Misrule, page 6
He considers this. Watery afternoon sunlight shines in his brown eyes, brow furrowed. “Was there no one innocent?”
This boy doesn’t have the sense of a goat. But a rare and elusive guilt sinks its teeth into my conscience. I think of Hilde again. I’d been so sure that the apothecary would come to me. That she would choose me over the greedy and vapid citizens of Briar. But she fled, like everyone else, from the monster.
Because she did not care for you, pet. None of them did.
An ache squeezes between my temples. “Not innocent enough.”
Derek must have been anticipating an answer to soothe his fragile mortal nerves. That chalky pallor he wore during our first meeting returns. I let him stew in his discomfort and start heading to the palace.
“I’m sorry for you,” he calls at my back. I freeze. “For what they did. And for what it made you. You didn’t deserve it.”
An unfamiliar mix of emotions spears through me. Besides Aurora, no human has ever apologized to me and meant it. But I do not let myself turn. Only keep walking, one step after another, as if I had not heard him at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thunder rumbles, low and menacing. Outside the jagged gap in the library wall, rain pours over Briar. It is the kind of endless, soaking deluge that is commonplace now that the Court of Seasons is vanquished. The sort of weather during which I would have loved to curl up with a book in my attic room of Lavender House and read for hours.
But today, a headache presses between my temples. I let the book fall closed on my lap. It’s the court record the Imps brought me, and this is the second time I’ve read it. But it doesn’t hold any clue about what might break Aurora’s curse, or even about Leythana and the Fae challenge.
“Don’t worry,” I say to Aurora. I’ve folded myself into a wide chair at her bedside with a thick fur around my legs. “I’ll find an answer. With the Court of Dreams gone, there’s only the High Court left. If I have to force Oryn to lift your curse myself, I will.”
I hope she can hear me. That she knows how hard I’m trying. Thunder growls again, and I pick up the mug of tea I’d brought with me. It’s gone cold in this dank chamber, and I use my magic to reheat it, watching the steam curl in lazy tendrils.
“We’ll have a huge revel when you wake,” I say, forcing positivity into my voice. “The biggest yet. The Imps will conjure up a mountain of pastries and cakes, all of your favorites. And the gowns they create for you will put your old wardrobe to shame.”
Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the silhouette of the fallen Grace District. And for some infuriating reason, Derek’s words in the garden come back to me.
“I’m sorry for you. For what they did. And for what it made you.”
My grip tightens around the china cup. Ignorant mortal, speaking as though I’m someone to be pitied. As though what happened to Briar was a tragedy. Perhaps the realm’s fall was a loss for him and all the others who could no longer purchase their precious Etherium. But I’m not sorry about their misfortune. If I hadn’t taken Briar and founded the Dark Court, the Vila and surviving citizens of Malterre would still be hunted in those realms. Let them rot. It’s a kinder fate than they deserve.
“You would absolutely despise this Derek,” I tell Aurora, having already informed her about his arrival. “He’s as bad as your suitors were, sailing across the sea for greed and power.”
But a needling worry sticks to my insides. Derek is the first mortal to glimpse Briar since its fall, and the first unconnected with who I was as the Dark Grace. I don’t care that the former nobles hate me. I want them to be miserable. But the look on Derek’s face when he saw the Etherian heads mounted to the throne room walls. When he saw me.
I push my blanket away and climb onto the bed next to Aurora. Trace the ridge of her knuckles and let my fingertip skim down every one of her slender fingers.
You were never a villain to me. Her long-ago words sigh in the rushing of the rain.
If I close my eyes, I can see her here on the night we spent together, her skin luminous in the moonlight. Her amethyst gaze drinking me in.
“You’ll still feel that way, won’t you?” I whisper. “You’ll still…want me?”
And if she does not? Mortania swirls lightly.
A gust of wind bullies into the library, spraying cold rain on my skin. I go back to the book and search for something I missed.
