Misrule, page 36
“It worked,” she says. Even her violet eyes have altered. Slivers of gold and green, like shards of gemstones, dance within their depths. “It didn’t hurt you, did it?”
I take stock of myself. There’s no pain that I can tell. No cuts or bruises. And my magic feels the same as it ever did. “I’m fine.”
“And Mortania?”
There’s a strange emptiness where the Vila used to live, my mind unnaturally quiet. “Gone.”
Just as I knew she would be.
“I’m sorry,” Aurora says.
“You’re not.” I smirk. She smiles back. “And neither am I. You were right—I never needed her.”
She reaches for me, and I revel in how her hand feels in mine. Her hummingbird pulse beating through her skin.
A throat clears behind us. Derek, interrupting us as always. “And what are we going to do now?”
Aurora looks back toward the districts. The line of Fae warriors has re-formed and is charging toward us.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how it works.”
“You used your power once before,” I remind her, though the shield has dissolved.
“But I—”
“Trust yourself,” I say. “The same as you asked of me.”
At first, she frowns, doubt tingeing the striking color of her eyes. But then she inhales a steadying breath. And in a voice that could only come from Leythana’s heir, she shouts, “STOP!”
A ripple of gold-and-green power radiates from Aurora and canters outward. Each time it touches a Fae or Goblin or Demon or Vila, the creature freezes. The magic roves across the districts, the palace, and beyond. I can only gawp in amazement.
The clamor of the battle drains away. Even the wind and the sea subside. But then, like the stirring of some legendary beast, the Etherian Mountains begin to rumble.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The quaking is terrifying, far stronger than when we broke Aurora’s curse. Bone deep.
The Fae steeds bolt in every direction, their riders scrambling to keep their seats. Terror that Aurora’s power is too much forks through me. That the earth is about to cleave open and swallow us whole. Because the rose-tinged mountains—the huge, eternal beasts I’ve known my whole life—crack like eggs from peak to base. From the yawning holes of their rupture, an avalanche roars toward Briar, rock and debris and a choking cloud of dust. At the palace, Tarkin’s war room leans dangerously to one side. A spire topples from its tower.
Aurora grabs for my arm and points. “Is that…?”
A pink lustrous powder flows down the mountainside. Etherium. It gushes over the palace and into the streets of Briar. Slams into the main gates and the barrier I summoned, which promptly wilts and allows the tide of Etherium to gallop toward us. I scoop Callow up, and we clamber onto the wreckage of the black tower. Chaos whinnies in alarm and lifts off the ground, treading the air. Etherium pools around the rubble and begins to waterfall into the sea. Dragon’s teeth. Our dark magic didn’t taint the mineral after all. I had no idea there was this much of the stuff inside the mountains.
“What in the world caused that?” Derek crouches and pinches some of the Etherium into his palm, then releases the twinkling grains into the wind.
Aelfdene’s voice drifts back to me from very far away.
“A new age will begin when the Etherian Mountains crumble.”
The prophecy wasn’t about me—or even the Dark Court—after all.
“Her.” I smile at Aurora.
“I didn’t tell the mountains to fall,” she says, numb.
“No. But I expect your magic hinges on intent, the same as any Vila. You wanted the fighting to stop, and it did. You wanted a union between both realms, and the Etherian Mountains have been a hindrance to that union for—forever. And so they fell.”
Derek startles at something behind us. “What in the name of…”
I sharpen my eyesight and scan the Grace District. Goblins and Vila climb out of the rock and Etherium. The Imps have already started packing the crushed mineral like snow and chucking it at one another. But then I notice something else. The trees nearest the main gates, which had morphed into sickly oil-skinned things since my siege, are…changing.
Ribbons of healthy bark wind up from the exposed and gnarled roots. Green leaves sprout from blackened scythe-like arms. Bushes bud and flower, producing blossoms the color of pale peony and deepest indigo. Climbing vines, some with bright green leaves and others with wicked-tipped thorns, hesitantly prod their way through dissolving mortar and holes in the stone.
“It must be the Etherium,” Aurora says, watching the powder pour in every direction from the empty shells of the mountains. As it spills into the sea, the liquid steel of the water is threaded with currents of the flawless aquamarine it boasted at Briar’s height. A breeze tinged with hints of honeysuckle and rose brushes our cheeks, warmer than I’ve felt in decades.
“Maybe,” I say. “But Etherian magic can’t undo ours. This is something else. A world of light and darkness—just like your magic.”
And part of me wonders, if I had known about this power before, would I have wanted to create it? Would it have righted all of Briar’s wrongs? Healed the wounds carved into my soul? I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter. I can’t go back and choose that other path.
“We need to go to the palace,” I say.
Aurora lets out a long breath. “I don’t even know how to begin to tell them what happened.”
Apprehension needles between my ribs when I think of how the Fae will absorb this news, and that’s nothing compared to the Dark Court. Just because this power exists doesn’t mean they will understand its value. But I don’t let the fear consume me, as I would have done in the past.
“We’ll figure it out,” I promise Aurora. “And I might know the perfect way to make our entrance.”
