by M. A. Grant
The wave of my power knocks everyone else to the ground.
I push myself up off the floor. Mab’s gaze latches onto Roark and, for a moment, her careful mask shatters.
“Help him,” I demand.
She rushes to us, hands outstretched. Her fingers skate over the split in his cheek. At the contact, she flinches and rears back, cradling her hand to her chest.
“Out,” she orders the room, her command thunderous even over the chaos of her subjects. The room empties around us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She stares at her son, her gaze full of fear and longing and worry, even as she curls her body back from him. “They bound him with iron,” she whispers.
“Yes. I got it off him as quickly as I could. But that’s why we need to do something.” I step toward her, but she retreats, mouth contorting. I stop. “You can’t touch him?”
She holds up her hand and the red blisters marring her pale skin speak the truth better than any words could.
“Shit.” I drop to a knee and lay Roark down.
“I can’t help. But you can heal him,” she says. “Make him stronger.”
The greyish cast of his skin has worsened and his breathing slips between shallow gasps and a horrible dry rattle. The ley line swirls around me, my growing concern feeding its frenzied need to see Roark whole again.
Heat sparks in my veins and I fight down the urge to channel all that raw power into him. He isn’t conscious. He couldn’t shape it this time. It would devour him instead, burn him out until there was nothing left, just like it did the crops, the plants I practiced on, the kidnappers and guard. The ley line can’t heal; it can destroy. Fear deadens my limbs and traps me in place, forcing me to watch the life draining out of Roark because I can’t do anything else.
“Please,” I beg, my voice breaking, “don’t make me do this. I’ll hurt him.”
I wrench my gaze up, even though that effort alone makes me shake and sweat. Mab kneels on the edge of some invisible boundary, her hands planted on the floor, body taut as she stares at Roark, a mirror of my own desperate pose.
“You won’t,” she promises me. “You’d never hurt him. Look at him.”
I do. I can’t tear my gaze away.
“He has always trusted you. He has always fought for you.” Her voice dips lower, rough with emotion. “He has loved you for so long. If you ask, he will come back to you, even from the edge of death itself.”
The ley line hums in the back of my mind, urging me to give it free rein. We’ll find him there. Return him to you. Faith, our dearest one.
My hands shake when I raise them to Roark’s supine figure, resting one on his shoulder, the other above the brutal burn on his wrist. Mab leans in as I settle myself into a kneeling position.
“Give me back my son,” she whispers. “Do that, and I will give you anything you desire.”
The air rushes from my lungs at her promise. Anything. The most impossible gift would be within reach. Even Roark’s freedom.
I lock eyes with her. “Swear it,” I growl. “For the life of your son, swear it.”
“You have my promise, Phineas Smith.”
The binding words shut around us with an echo like thunder and I reach for the ley line as it starts up toward me out of the earth.
We meet halfway. It crackles in my grasp, but it doesn’t fight me. We’re in perfect agreement. I direct its power into Roark and it goes, chasing after whatever part of him has fled while I work to restore the shell.
His injuries are worse than I realized and the ley line keens as the full extent of the damage is revealed to us. His shirt was sliced to ribbons, granting better access for the iron to touch his skin. They did the same to his pants. Nearly his whole body is marked with the burns. The deepest are over his wrists and ankles where the skin around the edges is blackened.
The ley line gives of itself in a continuous stream, bolstering Roark while I tease away threads and begin to work on the most critical of his injuries. I start with the bruises continuing to blossom in his organs. As those heal, I move to the broken bones. They’re so fragile, like the broken stalks of plants after the weight of an early snowfall. I tack the power to the bone and use it to knit the breaks together. Every millimeter the broken edges move closer, the more the ley line calls its approval. I reset each break and wrap it with more energy, willing it to bind back together, even when my eyes sting from the sweat dripping into them. The cuts close as his flesh stretches and grows and fills those voids.
The burns take the longest. By now I can sense the iron. It hangs in his skin, works its way deeper, blackening everything it touches. The ley line pulses and I spread more of its magick through his body, sliding it into his muscles to work like armor plates beneath the flesh, stopping the iron’s toxic leaching. When that cancerous spread doesn’t move deeper, I breathe and prepare for the final task. The iron must be removed from the sites of the burns.
I start with his wrists and ankles, the marks that make my stomach churn. The oozing, gaping wounds still seem to give off supernatural heat. I weave the slenderest threads of magick into his raw skin. Tiny, delicate stitches of power hold the weakened flesh together, scorching away the remnants of the metallic poison. When those new bands of energy endure and shine beneath his skin, I return to the smaller burns, the crisscrossing pattern of links over the rest of his body.
I don’t know how long it takes before they, too, are purged. By the time I lift my hands from his body, Roark glows. I’ve painted him with liquid starshine and it blazes over him and courses through the air. The ley line has woven itself into every inch of his body, suffused him with its potential. I’ve felt this before, the perilous naissance of my power. The last time was on the farm and later had to face the destruction I’d wrought.
Forget, the ley line says. Life goes on.
“I’ll grant you anything,” Mab whispers.
