from me?” I point to the pearls. “I don’t recall asking for my jewels to be cleaned.”
“I wasn’t.” She keeps her eyes down.
“I don’t believe you.” I reach out and snatch up her forearm, turning it to reveal the circlet of bramble and thorn, the symbol of the curse that binds her to me. She hisses at the touch of my skin.
With barely a thought, my power slinks out of its cave, exerting the tiniest amount of pressure on our bond. The mark flares red. She yelps, attempting to pull back, but I hold her fast.
“You know the rules. You could have decided to wither away in the ruins of the districts. You chose me.”
That oath was an offer I extended to all the humans as soon as I learned how. They could swear to me and serve at the palace or die of exposure or starvation in the graveyard that was Briar. A gracious proposition on my part, given the alternative. Those with enough sense accepted.
The smell of scorched flesh rises between us. But to her credit, Elspeth does not cower or beg. Fire blazes in her eyes. “I didn’t choose you. I chose not to die.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Would you like to reconsider?”
Mortania swells behind my sternum. Blisters pucker Elspeth’s skin. But she holds out for another heartbeat. Two.
“Stop,” she finally whimpers. “Please.”
I release her, and she clutches her forearm to her chest.
“What were you doing in my jewelry? Thieves will be punished with far worse than a mild burn.”
Indeed, depending on the severity of her betrayal, her mark might have killed her.
“I’m not stealing.” She swallows. “I cannot steal something that is mine.”
“Nothing here is yours.”
She flexes her forearm and winces. “I’m looking for a brooch that belonged to my mother. It was a family heirloom, and I know it’s here somewhere. We had rooms in the palace. I’ve looked everywhere else.”
Of course she’s searching for some trinket of her former life. I roll my eyes. “The Goblins probably have it. Go about your duties.”
I reach for the book and head toward the door.
“I wish they’d never let you live.”
Silence hums. Mortania sizzles across every nerve. I turn, slow and deliberate.
“Do you think to wound me with your opinion? That it’s some kind of revelation? You—and the sycophants like you—reminded me every day of my life how unwanted I was. How despicable. Why do you suppose that I offered you mortals a place at my court?” I lean in and grin at the way she recoils. “So that you could finally know what it was like to be me.”
The hollows of her collarbones deepen.
“What does your brooch look like?”
She purses her lips, her grip tightening on her forearm.
“It was a split pomegranate,” she says at last. A tear splashes onto her cheek. “And the seeds were tiny stars.”
“It must have been a beautiful piece. I shall ask the Goblins if they’ve seen it. And if they have”—I stroke the feathers on my skirt—“I shall wear it myself every day. And you’ll never know when I might get the urge to take it off and grind each one of the precious stars into dust.”
With that, I tuck the book under my arm and leave.
* * *
—
There are much faster ways to the old library, but I stick to the ancient servants’ halls so that no one will follow me. As much as I trust my court, I decided long ago that Aurora should remain a secret for the time being. They did not know her as I did, and so many are suspicious of humans. I cannot blame them after what they endured in exile. Besides, Dragon knows what the Imps would do with Aurora if they were cognizant of her existence. I’d find her propped up like a living doll at their macabre tea parties. Or posed as a statue beside the busts of the old Briar Queens. Or they might make a game of hiding her. I cringe, picturing Aurora stuffed into one of the large cannons on the battlements. Better to wait for a proper introduction.
The massive limbs guarding the abandoned library shiver as I approach, sensing my magic. I slide my palm against a bough as thick as my torso, and the slick-skinned thing curves to one side.
Much of the palace has been restored in the last century, more or less, but almost nothing has changed in here. A breeze sighs through the jagged hole in the outer wall and wafts around me, laced with salt from the sea. I could have mended it, but I like the way it reminds me of the day I realized what it was to be powerful. The first day of my new life. Our new life.
The enclosure of wicked-thorned brambles around the bed unspools at my command, stems slithering in every direction to reveal Aurora nestled safely beneath her blanket. I sit beside her and squeeze her hands. “Hello.”
And I imagine that she might answer in her mind. That she’s waiting, just like I am, until we can be reunited. I pick up a comb and take my time running it through her spun-gold curls, arranging them just so on the pillow.
“More Imps arrived from Malterre,” I tell her, nodding at the text beside me. “They brought another book. This one is old—maybe the oldest I’ve ever seen. It might help.”
But I hear the wish in my voice. I’ve scoured every book in this library—in this realm—for answers to lifting Aurora’s curse. But nothing has worked. I’m starting to worry nothing ever will. I cannot count the number of times I’ve almost dragged a human servant up here and commanded them to kiss Aurora, for at least then her amethyst eyes would open. But she also wouldn’t remember me—us. I could not bear to see the hatred of former Briar reflected in her gaze. And she wouldn’t want that, either.
Wind whistles through the cracks in the stone, and I shake myself out of my self-pity. I pull the book toward me. The familiar smell of aged paper greets me as its spine creaks open. At least the ink is in good condition. I’m amazed I haven’t gone blind, with the amount of nearly translucent pages and illegible handwriting I’ve had to decipher over the years.
“It’s a court record,” I tell Aurora, examining the dates again. Without the distraction of the Imps, I’m able to more specifically place the time period. And I sit up straighter, interest piqued. “Oh, you’d love this. It was written during the time when the High King’s staff was stolen by the Vila courts. We’ve never read anything about those events from a Vila’s perspective.” I scan a few entries. “It’s describing the mortals who were trying to win Oryn’s challenge and the Briar crown. I wonder if they write of Leythana.”
The first Briar Queen is a subject of immense interest for both of us, and one of the reasons my friendship with Aurora had formed at all. Leythana was rumored to have sailed into Briar with a fleet of ships constructed from the carcasses of dragons, their enormous wings used as sails. Unlike the queens of Aurora’s time, Leythana was fierce and decisive. Her daughters were just like her—at least for a few centuries. But then they softened, yielding their sovereign rights to their husbands until they were all but ornaments in their own courts.