* * *
—
A few days later, the palace is woken by the Demon sentries’ blaring horns. Malakar and our army parade into the courtyard, and a revel to celebrate his victory begins almost immediately. I make my way through the halls, which are swarming with Demons and Vila showing off their prizes. They pass around blades that look hewn from the night sky itself, which can cut through solid marble as easily as if it were butter. Shields woven from willow branches, which don’t break no matter how many daggers the Demons hurl at them.
The entire court is fascinated with this bounty, myself included. Earlier in the war, our forces returned from the Court of Earth with tree limbs of solid silver, whose branches sported flowering buds that housed glowing pixies. There was a caged songbird brought from the Court of Beasts that warbled Fae ballads before it succumbed to our dark magic. My personal favorite is the sack of oysters brought from the Court of Sea, whose pearls were filled with swirling constellations or tiny moving clouds that changed to reflect the time of day. The former Briar King was obsessed with this sort of Fae treasure, and it gives me more pleasure than I can say to display these prizes in Tarkin’s palace. I hope his ghost is mad with jealousy.
I finally spot the Goblin leader near the throne room, thronged by clusters of Imps demanding that he recount his goriest war stories. But before I can reach him, I see Torin and Neve walking together through the crush of celebration. Torin spots me and waves, and then it’s too late to pivot in another direction. I plaster on a perfunctory smile and join them.
As a full-blooded Shifter, Neve enjoys changing her appearance as frequently as others might their clothing. Her skin this morning is covered in iridescent scales that subtly shift color in the light. A pair of pale blue antlers climbs up from her long hair, as white and thin as spider’s silk. But her most striking feature is her cloak. It’s constructed of dark, multihued feathers, like those of a starling bird. And steel epaulettes of the same fashion jut out from each of her shoulders, beaks open in a war cry.
“Nimara,” Torin greets me. “I was just catching Neve up on everything that’s occurred at court in her absence.”
Neve dips her chin, but I detect a glimmer of disdain in her ice-blue eyes. Mortania whirls in her cave. She doesn’t like the Shifter, either.
“Good,” I say. “And I’m eager to hear the news you brought. Have your Starlings learned anything regarding the boy from Terault? Or about why the mortal realms have suddenly decided to start dispatching their ships again?”
“Not as of yet,” she answers in her glass-smooth voice. “We’ve had far more pressing matters to attend to, as I’m sure you know.”
Imps gallop past. They’ve summoned food for the army’s return and are bandying eggs back and forth among themselves. I lean out of the way before one splatters on my gown.
“And this is a celebration,” Torin says pointedly. The fissures mapping her body brighten to scarlet. “We should allow Neve to catch her breath. She’s been busy enough as it is.”
But busy doing what? I want to ask. I’d thought Kal was my closest ally, but none of his supposed help came without a price. What will Neve and her Starlings demand later as payment for their service? What snares is she setting that I will not see until it is too late?
You are not that girl anymore, pet.
“Forgive me for being overeager,” I say, letting the iron-laced taste of my power center me. “We are always grateful for your efforts.”
Torchlight gleams on the epaulettes of Neve’s gown. “Are you? Because my Starlings would greatly appreciate a visit from their mistress. Especially as you’re a Shifter yourself. It would do much to boost their morale.”
Gravelly Goblin laughter ricochets off the walls. “You want me to leave court? Put myself in danger, for a visit?”
She tilts her head at me. “Do the Starlings not put themselves in danger every day?”
The question is fanged and I try not to react.
“They do, but—”
Torin’s unnaturally warm touch grazes my forearm. “The council agrees that it’s better that Nimara remains here,” she interjects, far calmer than I could ever be when dealing with the Shifter leader. “We cannot risk the loss of her power should she be captured or killed. But the Starlings will receive an elaborate show of our gratitude when the time comes for them to return home. As will you, Neve.”
“Precisely.” I smooth my skirts. “Not even Oryn follows his army.”