Exhaustion eats away at my control, but I manage to Shift the muscles in my back, firming them up, then add girth to my torso. Wings the size of a ship’s sail fan out from my spine, taloned and scaled—an exact replica of a pair on one of Leythana’s dragons. Derek whistles and hops onto Chaos’s saddle. Aurora hooks her arms and legs around me, and I kick into the air. I Shift in my lungs and give the best, loudest roar I can muster as we sail over the districts.
I can’t see her, but I know that she is smiling as the three of us make our way to the palace, her head held high and the Briar crown sparkling as we soar into the dawn of this new age—one many generations in the making—together.
* * *
—
Hours later, Aurora stands beside me in the main courtyard of the palace. The survivors of this final battle crowd around us, some of them hanging out of the upper story windows or climbing on one another’s backs to get a good look. The light Fae have not dismounted, their steeds bobbing slightly in the current of wind. The human servants have ventured out of the palace, still alive, I assume, because my magic is now melded with Aurora’s. I notice that the marks on their forearms are puckered and pink. Any direct connection between us is severed. And I find that I’m surprisingly relieved that I don’t have control over them anymore, the way Briar once controlled me. I wonder if the lack of our bond means the humans will retain their immortality, or if their years have resumed as if they’ve woken from a century-long sleep. Time will tell, I suppose. Derek is here, with the men the Vila plucked from the sea. He grants me an encouraging smile, and I grudgingly nod back.
“Are you responsible for the death of the High King?” one of the Fae riders calls down to Aurora. Icy contempt wafts from the throng of their steeds.
“Not directly,” she answers.
My heart clenches, picturing Rose’s body dissolving away on the wind.
“But you do carry his magic,” another snarls. “I can smell it on you.”
Rumblings and mutterings, from both the Dark Court and the Fae. Aurora doesn’t so much as flinch. “I do. Which means I am now your queen, and you will not address me with your typical disrespect.”
Several riders hiss. But their oath must extend to more than just Oryn, to the magic of Etheria itself. For at last, they dip their chins.
“She carries Oryn’s magic?” Armor clanks as the crowd parts for Torin. “The High King’s power chose a mortal host? But she couldn’t have been Marked.”
I gesture to the crown. “We think he Marked her when he blessed the Briar Queens with his protection. Leythana’s descendants have always carried a piece of Oryn’s power.”
“But…that’s incredible.” The fissures in Torin’s body change from scarlet to pale yellow in a contemplative rhythm. “Why would the High King have risked such a—”
“It was not a risk,” a Fae rider interrupts. “The blessing on the queens meant naught. No human would be capable of wielding the High King’s power.”
Anger snaps in my chest. I open my mouth to argue back, teach this Fae his place, but Aurora raises a hand for silence.
“As you can see”—she indicates the mountains—“I am more than capable. Would you like further demonstration?”
The Etherian glowers, and the Fae steeds nicker, sensing the fury of their riders. But none are brave—or foolish—enough to challenge her.
“And what does this mean for us?” Renard demands. “Nimara?”
I expected this moment would come, but I’m no better prepared for it. And a strange part of me misses Mortania. Normally, she would grant me some encouraging words to fuel my confidence. But I suppose I must rely on myself, as I should have done all along.
“Nimara is dead.” The words are sticky. An undercurrent of confusion snakes through the members of the Dark Court. “She’s been dead for centuries. I thought that by adopting her name, I would emulate her power. That I needed to be some kind of symbol. But I never needed to be anyone but myself.”
A lightness expands in my chest as I realize how much I mean what I’ve said. The court accepts it with low grunts and uncertain chatter. Callow is nearby, and I wish she would perch on my shoulder, a familiar pressure against the wave of disquiet.
“Doesn’t matter.” Renard’s snout wriggles. “You’re still Mistress of the Dark Court. We don’t have to listen to this mortal-turned-Fae or whatever she is.”
Several of his Goblins voice their agreement. And another pang of fear knocks through me. That Torin’s philosopher was correct, and this cycle of hate is never-ending. But no—if Aurora and I could choose each other after everything, these courts can find common ground.
“She’s not Fae,” I say. “And she’s not mortal anymore. Aurora’s power is a blend of light and dark magic. Do you see what it means for us—all of us—that these powers could come together?”
Renard grunts. “Don’t see anything but crumbled mountains.”
“Exactly,” Aurora says, pointing to the mess of stone and Etherium. “Those mountains represent a fallen barrier. An end to the era when there were Fae and Vila and mortal courts. And do you know what brought them down? What forged this power?” She pauses. Vila and Demons trade glances. “Love.”
The word ripples through the courtyard. My breath comes faster.
“Love—” Torin angles her staff between me and Aurora. “Your love?”
I look back at Aurora, into the amethyst of her gaze, flecked with green and gold. And I don’t know how I ever could have been so foolish as to claim I did not love her. How I could have become so lost that I could not find my way back to her. Find my way home.
“Yes,” I say. “I have always loved her.”
A tear splashes onto Aurora’s cheekbone. I want to kiss it away.
“Well…” An Imp’s tinny voice rises above the low chatter. I brace myself for whatever is going to come next—anger, outrage, rejection. The night of Aurora’s birthday party all over again. The barb-tailed creature scratches beneath his chin. “We love her, too, Mistress.”
