Rosalind murmured something comforting but her words couldn’t penetrate my veil of sorrow.
The guards restrained the faeries and humans below and marched them out of the throne room, leaving Aengus, Osmos, and Drayce alone.
As Rosalind lowered me to the floor, Osmos disappeared into a side door and returned holding an iron cage with gloved hands. He opened its door, plucked the sprite from Aengus’ fist, and stuffed the little creature in the cage.
My feet hit the marble, and Rosalind released her grip. I rushed to the foot of the stairs, dropped to my knees at Drayce’s side, and placed a hand on his cheek. His skin was cool, and he lay with the stillness of death. I placed my fingertips beneath his nostrils. The faintest wisp of warmth caressed my skin, and I sagged with relief. He was still alive.
I turned my gaze to the sprite, who stood in the middle of the cage. “What did you do?” I snarled. “Why did you attack my mate?”
“He has fallen into an enchanted sleep.” The sprite wrapped her arms around her thin chest. “And he will rot, just like my people.”
“I was going to help you.”
She raised her pointed nose in the air. “High faeries don’t care about the likes of us.”
Hopelessness weighed down my heart like an anchor that threatened to hold me under a sea of despair. Drayce and I hadn’t been together twelve hours, and someone was already trying to take him away. I didn’t know anything about breaking curses or sleep enchantments or the workings of this realm.
I turned back to Drayce, whose breaths were so shallow that his chest didn’t move. “You’ll die for this.”
“I’m ready to risk everything for the sake of my village,” replied the sprite.
“Your Majesty,” said Rosalind. “Would you allow me to apply a little torture?”
“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “And make it hurt.”
Osmos bowed low. “King Drayce is in a very vulnerable position without the means to protect himself. Not everyone within the Royal Court wishes our queen to mate with one from the realm of death. Do I have your permission to move him into a secure location?”
“Where?” I frowned.
“Nobody can enter the queen’s chamber except for us,” said Rosalind.
Osmos raised his hands, and Drayce rose four feet into the air. He nodded at me to lead the way, and I strode to the nearest wall. A doorway opened into the queen’s chamber, and the intensity of the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows made me squint. I had thought it magnificent in the morning, but now it was too bright, too stark, as though the sun cast its light on my shortcomings and found me wanting.
Drayce’s bedroom felt like a warm cocoon compared to this, but if this room provided him the best security while we worked out how to heal him, I would endure the harsh light.
We crossed the queen’s vast writing room, where Destry stood by a door on the space’s far-right and dipped into a low curtsey. Like the other chamber, this was also drenched in light with gold moldings on the walls that curled and glinted in the sun.
In the middle of the room stood a four-poster bed that looked like it had been carved out of tusks. Heavy, white drapes covered its interior, providing the only shade.
Osmos floated Drayce through the curtains and settled him onto the bed. I crossed the pale wood floors that yielded underfoot and settled beside him on the soft mattress.
As Osmos removed Drayce’s boots, I placed a hand on Drayce’s bare chest. “What has happened to you?”
A tiny bead of crimson blood rose from his breastbone.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Osmos stood over me and tilted his head to the side. “It must be where the sprite attacked him.” He held out a hand, curled his finger, and raised the droplet of blood. “I still sense no poison.”
I slid my fingers over the smooth skin of Drayce’s chest, waiting for another drop to emerge. “Could you open the curtains and let in the light?”
The drapes parted, revealing Destry on the other side, wringing her hands. While Osmos took her to one side and whispered an explanation, I peered down at the source of the blood. Right on the dip of his chest muscles and in line with his nipples was a tiny pinprick.
“Osmos,” I said without raising my head. “Look at this. I think she left something inside him.”
Osmos returned to the bedside and hovered his palm twelve inches over Drayce’s chest. The iridescent nails on his fingers sparkled in the sunlight as he raised and lowered one finger, then another, and another.
I held my breath, not wanting to interrupt his magic, and stared at the pinprick. Another bead of blood resurfaced, followed by something long and red and glistening. The muscles of my stomach tightened, and I swallowed several times in quick succession. What in the name of all that was holy had that sprite done to Drayce?
When something thin and metallic rose from his chest, Osmos floated it between his fingertips.
“A needle?” I whispered.
“I detect no curses or substances on the object.”
Frustration welled through my insides. Drayce was a king, a demigod, the ruler of the Otherworld. How could he fall to a simple needle wielded by a tree sprite?
An idea drifted into my mind like a wraith. “What if by breaking his curse, I triggered something worse?”
“Your Majesty?” Osmos tilted his head to the side.
The entire story spilled from my lips, starting with that terrible Samhain when Queen Melusina cursed Drayce for helping Father to hide from her and the huntsmen. I told him about how Drayce had found Father and me in our cottage, told him about our quest to find the magical objects for Queen Melusina, and ended my story with the cruel way in which I had broken Drayce’s curse.
My throat thickened. “She was vindictive enough to kill his father, seal his powers, and curse him with a bestial appearance. What if she created two layers?”
Osmos shook his head. “King Drayce was not cursed before.”
“And now?” I ask.
