Dark Court Faery Tales

by Melissa Marr

  “Should I send him back to their world or end his breathing?” Devlin asked her.

  “He was a good mortal; he should be allowed to live awhile longer.” The High Queen moved one of the figures on her game board. “Remind him that if he’s leaving us, he can’t be allowed to see us. You will need to gouge his eyes.”

  “They do dislike that,” Devlin remarked.

  Sorcha tsked. “There are rules. Explain his options; perhaps it will inspire him to learn to temper his emotions so as to stay here.”

  Devlin made a note. “He’s been weeping for days, but I’ll explain it.”

  “What else?”

  “Some of the discarded paintings were left in a warehouse for the mortals to ‘discover.’” Devlin stepped closer and moved a figurine carved in a kneeling position.

  She nodded.

  “I’ve not heard any more of War’s intentions.” Devlin’s expression didn’t alter, but she saw the tension he was restraining. “The Dark Court seems unaware. The Summer Court remains clueless. . . .”

  “And Winter?”

  “The new Winter Queen is not receiving guests. I was refused entrance.” Devlin paused as if the idea of being refused was perplexing to him. He had existed from the beginning of time, so it was somewhere between pleasing and befuddling for him when a faery managed to surprise him. “Her rowan said that I could leave a . . . note.”

  “So we wait.” Sorcha nodded. The newer fey were peculiar; their methods seemed crude to her sometimes, but unlike her brother, she was not amused by it. It simply was. Emotional reaction to it was unnecessary. She lifted another figurine and dropped it to the marble floor, where it shattered into dust and pebbles. “That play hasn’t worked for centuries, Brother.”

  Devlin lifted another piece and replaced it in the same square. “Will you take dinner or will you be in cloister?”

  “I’ll be cloistered.”

  He bowed and left the hall then, leaving Sorcha alone and free to meditate for the evening. She stood and stretched, and then she, too, left the stillness of the hall. Even the minutiae of business must be handled in the same way they always had been—in austere spaces with reasonable answers.

  Only the swish of her skirt disturbed the quiet as Sorcha made her way to the small room where she intended to spend the remainder of the day. It was one of the indoor spaces where she meditated. The gardens were preferable, but tonight she’d opted to forego the openness of such places in favor of the intimacy of a tiny room.

  Her slippers made no sound as she entered the empty chamber, nor did she verbalize the moment of discord she felt when she found the room occupied. “I did not summon you.”

  Irial stretched on one of the plush chairs she’d had brought in from a local shop. “Relax, love.”

  She leveled an unyielding look at the former Dark King. “Faeries of your court aren’t welcome in my presence—”

  “It’s not my court. Not now. I’ve walked away.” He stood as he said it, tense as if he had to restrain himself from approaching her. “Do you ever wish you could walk away, Sorch?”

  Sorcha cringed at his bastardization of her name, at the familiarity in his tone. “I am the High Court. There is no walking away.”

  “Nothing lasts forever. Even you can change.”

  “I do not change, Irial.”

  “I have.” He was barely a pace away from her then, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath on her skin. It was all she could do not to shudder. He might not be the Dark King anymore, but he was still the embodiment of temptation.

  And well aware of it.

  He took the advantage. “Have you missed me? Do you think about the last time we—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “I believe I might’ve forgotten.”

  “Ah-ah-ah, fey don’t lie, darling.”

  She backed away, out of reach. “Leave it alone. The details of the last mistake aren’t even important enough to be clear anymore.”

  “I remember. A half-moon, autumn, the air was too cold to be so”—he followed, letting his gaze linger on her, as if her heavy skirts weren’t in his way—“exposed, but you were. I’m surprised there wasn’t oak imprinted on your skin.”

  “It wasn’t an oak.” She shoved him away. “It was a . . .”

  “Willow,” he murmured at the same time. He looked satisfied, sated, as he walked away.

  “What difference does it make? Even queens make mistakes sometimes.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she hid her smile. She had always enjoyed watching him draw her emotions to the surface, enough so that she’d pretended not to know that the Dark Court fed on those emotions. “None of this explains why you are here, Irial.”

  He lit another of his cigarettes and stood at the open window inhaling the noxious stuff. If she did that, it would pollute her body. Irial—the whole Dark Court—was different in this as well. They took in toxins to no ill effect. For a moment she was envious. He made her feel so many untoward feelings—envy, lust, rage. It was not appropriate for the queen of the Court of Reason to be filled with such things. It was one of the reasons why she’d forbade members of the Dark Court from returning to Faerie. Only the Dark King had consent to approach her.

  But he’s not the king anymore.

  She felt a twinge of regret. She couldn’t justify giving in to his presence now, not logically.

  And logic is the only thing that should matter. Logic. Order.

  Irial kept his back to her while her emotions tumbled out of control. “I want to know why Bananach comes here.”

  “To bring me news.” Sorcha began reasserting her self-control.

  Enough indulging.

  The former Dark King was kind enough to not look at her as she struggled with her emotions. He stared out the window as he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what news?”

  “No. I won’t.” She took her seat again, calm and in control of her emotions.

