by Jen McIntosh
‘That’s a technicality,’ Princess Colma hissed. ‘Affiliation to the Houses – entry into the Academy – is a sacred honour. You can’t just go about handing it out to whoever you please.’
Gaelan leaned back in her chair and smiled. ‘Why not? The Darkstorm heir made it happen.’
All eyes swivelled to Prince Andriel.
‘That had nothing to do with my House, and you know it. If you want someone to blame for that fiasco, I suggest you look to the Blackfire,’ he said, pointing at Endellion.
Gaelan snorted. ‘Don’t kid yourself. It was all Alvar’s idea. He might have acted against your wishes, but you did nothing to stop it. And I have to say – she was a wonderful addition to your family. You must be terribly proud of him.’
Thunder rumbled outside as the Darkstorm glared at her. Deservedly so. There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice.
‘You are not helping your case,’ he ground out from between clenched teeth, struggling to rein in his temper. Gaelan winked at him and looked back to the table.
‘It doesn’t matter – this is a formality. There’s nothing any of you can do to stop me enrolling my children at the Academy,’ she said, stretching and leaning back in her chair. The consternation on the various faces around the table was a satisfying sight to behold.
‘They’re too old,’ the Shadowfox breathed. ‘The law is specific. All Aspirants must be enrolled within a year of birth – and we only allowed them that time so children could be weaned before removing them from their mothers.’
‘So make an exception. You’ve done it before. If memory serves, there were so many discrepancies in the records regarding the Swansinger’s time at the Academy you even put her on trial,’ she retorted, gesturing at Emalia. ‘And despite the overwhelming evidence, you have allowed her to reign here unchallenged ever since.’
The Swansinger let out a low hiss. ‘How dare you? I vouched for you – granted you safe passage into this city, offered you and your mutant spawn shelter in my own home – and this is how you repay me? You want to steal my throne from me?’
‘I have little interest in your throne, Emalia,’ Gaelan purred, ‘beside how unfit you are to sit in it.’
‘Enough,’ the Darkstorm rumbled, cutting off Emalia’s outraged snarl. ‘We have digressed somewhat from the subject at hand. The Brightstar and her children must be weary from their journey. Perhaps it would be best if you retired. Go back to your chambers to rest while we deliberate.’
Gaelan’s gaze flickered over the room, as if taking stock of her enemies and her allies, then came to rest on Prince Andriel. Something passed between them, and reluctantly, she inclined her head. She rose, motioning for Suriya and Lucan to follow her, and swept from the room. But she paused on the threshold and looked back.
‘Say whatever you will about their heritage, but remember they are just children. We created those laws to protect the innocent. Such is the burden of our power. Do not let them suffer for our sins.’
And with those words still echoing through the chamber, they slipped through the door and closed it behind them.
The Council deliberations would take hours – perhaps even days – so there was plenty of time to wash, eat and rest. Gaelan showed them to separate bathrooms and laid out fresh clothes for them. When Suriya emerged, clean and warm for the first time in weeks and dressed in garments far too big for her, she found a hot meal waiting for her in the dining room.
The fare was simple but delicious, and she was far too tired to ask where it had come from. Even Lucan didn’t question it. They wolfed down as much as they could stomach while Gaelan sat in silence, brushing her damp hair. She wore a gown of midnight-blue chiffon – far more revealing than anything she’d ever worn before – encrusted with thousands of tiny jewels, glittering like stars at her waist. The circlet upon her head was made of silver filigree and set with diamonds – she looked as if she were crowned in starlight. A Princess of Brightstar indeed.
After they’d eaten their fill, she led them back to the sitting room where she had started a fire. Gesturing for them to take their pick of the chairs positioned around the hearth, she crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of clear, sparkling wine. Suriya picked the chair closest to the flames and nestled herself into the fur blanket laid over the arm.
‘Do you think they’ll let us stay?’ Lucan asked.
Gaelan shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell. Endellion and Anwyn will side with me – and likely, the Darkstorm too. He may not care much for me, but he holds no prejudice against the Graced. Alvar has brought in enough strays over the years that he hardly notices any more. I think Andriel will fight for you to avoid alienating his son, if nothing else.’
‘And the others?’ Lucan pressed. ‘How many will have to side with us?’
‘At least six,’ she said, ‘not including myself. Unless someone abstains. There are only twelve of us on the Council, and the petitioner cannot vote.’
‘Is anyone likely to abstain?’ asked Suriya.
Gaelan shrugged again. ‘The Shadowfox. The Swansinger. Emalia’s never liked me, and Eris is very conservative, but Brer would never forgive them if they voted against me in this. They’ll just keep their heads down and stay out of it.’
‘So you only need two of the others to vote in our favour,’ Suriya extrapolated.
Lucan frowned. ‘How do you figure that?’
‘There’s eleven on the Council, not including Gaelan,’ she explained, ‘so you need six votes to win. But if two abstain, then you only need five. She said that Alvar’s father, Princess Endellion, and Princess Anwyn would vote for us – so we only need two more to win.’
Gaelan smiled and sipped from her glass. ‘The Frostfang will probably vote in our favour. He enjoys causing mischief and upsetting the likes of Colma and Artianna. They’ll go against, as will Vanir and Nuada.’