“And you wish to behave like Oryn?” Her smile is too wide, and I want to strangle her. “But it was only a suggestion. I thought it might benefit you to practice Shifting. After all, some Shifters lose the ability if they inhabit one form for too long. You do know that, don’t you?”
Of course I know it. Would that Neve could forget how to Shift and trap herself in some other body. Preferably one without a mouth. “I appreciate your concern, but I am in no danger of losing any of my abilities.”
The feathers on her cloak flutter in the draft. “How reassuring.”
I’ve had more than enough of this exchange, and am about to excuse myself, when a deep voice cuts through the chatter of the corridor.
“Mistress!” At the sight of Malakar’s warty snout and jagged-toothed grin, my anger melts away.
“Welcome home.” I bend down to embrace him. His bristly curls tickle the side of my face. “We’ve missed you.”
The Goblin leader was one of many of his ilk who made their homes in the mountain caves of the realms across the sea. As they were so easily recognizable as being former citizens of Malterre, the Goblins rarely ventured away from their clans—or even into daylight. It took us ages to root them out and bring them to the Dark Court. Malakar was among the first to arrive, and his genial nature—if hidden beneath a cantankerous exterior—soon made him a popular leader among his own. He was unanimously elected as general for our army and is uniquely skilled in weaponry. Malakar’s men take great pride in their whips strung with sharpened vertebrae and maces set with steel-spiked skulls. And the Goblin leader himself designed a special powder, dubbed blight elixir, which mixes Vila blood with gunpowder, and decimates the Fae courts when launched from flaming arrows.
“Aye, have you, then?” He pulls away and scratches beneath the corkscrew horns protruding from behind each pointed ear. “I missed the Imps, can tell you that. Had enough of dried grouse to last me five lifetimes.”
I laugh. “I suggest you eat your fill before they’ve wasted it all in their battles.”
As if to illustrate, an Imp catapults onto Malakar’s shoulders and bellows, “Charge!”
“Heave off!” Malakar wrestles the creature away, who cackles and scampers to join his fellows.
Torin shakes her head. Her garnet hair—like wet mortal blood—glistens in the torchlight. “I suppose such displays of affection are the consequence of returning home in such a glorious fashion.”
He waggles his thick eyebrows. “Glory, aye. Have they told you yet who’s in the dungeon?”
“No. Did you bring a prisoner?”
“Did we?” His silver eyes shimmer with pride. “The High Lord himself waits for you, Mistress.”
Several Demons, in their shadow forms, skirt the ceiling. Gooseflesh breaks between my shoulder blades at the draft they raise. “The High Lord? Really?”
“Aye. Found him waiting in his palace, we did. Like he was expectin’ us.” His ears point backward. “Strange like, really. But that’s the Fae for you.”
Maybe. “Did you know anything about that?” I ask Neve.
“No,” she replies, adjusting the Starling brooch on her jacket. “But I’m not surprised. The Court of Dreams is unique in Oryn’s domain. Surreal, as one might expect, given its breed of magic. Mysterious or eccentric behavior is commonplace.”
Mortania churns, as suscpicious as I am.
“But here, Mistress.” Malakar pulls something from the satchel slung across his stocky body. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
“That wasn’t necessary. I’m just relieved you’re—”
He holds it out to me. It’s a mirror. The frame is a wreath of willow branches with sparkling diamond leaves threaded throughout. And the glass is unlike anything I’ve ever beheld. It looks liquid and even ripples when I touch it.
“What is this?” I turn it over in my hands, amazed.
“Belongs to the High Lord.” Malakar bends close. “Ask it what his true name is.”
Beside me, Torin inhales a sharp breath. “He didn’t.”
Malakar’s lips curl up. “Ask, Mistress.”
No. There’s no possible way we could be this lucky. Mortania hums with desire. I stare into the glass, which only grants a warped reflection of the lines of my face. “What is the true name of the High Lord of the Court of Dreams?”
The quicksilver surface undulates. But instead of an image, a sound drifts up—like someone speaking underwater. “Aelfdene.”