He closed his eyes. “Apart from the wound in his chest, I cannot see or sense anything wrong. However, King Drayce appears to have lost his soul.”
“Are you an aon-beannach?” I asked.
He opened his eyes and stared at me for several moments. “How do you know?”
I tried not to look at the six-inch horn protruding from his forehead. “I’ve studied the Book of Brigid since I could read. Do you have healing powers?”
“They are not as strong as my full-blooded kin, but I can detect poisons, ailments, and intentions.” Osmos glanced down at Drayce with sad eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but I don’t know how to awaken him.”
“Destry.” I glanced up at the blonde-haired faerie, who fluttered her transparent wings. Something about her, Osmos, and Rosalind told me I could trust them. At least until I destroyed our mutual enemy. “Could you watch my mate?”
She dipped her head into a nod.
I leaned across the mattress and pressed a kiss on Drayce’s lips. They were still, soft, soulless. As I drew back, I drank in his features, looking for a sign that Drayce was really slumbering beneath those closed lids. There was no movement in those dark, straight lashes, no rise and fall of his chest. I brushed a stray lash off his cheek and trailed my fingertip over the contour of his cheekbone and down to his jaw. The only sign of life was the gentle flutter of his pulse under my fingertips.
With a sigh, I rose from the mattress, wrapped a gloved hand around my iron dagger, and met Osmos’ azure eyes. “Let’s see if the sprite is ready to talk.”
As we backed away from the four-poster bed, Osmos flicked his wrist, and the curtains drew together, casting him in shadow.
We left Drayce alone on my bed and returned to the throne room, which echoed with high-pitched screams. Aengus sat at the bottom of the stairs, resting his chin on his hands. He watched Rosalind who stood a few feet away in front of a marble podium that held the iron cage.
My old hatred for faeries surged through my veins. I crossed the room and stood beside Rosalind. “Is she ready to talk?”
“Not yet, Your Majesty.” Rosalind hissed through her teeth.
“I am,” the sprite squeaked from the cage’s floor. “Please… stop.”
“Speak,” I snapped.
Her tiny shoulders shook with sobs, and she begged me over and over for forgiveness.
I folded my arms across my chest. “If this is a trick—”
“I didn’t mean to hurt King Salamander,” she said through ragged breaths. “The target was supposed to be you.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say.”
“Rosalind.” I turned to my new companion. “I’ll be gone for a few hours. Keep the sprite alive and in agony until my return.”
The sprite raised her head. “It was the Fear Dorcha!”
My gaze dropped to the iron cage. “What did you say?”
The sprite fell to her side, her little chest heaving with rapid breaths. “He said he would break the curse on the tree if I put you to sleep with the needle.”
I turned to Rosalind and Osmos, who shook their heads, so I turned back to the sprite. “Who is this person?”
“Please.” She tried to pull herself up but collapsed back onto the floor of her cage. “Nobody has seen his face. Nobody can break his curses. He poisoned our oak and put my people to sleep. I failed my mission, and now we will all die.”
I waited for the sprite to say something else, but she fell into shuddering sobs.
Rosalind turned to me with her brow raised in a silent question, and I shook my head. If she came to the palace to put me under a sleeping curse, it was probably because she had no other way to save the other sprites.
Anxiety quickened through my insides, and I glanced around the empty throne room, looking for signs of this unknown enemy. Sunlight streamed in through the arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing through the air. The room seemed so huge, so empty, so cold that it tightened the skin on my arms to gooseflesh.
Aengus rose from the steps and smoothed down his white tunic. “I knew the Fear Dorcha and his brothers.”
“What?” I whispered.
“They were one of the few who managed to escape the nothingness.” He threaded his fingers through his golden curls.
I frowned. “What does he want?”
Aengus rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s likely allied to whoever helped him escape.”
“Melusina,” I growled.
“What shall we do about the oak sprite?” asked Rosalind.
I glared at the little creature, who pulled herself up from the bottom of the cage and stared at me through wide, green eyes. Her lips trembled and she whispered plea after plea for mercy. Fury simmered in my gut. How dare she attack us without provocation and then expect forgiveness?
“Where’s your oak tree?” I asked.
“At the edge of the Summer Court, Your Majesty,” she said through whimpering sobs.
My brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you just ask us for help?”
The oak sprite lowered her onion-shaped head.
“Your Majesty?” Osmos asked. “Perhaps we will have better luck if we asked a seer to look into King Drayce’s curse. A powerful one works in the palace kitchens.”
Chapter 5
Osmos and I walked in silence through a downward slope that led to a pantry four times the size of our house in Calafort, where wooden shelves laden with loaves and jars of preserves stretched across the high walls. A metal chandelier hung from the ceiling, holding six candles with foot-long flames that flickered and danced in the draft.
Barrels stood proudly among sacks of grain on its flagstone floors along with tables overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruit. There was more food here than in an entire human village, making me wonder how many people lived in this palace.
A tall creature with a chin as long and as pointed as his carrot-shaped nose stared at us through eyes that resembled pale egg yolks. His wizened face split into a grin that stretched to the furthest corners of his eyes, revealing teeth filed into sharp points.