‘But you think Prince Herne might be swayed,’ Suriya continued. ‘You said he was a child during the Rebellion, when his mother died. That’s why you said those things about children and innocents before we left. You think that appealing to those memories – that sense of helplessness – will influence his decision.’
Gaelan’s eyes twinkled with something akin to pride, and she nodded. Then she heaved a sigh. ‘Go on, get some sleep.’
Lucan nodded, stifling a yawn as he stood.
Suriya didn’t move.
‘What is it?’ he asked her.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on Gaelan. ‘Those things you said in there, about our parents, being chosen as our guardian. Was any of it true?’
Gaelan didn’t flinch, though Suriya could see the question had cut her deeply. But her voice was steady when she answered.
‘Not all of it,’ she admitted. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing of your beginnings. Alvar brought you to me, begged me to keep you safe. He swore you weren’t his but wouldn’t tell me anything else about where you came from. Not that it mattered. Not to me. I gave him my word that I would care for you as if you were my own, and he left.’
‘Why couldn’t he care for us himself?’
Gaelan didn’t so much as blink. ‘That’s not my story to tell. I will keep that promise though. I didn’t have a chance, before we went in there, to ask what you want. But my offer still stands – I know you no longer trust me and that you might never trust me again. I know I’m not your mother, and perhaps you have never loved me as one. But I have loved you as my own since the day I set eyes on you. I offer you my name, with all the protection it brings. I offer you my body, to shield you from all it can – as any mother would. I offer you my heart, though it may mean nothing to either of you. I give you it all freely and ask for nothing in return.’
The words were formal, ritualistic almost – as though they meant far more than she was saying. Suriya glanced up at her brother, but he was still watching Gaelan. There was infinite longing in his moonstone eyes, and Suriya knew that her decision had been made for her. She
could not go against her brother. Not now. Not ever.
She’d rather die.
She’d come close enough crossing the mountains. Pouring every ounce of energy she could spare into him, just as they had with Alvar when he’d tried to reach Renila. It had almost killed her to do it, but she’d die a thousand times over rather than see him come to harm. He was all she had, and she would give anything for him, including her pride.
She nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Alright. I accept your offer.’
Gaelan’s eyes widened in wonder and filled with tears as she looked between them in disbelief. But before she could reach for them, Suriya turned for the door. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced. She didn’t even wait to see if Lucan followed her.
The Shade King never raised his voice. That was what unnerved Erion the most. Even more than his inhuman eyes or his imposing size. Even more than the terrible power that rippled and surged around him. Even more than the knowledge of who he was and what he’d done. It was the calm, cool and detached way he asked questions.
‘What is your name?’
‘Erion.’
‘And how old are you Erion?’
‘Twelve.’
Always the same. Simple questions with simple answers. Where did he come from? How long had he lived there? Did he have any brothers or sisters? What was his mother’s name? But always with the same oppressive weight of the Shade King’s mind hovering over him. Never pushing, never prying. But lingering nearby, a silent yet ominous threat. Then came the more difficult ones.
‘Who is your father?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you find your way into the library?’
‘It told me where to find it.’
‘What are you?’
‘I don’t understand.’
A pause. ‘Who taught you to guard your mind so well?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
And on and on. The King never rebutted Erion’s answers, even on the rare occasion that his dreadful eyes tightened infinitesimally in displeasure. Occasionally, the black-eyed Elf Corrigan would interject – add another question. Too scared to refuse, Erion answered those too. Seren remained silent, standing behind the King with her arms folded and a disapproving look on her face. Only Kieyin stayed with him, offering what little comfort he could with the warmth of his presence at his back. Hours must have passed, and he swayed with exhaustion and horror as his situation pressed down on him.
‘Enough,’ Kieyin interrupted. ‘He’s tired. Let him rest.’
The Shade King cocked his head to the side, considering. Those terrible eyes bored straight into him, staring right down into his soul, and the weight of his presence grew heavier still. Erion’s legs buckled from the force of it. Then it was gone. And the King inclined his head in acquiescence.
‘Very well,’ he purred. ‘But Kieyin … keep him close.’
And with that Erion was led from the room.
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Mazron, is it?’ Keriath asked, eyeing the Shade uneasily.
‘Now, now,’ he chided, ‘let’s not forget our manners. Prince Mazron. I would have greeted you properly, Your Highness, but I’m assured you refute your claim to that title.’
Keriath’s lip curled in distaste, but she didn’t deign to reply as she studied him. He was tall – at least as tall as her brother, though shorter than Kah Faolin – and leaner than either of them, though more muscled than the skeletal Drosta. He was handsome, this Shade. Not enchantingly beautiful, like Taelyr, nor strikingly masculine, like Faolin. But the Unicorn blood in him was obvious. There was something so appealing, so captivating about him. He moved with sinuous grace, like a cat stalking its prey. Slow, deliberate and confident. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were a Shade’s eyes – eerie and pale – but they burned with an intensity that she had never seen before. They danced with fire and rage. He was terrifying and yet unbearably alluring.