  “Did it have to do with Niall?” Irial looked at her then. This odd honesty they had shared over the centuries was something she’d miss now that he was no longer the Dark King. No one save her brother and Irial saw this side of her.

  “Not directly.”

  “She is not meant for ruling,” Irial reminded her. “When she took the throne before . . . I wasn’t there, but I heard the stories from Miach.”

  “She is a force of destruction that I would not unleash. I will never support her, Irial. I’ve no quarrel with Niall”—she frowned—“aside from the usual objections to the mere existence of the Dark Court.”

  And Irial smiled at her, as beautiful and deadly as he’d always been. King or not, he was still a force to fear. Like Bananach. Like the Summer Queen’s mortal. Often it was the solitary ones who were the most trouble; the tendency toward independence was not something that sat well with the High Queen. It was un-orderly.

  He was watching her, tasting the edges of her emotions and believing she was unaware of what he was doing. So she gave him the emotion he craved most from her, need. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t make the first move. She counted on him to do that. It absolved her of responsibility for the mistake she intended to make.

  If he were to realize that she knew the Dark Court’s secret, their ability to feed on emotions, she’d lose these rare moments of not being reasonable. That was the prize she purchased with her silence. She kept her faeries out of the Dark Court’s reach, hid them away in seclusion—all for this.

  The Queen of Reason closed her eyes, unable to look at the temptation in front of her, but unwilling to tell him to depart. She felt him remove the cord that bound her hair.

  “You need to say something or give me some clear answer. You know that.” His breath tickled her face, her throat. “You can still call it a horrible mistake later.”

  She opened her eyes to stare directly into his abyss-dark gaze and whispered, “Or now?”

  “Or now,” he agreed.

  “Yes.” The word was barely
from her lips before she wrapped her arms around him and gave up on being reasonable for a few hours.

  Afterward, Sorcha sat and replaited her hair while Irial reclined on the floor next to her. He never provoked her or pointed out the truth of their relationship during these quiet moments.

  He smoked silently until she picked up her garments from the floor. When she held the pale cloth to her chest and turned her back to him, he extinguished his cigarette, moved her braid over her shoulder, and fastened the tight bindings.

  “Bananach always presses for war . . . but things feel different this time,” she admitted.

  Part of politics for them had always been admissions that weren’t public knowledge. During Beira’s reign, Irial had come to her for solace; when he lost Niall, he had come to her for comfort; and when Beira murdered Miach, Irial had come to her—with all his unsettling presence—and together they had mourned the last Summer King. That was the first time she’d opted to indulge in the glorious mistakes they’d shared the past few centuries.

  Today is the last time.

  Sorcha finished dressing as she asked, “And Gabriel? Where does the Hunt stand?”

  “With Niall.”

  “Good. There are factions enough already. With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer . . .” Sorcha let the words fade away, not wanting to speak them into being.

  “Niall strengthens the Dark Court. Had I stayed king . . . Keenan would’ve attacked in time. He’s not going to forgive my binding him. Nine centuries is a long time for rage to fester.” Irial’s regret was obvious even if he didn’t mention it.

  They, and few others, knew the reluctance of his bargain with Beira. Binding Miach’s son wasn’t something the Dark King had wanted to do, but like any good ruler, he made hard choices. That choice had given his court strength. Sorcha, at the time, was grateful that Beira hadn’t set her sights on Faerie. Eventually, she would’ve, but then . . . then, it was Summer’s fall, Dark’s entrapment, and her staying silent.

  “So we wait.” Sorcha reclaimed the calm reserve that was her daily mien. She gestured toward the door. “In the interim, I will send Devlin to greet the new king on my behalf.”

  Irial did not respond to her warning. Instead, he unlocked the door and left.

  Chapter Three

  After centuries of making the transition, Irial still found the journey from Faerie to the mortal world jarring. The differently colored landscape, the disconnection of time, and the hordes of mortals all thrilled and displeased him simultaneously. Faerie was unchanged for all of eternity, but the mortal world seemed to alter in a moment. He marveled at the ways it had evolved in the centuries that stretched behind him, and he wondered what would follow their already remarkable progress. Some faeries found mortals to be little more than vermin, but Irial was enthralled by them. More so since I am no longer a king. Of course, he was more fascinated by the faery he now approached.

  The new Dark King stiffened as Irial came to stand beside him. It was a conscious effort, however: as Dark King, Niall knew where Irial was for several moments prior to this.

  The king glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

  Irial lowered his gaze respectfully. “I am seeking an audience with the Dark King.”

  “How did I you know I was here?” Niall asked.

  “I know you, Niall. I know your habits. This space”—Irial gestured at the small courtyard outside the mortals’ library—“soothes you.”

  Irial smiled as he thought of the year it had been built. He’d been bored, and while he couldn’t create, he could fill the architect’s mind with visions.

  “Columns?” the man repeated.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Irial murmured. “Utterly impractical. Who cares what a place looks like?”

  “Right.”

  Irial continued, “And there were statues, towering nearly naked women; can you imagine?”

  Niall stood staring at the columns that stood on either side of the ornate wooden door to the library. “It always looks familiar.”

