Promise of Darkness

by Bec McMaster

  “Of course not.” I bow my head, but my mind is reeling. “I spoke from surprise. I would never…. I can’t believe she….”

  But the shock is wearing off. When I think of what Thiago’s told me of our past, I can paint my mother into those memories only too well. I know her heart. I know her soul. Betrayed by her daughter? With her enemy gaining the upper hand upon her? Of course, she’d do it.

  She wouldn’t even flinch.

  “How did my mother learn this sort of curse magic?”

  They quiver and sway.

  “You asked for answers three, and we have given them,” one of the Morai says slyly.

  “I believe I asked two questions,” I say carefully. “The first was a statement of fact. Not a question. I said, ‘I need to know if it can be broken.’ You volunteered the answers.”

  There’s a collective hiss.

  “It’s a tricksy little beast,” says the Shadowbinder. “It had best mind its tongue, that we don’t find it delicious to eat.”

  “How did my mother learn this sort of curse magic?” I repeat.

  “She was taught by a master.”

  “She was taught by a monster.”

  “She was taught by a sorcerer who is owned by the Horned One.”

  Isem. Angharad’s pet sorcerer.

  Of all the truths I’ve learned today, this one is the most shocking. My breath catches. My mother’s working with the Unseelie. While I might imagine her casting the curse, this…. This is beyond betrayal. If anyone were to discover proof of her actions, she’d be overthrown. Not even her alliances with the Queen of Aska and the Queen of Ravenal would protect her. Even they would not tolerate this.

  I must have driven her mad.

  “It has the truth now, sisters,” the Threadweaver whispers, turning her blindfolded eyes upon me. “Now what will it do with it?”

  Kill my mother, and I’ll have an end to this wretched curse.

  Or find someone more powerful than she to overturn it.

  But who has that sort of power?

  I’m not lying when I say my mother is one of the most powerful fae in the Seelie Alliance. Queens are tied to the land and wield its power.

  Thiago might be strong enough, but he’s not a spell worker. Nor are any of the other queens. Armed with both the land’s power and Isem’s sorcery and cursework, my mother would be well-nigh invincible.

  The Shadowbinder touches one last droplet of blood to her lips, and then gasps.

  “What’s wrong, sister?” The Dreamweaver demands. “What has it done?”

  “It is not what it has done, but what it will do,” she hisses.

  I stare between them. “What will I do?”

  The Shadowbinder inches closer, her stark eyes hungry. “You will break the world, leanabh an dàn .”

  Leanabh an dàn .

  My heart freefalls into my feet. There had been a suspicion, earned the day we drove Angharad back at Mistmere, but I’d never yet let myself entertain the possibility. I couldn’t.

  And I don’t have the time to contemplate it now.

  My hand goes to my sword. As far as prophecies go, it’s a wretched one.

  “You will unleash chaos and ruin upon your people.”

  “You will bring about the end of Unseelie.”

  “What shall we do, sisters three?” whispers the Dreamweaver.

  The Threadbinder edges closer to me. “Kill it and save the world.”

  “Eat it all up and forestall ruin,” says the Shadowbinder.

  “Bury its bones,” the Dreamweaver whispers, “and never let them see the light of day.”

  I wave the torch, backing toward the caves. “Stay where you are. I paid the price.”

  “But you never bargained for safe passage out of here,” says the Dreamweaver with a leer as she lunges toward me.

  I whip my flames into a protective circle with my magic, sweat dripping down my face. The Morai shriek and scuttle backwards, but I don’t have the strength—or the skill, to fan my flames.

  Instantly, their faces turn, all three of them focusing on something behind me.

  A torch bobs in the darkness as if someone is running toward us.

  Something’s wrong. The only reason Thiago would have sent someone to fetch me is if we’re under attack.

  The three Morai sniff the air.

  “Ah,” says the Shadowspinner, grinning through her bloodred lips. “The Bastard. We warned him what would happen if he ever returned.”

  “We’d suck the meat from his bones and drink his marrow,” another hisses.

  “And unleash the burden he bears.”

  They scurry toward the torchbearer.

  “Thiago!” I yell, trying to smother my flame circle.

  It wanes, but doesn’t smolder. Curse it. I leap over the flames and bolt after the Morai, drawing my sword as I run.

  The Morai clamber over the walls of the tunnel, one of them scuttling along the roof.

  I shout a warning, but there’s no way I’ll be able to reach him in time.

  Then I realize the newcomer’s too short to be my husband.

  Eris sprints toward me, her eyes black in the darkness of the tunnel. She spots the first Morai and launches herself at the wall. Springing off it with one boot, she slashes her sword through the carapace of the one on the roof.