With Roark’s freedom, we’ll be limitless. I focus on that and the ley line understands, croons the thought back to me until there’s nothing else in my brain except hope and faith and the promise of our future together.
I tip my head back and close my eyes. Heal him.
The magick flares and the world echoes its passing. And then it’s gone.
The ley line sinks back down. Once its power leaves me, everything else comes rushing back. Pain and exhaustion and hunger and thirst. I collapse at Roark’s side, even as I hear Mab calling, even as doors open and people yell and run. I collapse into the darkness and smile because under my hand, I feel his arm shift.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Phineas
When I wake and find myself lying on an unfamiliar cot in a darkened room with no illumination but the dying fire in the grate, my first instinct is to reach out the ley line to find Roark. The instant I feel his glamour against my magick, I relax. No matter what’s about to happen, he’s here. He’s alive.
It takes a few minutes to fully wake up. I’m wrapped in a series of blankets and furs I have to fight to escape. I’ve been stripped to my boxers, but that’s of little concern right now.
A few feet away, Roark lies sleeping on a massive bed. I steal to his side, my steps muffled against the thick rugs covering what must be a stone floor. Roark’s chest rises and falls evenly, the slow, gentle breathing of painless sleep. I brush hair off his forehead. His skin’s cooler now, even though the ley line’s energy still shimmers under his skin.
He’s safe. And I’ve earned his freedom.
There’s a soft knock at the door far to my right. It opens on well-oiled hinges and an older hob enters. When she sees me up, she smiles. “I had hoped you would be awake.”
“Hi,” I say, suddenly embarrassed at my lack of clothes. She doesn’t seem as concerned, fortunately. She’s too busy looking back and forth at the minuscule distance separating me and Roark.
“You’ve both been sleeping for quite some time,” she finally says. “Her Majesty has requested you t
o join her for dinner.”
A shudder racks me. Me, alone with Mab. “I couldn’t. I should stay with him.”
The hob tilts her head a little. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, sir.”
“Finny,” I correct. “I’m no royal.” I step away from the bed and hold out my hand.
She stares at it, then sighs and tucks her own delicate hand inside mine before giving a firm shake. “I’m Bridget. Prince Lyne has been my charge since his infancy and I’m quite fond of him and his happiness.”
With that unspoken warning thrown out with the subtly of dynamite, she moves past me and quickly rebuilds the fire. The increased light reveals us to be in one of a series of wide rooms. Bridget scurries about the space, lighting candles and fussing as she sets things back to rights. Clearly, these are Roark’s chambers.
Some of the walls feature ceiling-high bookcases stuffed to the gills with leather-bound tomes. Various art pieces hang about the rooms, including the picture of the farm I gave him, which hangs near his bed. I pretend my heart doesn’t seize at the sight. Tiny shelves scattered throughout the space sparkle with trinkets, as if the man and the bird he shares a form with have a similar affinity for pretty objects. But the most surprising sight is the mixture of sleek technological items alongside the ancient.
A slim laptop sits on the writing desk next to a stack of parchment, an inkwell, and quills. Wireless speakers nestle into alcoves beside a medicine chest filled with dusty, arcane bottles of herbs. A gaming console and television are surrounded by suits of armor on display. Only Roark could find a balance of convenience and tradition throughout his immortality.
“Let me draw you some bath water,” Bridget says as she slips behind a screen, leaving me to gape at my surroundings. “While you soak, I’ll find fresh clothes for you to wear to dinner.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say, but it’s a weak protest. Soaking in hot water sounds like a dream, especially since my entire body feels bruised from everything I’ve been through.
Bridget reappears from behind the screen. “Hurry,” she urges. “Her Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
A short time later, I’m clean and properly dressed in a suit that must have been magicked to fit so well. Bridget checks me one last time before turning me toward the mirror and nodding her approval.
“This will do,” she announces before shooing me toward the door of Roark’s chambers. Before I know it, another servant is leading me to dinner and I’m outside an ornate set of doors guarded by redcaps.
They push the doors open so I can slip inside and the exit closes behind me with a thud. These aren’t Mab’s personal chambers. This room is too large, too empty. The long dining table set in the center of the open space is laden with food, but my attention is completely focused on the queen standing patiently beside her seat.
“You’re awake,” she says. Tonight, her dress is a dark blue with complicated silver embroidery. Her crown is a faint rope of silvery spider’s web. I wonder if she’s trying to lull me into a false sense of ease with her informality.
She lifts her hand, giving a lazy signal that I should sit. I obey, but stay on the edge of my seat just in case. Of course, Mab notices this and gives me a dark smile. She settles herself at the opposite end of the table and unfolds her napkin with a flick of her wrist. The fabric snicks through the air and she settles it in her lap before reaching and serving herself some of the food.
“Please,” she says, “eat.”
“No, thank you.” One of the first things I learned from hanging out with the fae was how dangerous food could be. A single bite of the wrong thing might bind me to the sídhe for a hundred years, steal my memories, make me a slave. The possibilities are endless.
Her smile widens. “I have no intention of killing you,” she informs me. “We are here to discuss your payment for healing my son.”