  “Indeed.”

  “The building . . . it’s like somewhere I’ve seen before.” Niall prodded, but he kept his attention on the building as he spoke. “Why is that?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Irial demurred.

  Niall glanced his way. “I can taste your emotions, Irial. It’s not a coincidence that I find it familiar, is it?”

  “You know, my King, it’s much easier to get answers when you order people to obey you.” Irial smiled at a young mother with a pair of energetic toddlers. There was something enchanting about the unrestrained enthusiasm of children of any species. He had a fleeting regret that he hadn’t any young to indulge, but such regrets were followed by memories of half-mortal Dark Court offspring who were as easily contained as feral beasts. Beautiful chaotic things, children. He’d loved several of them as if they were his own.

  “Irial.” Niall’s tone was testy now. “Why does the library look familiar?”

  Irial stepped up to stand a bit closer than his king would find comfortable. “Because a very long time ago, you were happy in the courtyard of a building very like this one.”

  Niall tensed.

  Irial continued as if neither of them noticed Niall’s discomfort, “And I was feeling . . . a longing for such moments one day last century when a young architect was staring at his plans. I made a few suggestions to his designs.”

  The Dark King moved to the side. “Is that to impress me?”

  Irial gave him a wry grin. “Well, as it took over a hundred years for you to notice, it obviously didn’t.”

  Niall sighed. “I repeat, what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” Irial walked over to a bench that faced the library and sat down.

  As expected, Niall followed. “Why are you looking for me?”

  “I went to Faerie . . . to see her.” Irial stretched his legs out and watched a few mortals slide around on wheeled boards. It was a curious hobby, but he found their agility fascinating.

  With a nervous bit of hope, Niall joined him on the bench—at as much of a distance as possible, of course. “You went to see Sorcha.”

  “I thought she should know that there was a change in the court’s leadership.”

  “She did know,” Niall snapped. “No one goes there without her consent.”

  “The Dark King can,” Irial corrected.

  “You are not the Dark King.” Niall’s temper flared. “You threw it away.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Irial said. “I gave it to the rightful king.”

  The emotions coursing through Niall were a delicious treat. Irial had to force his eyes to stay open as the flood of worry, fear, anger, shock, outrage, and a tendril of sorrow washed over him. It was best to not mention that he could read all of this. In theory, only the Dark King could read other regents, but for reasons Irial didn’t care to ponder, he had retained that particular trait. Most of his gifts of kingship had vanished: he was vulnerable to any faery who struck him, and he was once again fatally addictive to mortals. The connection to the whole of the court was severed, and the ability to write orders on Gabriel’s flesh was erased. These and most every other kingly trait were solely Niall’s, but the emotional interpretation was unchanged.

  Even as his emotions flickered frantically, Niall spoke very calmly. “If she had wanted to, she could’ve killed you.”

  “True.”

  Several more moments of delicious emotional flux passed before Niall said, “You can’t tell me you’re going to be my advisor, and then get killed. A good advisor advises. He communicates. He doesn’t do idiotic things that can result in infuriating the High Queen.”

  Innocently, Irial asked, “Does he do idiotic things to infuriate the Dark King?”

  “You are far more trouble than you’re wor—” Niall’s words halted as he tried to speak that which neither true nor his true opinion. He scowled and said, “Don’t be an ass, Iri.”
<
br />   “Some things are impossible to order, my king.” Irial grinned. “Would you like me to apologize?”

  “No. I’d like you to do what you said you would—advise me. You can’t do that if you piss off Sorcha enough to get killed or imprisoned or—”

  “I’m here.” Irial reached out, but didn’t touch Niall. “I went to find out why Bananach visits her. The High Queen and I have had an . . . understanding these past centuries.”

  Niall opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Irial continued, “I needed to know that she wouldn’t support her sister in any attempts on your throne. I know chaos is good for the court, but I will not sacrifice you for the court if it is ever in my power. Not again.”

  “A king’s duty is to his court,” Niall reminded him.

  “And that, Gancanagh, is why I am not qualified to be a king,” Irial said gently. “It is not a matter of being tired of my court, or throwing it away, or punishing you, or trapping you, or any of those very diabolical things you would like to believe of me. The court requires a regent who will put its needs first.”

  “And you think I would?” Niall asked.

  “I know you would.” Irial smiled to let Niall know that this was a good thing, but the taste of Niall’s guilt was still heavy. Neither of them commented on what that meant about Niall’s loyalties—or the choices Irial had made in the past. Choices that put Niall second to the court. There was nothing to say that would lessen the ugliness of those choices.

  “If you are my advisor, I will know where you are. I will not need to worry that you are trapped in Faerie or dead by Devlin’s hand because you angered Sorcha,” Niall said with more of a snarl than Irial expected.

  “Yes, my King.” Irial knelt. “Do I take this to mean that my understanding with Sorcha is discontinued as well?”

  Niall dragged his hand over his face. “Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

  “I can ask her permission to visit her in the future . . . or simply remain here. I’m sure I can find other—”

  “Until such time as I say otherwise, you will not enter Faerie,” Niall interrupted. “What else did you learn?”