Deep in her den, the ancient Vila cackles.
I am stunned. The Fae cannot lie, but they can misdirect with remarkable skill. And part of that misdirection includes disguises. We learned a long time ago that the true name of an Etherian is as precious to them as their staff. With it, you can command them to do absolutely anything—or perish in the effort to obey. As such, a true name is almost never uttered. But because the Fae love their tricks and challenges, they tend to hide them. Some Etherians have spent their entire lives searching for a name with which to control another. Years ago, we found one written on the inside of a walnut. Threaded into the ballad of a songbird. And now—in this mirror.
“I thought you would like it.” Malakar’s tail twitches back and forth behind him.
“This is incredible,” I say to the Goblin leader. “You’re a genius. Thank you.”
“Thank her.” He indicates Neve. “Was her Starlings who figured it out.”
My good humor dissolves. Torin, however, appears delighted at this discovery. She hides a laugh behind a cough. I glare at her. “You didn’t tell me,” I say to Neve.
She toys with the ends of her wispy hair. “You did not provide the opportunity.”
Torin fusses with her long sleeves, but I can tell she’s still smirking.
“Are we going to stand here and discuss it?” Malakar’s snout wriggles. “Or shall we put that mirror to good use? Let’s pay a visit to our Fae guest.”
CHAPTER SIX
Though it’s been a hundred years, the dungeons are virtually unchanged from when I found myself imprisoned here as the Dark Grace. The darkness is a living thing, broken only by intermittent torches, which sputter and snap in the dankness, casting ghoulish shadows on the slick walls. The silty odor of mold and filth borders on suffocating. A perpetual draft cuts through my thick gown and raises gooseflesh down my back. Down one corridor, near the area where I was kept at Tarkin’s command, I swear I detect the swirl of pleading whispers. I quicken my pace, having no inclination to visit them this evening.
The Goblin guards have all gone to the revel, as none of us are particularly concerned about the High Lord’s escape, and our small party walks alone through the corridors.
“Neve found the mirror?” Regan asks at my side.
“Apparently,” I mutter. We’re a step behind the others, but my attention is squarely fixed on the back of the Shifter leader’s head. “I’m surprised it didn’t trap me when I looked in the glass.”
Regan frowns. “Do you really think she’d attempt something like that?”
“I was careless with Kal,” I reply. “I won’t be again.”
She grasps my elbow, firm but gentle. “She’d be a fool to even consider betraying you like he did. We wouldn’t let her get away with it.”
I grant her a grateful smile. “I don’t doubt that. But in my experience, it’s best to be prepared for anything.”
Mortania’s presence swells, obviously agreeing.
* * *
—
Fae prisoners do not survive long in our cells. The dark magic of our lands seeps through their bark-like skin and poisons their gilded blood. In Malterre, the effect was almost instantaneous, which is why the Fae were forced to ally with the humans at the end of the first war. Here, the sickness does not progress so quickly. Depending on their strength, Fae can last up to a week in our dungeon. And we use our time well.
Above the arched doorway of his cell, Aelfdene’s staff is fastened to the wall—a trick Regan devised when we began interrogating our prisoners. None of them has ever revealed any particularly valuable information—Oryn trains them extensively—but more than a few Fae have broken their knobby-boned fingers while scrabbling to retrieve the instrument of their power. Sections of the wall are streaked with smudges of their blood, drying a rust-tinged gold with the passage of time.
Through the dimness, the Fae lord’s shape begins to emerge. Aelfdene’s long and slender limbs are bent at unnatural angles to cram into the space. His face is gray and grooved, textured like the trunk of a fir. A wreath of silver willow branches, the symbol of the Court of Dreams, rests amid his matted, reedlike hair. An amber bruise blooms along one angular cheekbone. His eyes flutter open as our footsteps approach.
“Ah.” He yawns dramatically. One of his dagger-tipped teeth is missing. “Is this the Mistress of the Dark Court? You have caught me sleeping.”