Gruagach.
According to the Book of Brigid, they were benevolent creatures who inhabit human homes and bring health and prosperity to the families they favor. They were invisible to humans, capable of changing their sizes, and carried out their duties at night. In return, they expect a single bowl of cream.
I thought about a conversation Drayce and I once had about making unfair bargains with faeries. These creatures provided a lot for so little, but when offended, they can bring misfortune to a family for generations and survive on their misery.
The gruagach wore a smock made of sackcloth that he belted around the middle with a rope. As soon as our gazes met, the thick brows over his eyes rose, and he swept himself into a low bow.
“Your Majesty, what brings you to these humble kitchens?” he asked.
“We need to speak to looking Nessa,” said Osmos.
Behind him, the door swung open, revealing a kitchen even larger than the pantry, consisting of plaster-covered walls that curved up into a vaulted ceiling. A room-full of gruagach wearing white tunics paused in their duties, each one of the creatures’ heads turned toward us.
The gruagach who spoke to me first wrung his long-fingered hands. “Did the breakfast we made displease you?”
Osmos cleared his throat. “Her Majesty merely wishes her to scry for a lost soul.”
The tension in the air eased, and the gruagach turned back to their work, chopping vegetables at long tables, turning spits at the huge furnaces arranged along one of the walls.
“Nessa works at the fruit table.” The gruagach swept his arm toward the open door.
The door behind him swung open, revealing a kitchen consisting of plaster-covered walls that curved up into a vaulted ceiling. A room-full of gruagach wearing white tunics paused in their duties, each one of the creatures’ heads turned toward us.
Osmos and I entered the kitchen’s moist warmth, our footsteps echoing across its vast interior. Light-footed gruagach of varying sizes scurried in and out of wooden doors, to and from the long preparation tables, preparing ingredients with metallic instruments that glinted in the light of the stoves.
To our left, a six-inch female with straw-like hair marched along the center of a table shouting orders to a quartet of tall gruagach who looked carved out of twigs.
The scent of onions frying in butter hung in the air along with the mouth-watering aroma of roasted meat. We walked down the side of the room furthest from the spits, where arched windows provided dim illumination compared to the sun-drenched bedroom where I left Drayce.
At the back of the kitchen, another six-inch guagach stood on an upturned teacup, firing instructions to a pair of identical males whose mouse ears twitched as they arranged sliced fruit on a large tart.
“This must be her.” Osmos pointed his horn toward the smaller guagach.
I strode over to the table. “Nessa?”
An elderly female with mouse ears protruding from smoke-colored hair stared up at me through mismatched eyes. The left shone like a tiny amethyst, while the right was as clouded as milk. Deep lines stretched from her potato-shaped nose to a mouth that was as broad as a frog’s.
“Your Majesty.” She held the sides of her white smock as she curtseyed. “How may I assist?”
“I heard that you’re a powerful seer.” I tried to keep the tremble out of my voice. “We need to find a lost soul.”
Nessa wiped her hands on the front of her smock. “Do you have an object t
hat belongs to the person?”
I turned to Osmos, who floated a bead of blood in his outstretched palm.
“Is that enough?” I asked. “Or do you need something larger like a lock of his hair?”
Her eyes fixed on the glistening blood. “With one drop, I can locate its owner, but only if he wishes to be found.”
Some of the tightness in my chest loosened. I gave the gruagach a sharp nod, and she jumped down from the upturned cup and landed on the table’s wooden surface.
She stepped on the palm Osmos placed on the table and directed him past a group of gruagach peeling the layers from green onions with knives as thin as parchment. The vegetables reminded me of the oak sprite, who was probably still in pain from the torture.
Sizzles and hisses and sloshes of cooking filled the air as we passed a seven-foot-tall gruagach who stirred a bubbling cauldron of stew with a long, wooden paddle. I tore my gaze away from the sight and sighed.
The old me would have killed the sprite, not bothering to keep her alive for a fresh round of torment, but my heart had hardened since inhaling the Queen of the Banshees. I had absorbed her power, her sadism, her thirst for vengeance, but retained a human conscience that gnawed at me for following my fae instincts.
Osmos pushed open a door of horizontal planks held together by wooden cross-braces that led to a cupboard. The mingled scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves filled my nostrils. It reminded me of barmbrack, a fruit bread we used to serve on Samhain.
Pushing aside the pang of nostalgia for Father, I followed Osmos and Nessa inside a space that was no larger than six-by-six feet. A wall lantern flared to life, illuminating wooden bowls, each shimmering with liquid.
My gaze caught a black-framed mirror. “What’s that?”
“A seeing-glass.” Nessa jumped down onto the shelf and walked to a shallow bowl filled with a clear, dark liquid too thick to be water and with too many ripples to be a syrup.
She held onto its wooden rim and closed her eyes. With a deep breath, she raised her shoulders, pursed her lips, and stretched out long, spindly fingers. “Place the tribute on the pool.”
Mate of the Fae King (Dark Faerie Court Book 2) Page 4