“Aye,” another chimes in, displaying his daggerlike teeth. “Love all her bits and pieces. Skin and bones.”
It is a slightly concerning show of affection, but I sense that it’s genuine. And others begin to nod, gruffly admitting their feelings.
“You never said so,” Aurora exclaims.
“Didn’t think we was supposed to,” the Imp replies with a shrug. “But we don’t make tasties for just anyone, you know.”
“Aye, and your gowns. Took extra care with those.”
“And we didn’t cut off any of your hair, though we could have.”
“Or pull your teeth. Wanted some of those, I did.”
They’ve become suddenly shy, toeing the ground with their long ears twitching. Aurora laughs. “It is an honor to have earned your affection. You’ve long held mine.”
I think I see the Imps blush, though it’s hard to tell with the crimson hue of their skin. But not everyone is satisfied with the day’s developments.
“What then? This special power means that we should call you queen?” Renard demands. His Goblins stamp their disapproval. The Fae hiss down at him.
Aurora lifts her chin. I remember the day that she woke, when she declared that this was her palace and her realm—and how disastrously that had gone. But she does not repeat that speech. Instead, she takes the crown from her head. Sunlight, gloriously bright, dazzles on the bramble and thorn.
“For so many years, I thought I would be Briar’s queen. That it was my destiny,” she says. “But now…” Her attention roves over the crowd—the battle-weary Dark Court, and the timid servants, and the haughty Fae. “I’ve learned in my time here that there are many different kinds of destiny. And that even those people whom we admire most are not always who they present themselves to be.”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this. My heart kicks in my chest.
“That just because I wear a crown doesn’t mean I’m owed anything. Or that I have the right to say what’s mine.” She swallows. “Therefore, I cannot ask any of you to call me queen.”
Confusion trickles through the courtyard. Even Renard lowers his spear, warty brow pinched. And the Fae steeds bob up and down on the current of wind.
“You will abdicate?” one asks, hopeful.
Callow mutters a warning. And I resist the urge to make an example of this rider. He knows full well that there’s no way Aurora could simply surrender her power. She’d have to die to give it up.
Aurora is quiet for several moments. “How many of you despised Oryn?”
The question surprises them. But even with Oryn rotting, they do not go so far as to voice their opinions. The truth leaks from their expressions, showing itself in tight lips and nickering mounts. I recall Aelfdene’s story about how he was never supposed to be the High Lord of the Court of Dreams, and how Oryn despised him because of it.
“Go on—answer,” Aurora presses. “He cannot punish you now.”
“The High King,” one finally speaks. “Could be a demanding master.”
“And you did not rebel?” Aurora asks. “Oryn kept his throne for thousands of years.”
“Our magic,” the Fae goes on, “was bound to his. We could not defy him without…consequence.”
Oh. Perhaps this is why so many Fae abandoned Etheria for the Vila courts. Changing their magic was the only way to escape Oryn’s reach. A strange sympathy twists through me, one I never thought to feel for the Fae.
“Then I am sorry for you,” Aurora says. Her focus drifts to the tight clumps of human servants. “And I’m sorry for everything that happened in Briar. The injustices and prejudices and inequality. It was my home, but it was far from perfect. And I understand that, for so many of you”—she indicates several nearby Imps and Vila—“it was a realm that drove you into exile. Destroyed your traditions and lands and families. We have all caused one another pain. But perhaps today—at long last—we stop.”
Against all odds, something begins to poke its head up through the mess of confusion and resentment and fear. Hope. It’s no more than a glimmer, but I lean into it.
“If I have learned anything from the Dark Court, it is that every voice deserves to be heard. Too many in Briar were silenced. And I expect it was no different under Oryn. But we can change that.” She holds up her crown. “I propose that we share this symbol. We keep the existing council and add placements for the Fae and the humans. Let there be no more sides. No more rulers. We build a new court, the Briar Court, where all are welcome.”
I hold my breath. Terrified that, in spite of everything, they will still reject her. That it’s all been for nothing. But then a change creeps over the audience like a rising dawn. Miraculously, I hear two words begin to pulse in time with my heartbeat.
Briar Court. Briar Court.
Derek starts it, pressing his fist over his heart. His men follow suit. Then the human servants. The Imps. Torin. The Goblins, including Renard. The Demons and Vila. Even the Fae are no longer looking at Aurora like they’re trying to determine the best way to kill her in her sleep. Some go so far as to lower their steeds and raise their staffs in salute. And soon the courtyard is ringing with the syllables. The sound of the Fae prophecy come to life, crumbled mountains and all.
Pride surges up from the tips of my toes and tingles in the roots of my hair. But it is bittersweet. I wish Regan were here. How would her life have been different if there had been a place like this for her?
Perhaps sensing my emotion, Aurora twines her fingers with mine. I hold on to her as tightly as I can. A princess and a Vila. But no, that’s not the case anymore.
We are equals now.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
There is feasting and dancing. The Etherian heads are pried from the walls and burned in a ceremony headed by the light Fae. And then the court puts together its first official act—a joint coronation of the council leaders of Briar.
