Misrule, page 8
Imps chitter their laughter. And a few of the Goblins chuckle, tossing out jokes about how best to roast a tender mortal heart.
“Please.” Derek positions himself between the Imp and the steed. “It’s done nothing wrong. The wound might heal.”
The beast nickers, breath steaming from its nostrils.
“And what would you know of it?” I ask. “Have you cared for many of its fellows on your ships?”
“I…no.” More laughter. “But I did mind horses.”
“I thought you were a crew hand.”
“I was.” He scratches at the line of his wig. “But I once held a position at an estate in the country. I groomed the horses and exercised them, and helped treat their injuries. And I’d like to tend this creature.”
I cross my arms. “Why?”
Derek blinks, as if the answer was the most obvious in the world. “Because it doesn’t deserve to die.”
If he intended his comment to wound—with the slaughtered Shifters mere feet away—it hits its mark. I stand taller and adjust the belt of my gown, which the Imps have designed as a pair of skeletal hands wrapped around my waist.
“What if you bound the horse to you?” Derek rushes on. “Such a thing must be possible.”
Curiosity undulates among the onlookers.
“You might be able to do it,” Regan says at my elbow. “You did with Callow. And then we could use the beast to fly over the High Court during our campaigns.”
It’s an intriguing theory. With the exception of the Shifters and Demons, our army progresses through the Fae courts on foot. Briar’s horses did not fare well after the Court of Beasts met its end. The lack of transport adds weeks to our journeys now that we’re laying siege to Etheria’s inner courts. But if we possessed our own flying battalion…
Dimples appear on either side of Derek’s lips. I itch to slap them into the mud.
“Don’t be too excited.” I elbow him aside. “It’s not done yet. And if it works, you’re responsible for them. Do you understand? Feeding, grooming, shit-mucking, the lot. Don’t come to me whining for the Imps or anyone else to help you.”
He agrees, and Regan passes me her dagger. Several Demons secure the Fae steed. It screams and tries to buck as I slash the flesh of its hindquarters. I do the same to my own palm and then press the wounds together. The Fae steed rears. Its massive hooves strike the ground, kicking up clumps of dirt. The moonlit surface of its hide warms beneath my touch as I send my power through my hand and into its body.
Serve me. My intent pumps through the cord of my power, finding the heart of the steed’s magic and twisting tight. One heartbeat. Two. An aura of green limns my hand. The beast whinnies and tosses its head, and I expect its magic to push back against mine in refusal. Or that the creature will burst into a thousand pieces. But to my immense astonishment, I sense acceptance pulsing from the other magic.
The halo of green light fades, and I can only stare at the brand left behind—the wreath of bramble and thorn. It worked. The creature is calm. Tame, even. It paws at the ground and blinks at me as if awaiting an order. In the cave where she dwells, Mortania cackles.
When I’d bound the human servants, I’d been filled with a glorious vindication. Heady triumph, after administering the punishment they so richly deserved. But this is different. My connection with this steed is closer akin to the bond I share with Callow. I place a hand on the creature’s nose. Its ears twitch back and forth, as though it already recognizes my touch.
“And what do you say?” I ask quietly. “Shall we pay a visit to your master?”
The beast thumps his front hoof in what I interpret as agreement.
It brings a smile to my lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next night, on the Crimson Cliffs, we burn the fallen Starlings. As the only other Shifter in attendance, I stand with Neve. But the space between us is prickly and loaded and I would rather be anywhere else.
Disdain seeps from the Shifter leader’s very pores, and she barely even looks at me. She acts as though it’s a crime that I don’t know we’re supposed to use cedar wood, with its spiced-smoke scent, to build the pyre, or feed the flames with jasmine and yarrow to speed the souls of the lost into their next lives. That the ashes are to be smudged in stripes along our cheeks and foreheads, or that there is a song to be sung when we scatter the rest to the sea winds.
When was I supposed to learn these details? In the black tower, when Kal was filling my head with lies? Or in the vile book Endlewild forced me to read? Neve behaves as though it is my own fault that I was taught to fear Shifters, and that the only other one I knew turned out to be just as horrible as those stories claimed. It’s a relief when she decides to return to her Starlings rather than stay the night. Maybe she’ll stay away the rest of the war.
* * *
—
The court continues its mourning with copious amounts of drinking, the funeral quickly evolving into an extended celebration of Malakar’s victory. And I’m more than happy to leave the disastrous ceremony behind me. I clean the ashes from my face at the earliest opportunity. Derek joins us in the throne room, wearing bright fuchsia breeches that clash terribly with a dingy yellow jacket. His wig is a mountain of frizzy ringlets strung with faded ribbons and chipped pearls. The Imps stuck in dead beetles for good measure, snacking on them as they take turns demanding to be whirled in dances.
When given a reprieve from the Imps, Derek—who has never experienced a revel before—feasts on as much of the food as he can. But apparently no one explained to him that, while the Imp food does not adversely affect those with dark magic, Derek’s human magic is far too minuscule to be of any protection. Since his arrival, he has ingested only small portions of bread and dried meat—not enough for him to experience the full effects of the enchantment. Now, he shovels chocolate pastries into his mouth like this might be his last meal—and then promptly vomits black sludge in a corner while the Imps point and giggle.