She could feel the brush of his mind against her own, quiet probing touches to test her defences. She did her best to shield herself, but she was so weak, and even from that tentative contact, she could tell he was powerful. He smirked as he read the thought and winked in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the Queens.
‘That’s her alright,’ he assured them. ‘I saw her once, before Revalla fell. She was only a child, but those scars are unmistakable. Although there are several more than I remember …’
Ylain and Talize fidgeted, but Pria bristled. ‘We didn’t know. She didn’t tell us.’ Mazron pinned her with a look that was lethal; even Keriath shuddered at the sight of it.
‘I would have thought, Majesties, that after all this time you should at least be able to recognise your sovereign’s heir. If not, then a wanted criminal and enemy of the state,’ he breathed. Had she been any stronger, Keriath would have snorted. Her only crime was existing, and she was an enemy to a state that had butchered its way into existence. Mazron shot her a warning glance over his shoulder, and the talons of his mind scraped against her defences in silent threat. The message was clear. Hold your tongue, or I’ll cut it out.
‘I hope the King will find it in his heart to forgive us for our transgressions,’ Ylain replied, cutting over whatever tart response was rising to Pria’s lips. The pointed irony of her statement was not lost on anyone in the room, for they all knew Mazron had no intention of handing his prize over.
The Shade’s handsome face darkened at the implied threat, but he only offered a twisted smile and said, ‘I’m sure. Now, I will require rooms and a servant or two to see to our needs until we are ready to depart.’ Ylain inclined her head and snapped her fingers.
‘Escort Prince Mazron and his prisoner to the guest chambers,’ she ordered the Darkling that came running. ‘I will select someone suitable and send them up to relieve you, but in the meantime, please ensure that our guests have everything they need.’
The Darkling bowed once to his Queens, and with that Keriath and her new jailer were escorted from the throne room.
The rooms to which they were taken were sumptuous, though that wasn’t surprising. The suite was large, but that wasn’t surprising either. Complete with separate sitting and dining rooms, a library with a writing desk, a dressing room, an obscenely large bedroom – containing an obscenely large bed – and an adjoining bathing room.
The furniture was lavish, the walls coated with rich tapestries. Luxurious carpets littered the polished wooden floors, and the mirror over the mantle sat within a gilded frame. The armchairs were covered with azure velvet, and the crimson bedsheets were made of pure silk. The table was set with chargers and goblets of solid silver, and tapers flickered in matching candlesticks. There was a fire roaring in the hearth, as though the room was in a state of perpetual readiness while it waited for occupants.
After so long in the Core, the sight of such luxury turned Keriath’s stomach. Besides, she knew all too well that every extravagance came at a price. And all of these had been paid for in blood. The blood of her people. She squared her shoulders and turned to face Mazron.
‘Prince Mazron,’ he corrected her, tapping a pointed talon against her shields. Keriath didn’t so much as blink. She couldn’t even summon the energy to swear at him. The Shade tutted in disapproval. ‘I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. I expected more … well, more from someone of your reputation, Keriath.’
Keriath held his gaze. ‘Princess Keriath,’ she corrected. ‘And if you wanted better sport, you should have got here a little sooner.’
His eyes danced as he realised his prey was not entirely broken.
‘If you want niceties, then you will have to claim your birthright. And I don’t think you’re prepared to do that. Not even now. Not even when it might give you the power you need to get through me and escape this place.’ He broke off, considering her. ‘As to getting here sooner, I’m afraid the message
regarding your capture was somewhat delayed. I assure you, I came as fast as I could. I am keen that we get to know each other, Keriath … very keen indeed.’
Her skinned crawled at the implication, but she was excused from replying by a sharp knock at the door. Mazron growled at the interruption and wrenched the door open with a savage yank.
‘What?’ he snarled at the offending Darkling waiting on the other side.
The Darkling handed him an envelope. The seal was broken. ‘A missive from the Princess Zorana arrived for you. The Queens request your presence back in the throne room to discuss its contents.’ Mazron stilled as he studied the broken seal, barely restrained rage creeping through every line of his lithe frame.
‘Who opened this?’ he said, in a voice that promised only violence and death.
The Darkling stuttered, and Keriath felt a swell of pity for him. Mazron, however, offered neither pity nor mercy.
She felt the wave of pressure building and cried out in warning. But there was no defence the Darkling could muster against such an attack. Keriath’s stomach heaved, and she watched in horror, helpless to intervene, as Mazron melted the Darkling’s mind within his skull. And in less than the space of a heartbeat, the Darkling crumpled to a heap on the floor, dead.
‘Wait here,’ Mazron ordered, stepping over the corpse with casual indifference. And with that he left, slamming the door behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock, and then she was alone.
The crushing weight of fear and exhaustion chased the strength from her legs. She sank to the floor, the impact cushioned by the embroidered carpet, and wept.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, curled in a ball in front of the fire while terrified sobs racked her ruined frame. At first, they came in ragged gasps, leaving her unable to catch her breath through the engulfing panic. Then came the tears she feared would never end, streaming down her face like a river in flood. At last, they quietened to an exhausted whimper, and she could not find it in herself to care how pathetic she sounded.