“Then I’d prefer we get on with that so I can get back to him.”
“Has he woken yet?”
I clench my hands in my lap. “Not yet.”
“That’s not unexpected,” Mab says. “He was severely injured. The fact that he’s alive at all after such iron poisoning is due entirely to you.”
“What if I can’t find him next time?” It’s the worst thing I can imagine, but admitting it to Mab isn’t awkward. I’m sure she’s haunted by the same fear.
“There won’t be a next time.” Her words are cool and flat. “Your recollection gave me an idea of who may have been behind it. If my suspicions are confirmed, I’ll ensure they never pose a threat to my son again.”
“Good.” I know it’s wrong, but I don’t care what she does as long as Roark is kept safe.
My adamant response amuses her. She tilts her head and examines me. “You care for Roark.”
It would be easy enough to admit my feelings, but I don’t want Mab to hear them first. That right is Roark’s, and Roark’s alone. Instead of answering, I pick up my fork and begin playing with the tines.
“Very well,” she says, putting down her utensils. I glance up. She leans back in her chair and rests her chin on her clasped hands. “We may as well get this over with. What do you desire, Phineas Smith?”
“Roark.” The answer requires no thought at all. I put my fork down and wait for her response. This is Mab. I’m not counting on her making this easy.
She doesn’t.
“Impossible,” she informs me, clasping her hands tighter. “I cannot grant you that which you already have through the bonds of love.”
“His freedom, then.”
The cunning gleam in her gaze means the negotiations have begun in earnest. She doesn’t move, but the energy in the room changes. Asking for this is a dangerous game, and I have her full attention.
“His freedom? What do you mean by that?” I open my mouth, but she lifts a single finger in warning and I fall silent. “For the sake of my son, who loves you in a way I cannot understand, I would caution you to choose your words with great care, human,” she murmurs.
It’s a kindness to remind me. One I probably haven’t earned from her. The fae love to play games for information, to trade words and deeds. If you aren’t careful, you could promise away your second child or agree to travel to the sídhe for a few dozen years without realizing it. And fae promises are binding, for them and the mortal they trick.
Or the mortal they make a promise to.
About a farm. A watch. Love.
I’ll win this battle for him.
I take a moment to organize my thoughts. I know what I want to say, but I have to get this right. Once it’s lined up in my head, I take a breath and begin. “I want Roark to have the freedom to put his needs first, if he chooses. His decisions will be made without the influence of your guilt and anger or any other form of manipulation. Any involvement he has in the Court from this point on will be of his own free will. He will not be forced into a role he doesn’t want. He will not be forced to become your Knight.”
I expect fury. I expect cool dismissal. I’m not prepared for the way her entire body sags, as if a massive weight has resettled itself on her shoulders.
“I wish I could grant you that,” she says. “But it’s not so simple.”
“You’re the Queen of Air and Darkness. Tell me how it’s anything but simple for you.”
She drops her gaze first and returns her attention to her meal. I wait while she picks at her food. I’m about to say something when she asks, “Has Roark told you about his brothers?”
I nod, unsure how Roark would feel about the direction the conversation is taking. “He told me a little bit.”
“He mentioned Sláine?”
“Roark said he had defected to the Seelie Court.”
The ley line stirs when her glamour slips, but I’m too struck by the lines of exhaustion around her eyes and mouth to feel afraid. Her vulnerability reminds me of the time I accidentally caught my mother looking over some bills at the kitchen table. The imperfections make M
ab seem more sympathetic. I’m not sure how to guard against that.
She pushes her meal away and focuses on me. “The Courts rely on a system of checks and balances to ensure no one fae is granted the full extent of our magick. Some have tried to gain total control in the past, but have never succeeded.”
I manage to dig up some ancient history from my memory. “Do you mean the first Faerie Civil War? I remember one of our classes talking about it when I was still an undergrad.”
“Indeed. The Seelie Court fell due to their king’s greed and have been kept in check ever since with strict rules established by the Pantheons and enforced by my people. But we, too, are subject to the same expectations. Our Court divides its power between me, my sons, and my Knight, a position that has been unfilled for centuries because we have maintained our status quo. When Sláine abandoned us, he upset our balance of power. Our High Prince was gone. The Seelie threaten us with war. If my people have any hope of surviving, I must find a powerful Knight to fill the void.”
Her smile is a mixture of irritation and amusement. “Sadly, my love-struck son interfered with the greatest candidate I’d found.”
“He was trying to protect me,” I protest, moved to defend Roark even though I’m starting to see how his decision may have been the wrong one.
“And he did. But in doing so, he forced me to search for other options.” She tilts her head. Maybe that’s the faerie equivalent of a shrug. “I had no choice but to grant the role to him. There is no one else powerful enough, no one else I could trust to work in the best interests of the Court, despite his treasonous emotions. The war has begun and there must be a Knight, or my people have no hope of survival. That is why I cannot give you what you ask. That is why he cannot be free.”
There is no doubt I will regret the question I’m about to ask. But everything is starting to click into place and even though the reality of what I’m considering should be fucking terrifying, it’s starting to feel more and more right. “What does the Knight do?”