“I feel like a complete idiot,” I say to Regan, as our conversation returns to what transpired in the dungeons with Aelfdene. “I had the true name of a High Lord at my command and completely squandered the opportunity.”
And I’ll never get another. Even if we could compel him to write or mime his secrets, the Fae lord perished from his wounds, which had been exacerbated due to his exposure to our magic. Soon, his head will be mounted with the others, and the Goblins are talking about bronzing his tongue.
“Stop blaming yourself.” She waves away a pitcher of wine, claiming she needs to stay sharp in case there is another visit from Oryn’s forces. “He tricked all of us. What was he saying to you anyway? You looked half dead until Neve roused you.”
Guilt prickles up the back of my neck. I can’t exactly admit the whole truth about what Aelfdene glimpsed in my mind. I sip my wine. “He wanted to know why I seized Briar.”
Her brow rumples. “Why would he have cared?”
I shrug. “He said he was interested in me. That I was the impossible come to life, or some other nonsense.”
A trio of Imps chitters past, yanking one another’s tails.
“Neve wasn’t exaggerating about the strangeness of that court.” Regan runs the blade of her snake-handled dagger through her fingertips.
I swallow more wine. The spices burn down my throat.
“It was not real.”
The dead lord’s words dig their talons into my soul. He was just being cruel, I tell myself. Twisting a knife while he still could. But doubt clings to me, like the smell of the cedar smoke from the pyre. Even Aurora questioned the “true love” her parents supposedly shared while they lived. Their kiss might have broken the late queen’s curse, but the former royal couple had been miserable together—as were many before them. Aurora assumed that power and money had tainted their relationships, a more than plausible explanation. But what if Aelfdene wasn’t being cruel? After all, the Fae cannot lie. What if Oryn had claimed true love could break Mortania’s curse on the princesses, but it was actually lifted by some random kiss? One that might have inspired love in the right circumstances?
“Do you believe in true love?” I ask Regan before I can think better of it.
A group of Goblins roars when their game of wager sours. Jewels and coins go flying, and Malakar descends upon them to break up the fight.
Regan angles herself to look at me properly. “True love?”
“You know.” I rub my thumb over the embossed Briar rose on my goblet. “That there’s only one person for you. And that, no matter what, you’ll always be drawn back to them. That your relationship is…fated.”
She steals my wineglass from my hand. “How much have you had?”
“I’m not drunk,” I huff. Though I almost wish I were, after the day I’ve endured. “Do you think that sort of connection is only for tales and ballads?”
Regan sighs and crosses one leg over the other. “I don’t know about true love,” she admits. “But look around you. Everyone here adores you. The Vila used to bow to you when they started arriving from the realms across the sea. And the Imps tried to make a shrine.”
With various old bones they plucked from the human skeletons in the corridors. I still shiver when I think of the macabre display. But that wasn’t why I made them take it down or refused to let anyone kneel or bow in my presence. I don’t want to be that kind of leader. We’re all equals here. This is our home.
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
“But it’s enough, isn’t it?” she asks. “And it’s more than most of us have ever experienced. What does it matter if it falls under some magical category of true love or not?”
She’s right. It should be enough. More than enough. A group of Imps blurs past, and I watch the dancing. The joy on the faces of so many who were exiled. A joy I helped to cultivate. And I try to let Aelfdene slide away. He was goading me. Reshaping my thoughts into something ugly, just as Endlewild used to do. But I don’t have to let him.
“Come,” I say to Regan, offering my hand. “We’re going to dance.”
“You’re a horrible dancer.” But she grins and sets down my glass.
Her hand is so familiar in mine, bone spikes against my green-veined skin. And I let myself be spun in dizzy circles, let the court blend into a wash of distorted shapes, and think of nothing else until morning. Not even Aurora.
* * *
—
Derek is indeed suprisingly skilled with the Fae steeds. A half-dozen more were found pawing around the palace grounds, and though they’re nothing like the horses he tended in Terault, the apparently multitalented crew hand soon has arrow wounds packed with poultices and gashes stitched, and sets to exercising the string around the courtyard. He even mucks out the stalls without complaint, which is a huge disappointment.
The Imps regard the Fae steeds as their newest pets. There are always a dozen or more of the barb-tailed creatures crowding around Derek as he tends the animals, begging for rides. They seem to delight in being bucked off, which happens more often than not. Before long, the beasts are flying again, and the trilling peals of the Imps as they swoop and soar on the steeds’ backs can be heard throughout the palace.
At the next council meeting, Malakar’s stubby snout wriggles with anticipation. “We cannot let what happened with the Shifters go unpunished. Neve’s lot shoulders the greatest risk of any of us. They deserve our support.”
“True,” Torin agrees. “But we cannot go barreling into the High Court in the name of justice. Oryn is likely expecting that. And his protections might have been what killed the Starlings.”
An image of the hacked-up Shifters rears, and along with it my uncomfortable guilt from the funeral. I try to drown it in a swallow of tea, feeling as though the Shifter leader’s eyes are boring through my skin and into my bones.
“Bah.” Malakar waves Torin off. His ears twitch between his horns. “Enough blight elixir will blow those shields to bits. Or mine will invent something else to get the job done.”
“Perhaps.” Torin picks up a marker. “Or should we formulate another strategy? Our focus so far has been on the outer courts. But now…”
The great dragon doors burst open and an Imp barrels through, fuming. “He pushed me!”
Malakar hops from the seat of his chair. “Take your games somewhere else.”
“Not a game.” The Imp rubs at a spot on his hip. “The boy pushed me. Hateful, wicked thing. You’ll punish him, Mistress?”
“The boy?” I ask. “Do you mean Derek? I can hardly blame him for retaliating with the torture you lot devise.”
Regan flips her knife from one hand to the other. “That’s what he gets for sailing across the sea to the land of stories.”
“Aye, and he should get worse.” The Imp lifts his chin, indignant. “We was going for a ride on a beastie, and as soon as we gets off the ground, he shoves me away and goes off hisself.”
Regan laughs. “He did what?”
“Just what I says!” His crimson tail thrashes. “I tolds him I wants to fly past these windows. Do a trick for you, Mistress. I knew you was at council. But as soon as the beastie makes for the sky, he flicks me off like I’s a bothersome flea.”
There is something I do not like about this story. An itching in my mind. Derek knew we were occupied. That the sentries on the battlements wouldn’t think twice about seeing him flying, and that none of us would be close enough to interfere. Could he be making his escape? Is that why he begged for the life of the steed?
“Where is he now?” Regan asks.
“How should I know?” The Imp pouts. “He takes off, like I tolds you. You’ll bring him back, won’t you, Mistress? See he gets a proper whallop?”
“He can’t have gone far.” Malakar watches the windows, snout scrunching. “Unless…would he be daft enough to take the beast to sea?”
“The bond would kill him if he tries to leave us,” Regan says. “It would kill the beast, too.”
“Look!” The Imp points. “There he is!”
Across the seamless glass of the windows, the steed streaks through the sky, its gold-dusted wings shimmering in the sunlight. But it’s not headed toward the sea. It looks like he’s steering toward the old wing of the palace.
Stories of a princess…asleep for a hundred years.
My blood flashes hot, then cold. No—it isn’t possible. He doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t know who she is, or that she’s even alive. And no one can get to Aurora through my barrier.
But, I realize with a sickening jolt, there is no such barrier blocking the gap in the wall—a gap wide enough for a Fae steed and a worthless ship’s boy.
“Nimara.” Regan nudges me, and I’m dropped back into the present like a stone.
“Find him.” I push away from the table. “Have the sentries shoot him down if they must. And then bring him straight here.”
Amid a volley of questions, I leave the chamber and Shift into invisibility so that they cannot follow. If Derek is going to the library, I must get to her before he does.
CHAPTER NINE
My feet pound the dusty stones of the back corridors. Not fast enough, even with my Shifter magic pouring into them.
I’m overreacting, I tell myself for the thousandth time. Derek has no reason to fly through the gap in the wall. No one else has disturbed Aurora in a hundred years, and—
The Fae beast’s snorting and chuffing reach me as I near the wall of bramble, shattering my impossible hopes. My hand slaps down on a thick vine. A thorn pierces my palm, but all I feel is a blind, frantic panic as I tear through the entrance and find Derek leaning over Aurora.
Horror consumes me. The bramble enclosure on Aurora’s bed is open. I must have neglected to close it the last time I visited. And the boy’s lips are inches from Aurora’s, the space between them narrowing by the second.
“Get away from her!” I scream.
Derek jerks back like a marionette tossed aside by its strings.
But it’s too late.
There’s a rumbling, like one I never thought to feel again. Small stones ping down from the ceiling. Books spill from their shelves and clatter to the floor. The Fae steed whinnies in terror and vaults through the gap in the wall, abandoning his rider.
“What have you done?” I yell at him as the room finally settles.
Derek gapes at me from where he landed. He starts to stammer out an answer, but then—
“Alyce?”
I’ve not heard that name—that voice—in a century. An exquisite ache blooms in my chest. I can hardly breathe around it.
Aurora is sitting up. Her golden hair falls around her shoulders. Her eyes—those glimmering amethysts—are open and alert. So beautiful that I will split right down the middle, the pieces of me floating away on the wind.
“Aurora.”
Tears clog my throat, of happiness and relief and a hundred other emotions. But then everything is smothered by confusion. Derek kissed Aurora awake. Which means the Fae protections on her curse should be in effect. Her expression should be fearful, or at least clouded with uncertainty, for she should know me only as a monster—if she remembers me at all. And yet she’s looking right at me. She said my name.
“Are…are you the princess?”
Derek. The boy is irritatingly unscathed. “You will not—”
Aurora cuts me off. “Who are you?”
He bows, but it’s an unpracticed gesture that makes him look foolish. And I notice there is manure smeared over his breeches. Good. “Derek, Your Majesty. Highness. I mean…I’m actually not sure what to—”
“And you kissed me.”
He swipes his unkempt crow-feather hair off his forehead. “I—well, yes.”