  Cold, black ichor splashes across the walls and my face, and then the Morai screams and falls to the floor.

  “Go! I’ll cover you!” Eris lunges forward with her blade, and for a second her shadow on the wall looms large, monstrous teeth gaping.

  The Shadowspinner recoils, clutching at one of her sisters. “It’s her!” she screams. “The Devourer!”

  “Sullied One,” another hisses, and then they’re all drawing back, crouching low as if to try and avoid her attention.

  Sullied One? I shoot her a glance and see a flicker of hurt in her eyes, then Eris realizes I’m watching and her expression smoothes.

  “You can stay and be spider bait if you like,” she snaps, “but we’ve got a hunting party on our trail.”

  “A hunting party?”

  “Thiago thinks it belongs to Blaedwyn. We need to get out of here.”

  I eye the hissing Morai. “Gladly.”

  35

  The woods are still and quiet when we finally escape.

  I don’t dare put my sword away, jumping at every chime of the wind through those hollow bones as we make our way back to where we left the others. I can still hear the furious shriek of the Morai in my ears as Eris poured a trail of brandy across the entirety of the tunnel and I set fire to it.

  All those dried husks and spiderwebs caught fire, and I could smell the stink of burning hair and clothes as we ran.

  The flames will die down eventually, but we may have bought ourselves enough time to escape.

  Eris leads, slipping through the woods with a focus I’ve never seen on her before. Crouching before a thicket of thorns, she gestures for me to join her.

  Below lies the clearing where Thiago said he’d wait.

  It’s empty.

  “Where are they?” I breathe.

  Eris points to a tree, and I catch sight of an arrow embedded in the trunk. The second I see it, my eyes start to make sense of what I’m seeing. Hoofmarks churn the dark loam, and there’s a wink of silver across the clearing, as if someone lost an epaulet.

  My heart drops. “What happened?”

  Eris slips through the treeline, and I follow as she skirts the clearing and finds a trail stomping through the underbrush.

  She slowly straightens, looking furious.

  “Blaedwyn happened. She’s taken them. Nobody else could have countered Thiago and survived. And with that fucking sword at her side, she’s invincible.”

  “What now?”

  Eris turns on me, and for a moment, I swear she’s going to use her sword on me. “Now we discover just how far you’ll go to prove yourself worthy. Thiago instructed me to see you back throug
h the Hallow if things went wrong. I swore an oath to do so, on my obedience to the crown, but technically, as his wife, you are the crown.”

  My eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Do I obey my orders and whisk you back to safety while your husband loses his head?” she asks coolly. “Or does the crown have other orders?”

  “You seem awfully interested in his survival.”

  “Thiago gave me a home when others would have burned me at the stake,” she snaps. “I would die for him. The question is: Would you?”

  I eye the trail leading toward Malagath, the ancient seat of Blaedwyn the Merciless. A sigh escapes me. “How angry do you think he’s going to be?”

  Her shoulders ease as she realizes what I intend. “With me? Furious. With you?” Her eyes light up. “Beyond.”

  “Think positively,” I chide as I start along the trail. “We might all die and never have to look him in the eye again.”

  Eris and I track the hunting party back to Malagath.

  The castle ruins perch on the edge of a cliff like a vulture, hump-necked and crumbling. Vines snake their way toward the keep, forming a dangerous labyrinth. The only safe way in is the main road, which snakes up the hillside, but anyone coming would be seen for miles. Sunset is starting to bleed across the skies, but the fae can see in the dark, and the Unseelie consider themselves at home there.

  I eye the labyrinth.

  There’s got to be a thousand wrong turns in there and numerous dangerous beasties, but what are our options?

  Eris paces, wearing her frustration like a shroud that darkens her face. Of all the people to be stuck with on a rescue mission….

  “I don’t suppose you can fly?” I ask.

  “I don’t suppose you can fight?” she returns.

  My fingers curl into my palms. I’m better with a bow than a sword, but I can hold my own. Any daughter of Adaia must be able to, though Andraste could beat me nine times out of ten. “I’m competent. We need to get closer.”

  The pair of us slip back into the forest, creeping toward the road.

  A slow, steady ringing of bells has been echoing for minutes now, and I don’t know what it means, but hopefully it will mask any sounds we make.

  It might also mask any sounds someone following us might make.

  The thought makes me nervous, but then, I do have someone at my side that the Morai were afraid of.

  “What do you think is happening?” Lights beckon through the trees as we parallel the road, staying a safe distance away from it.

  Eris crouches and watches. The lights bob and flicker. Torches. I think they’re torches. And someone is singing, though the song has a ribald flavor that reminds me of a tavern.

  “Unbelievable,” Eris breathes. “It’s Raven’s Flight.”

  Raven’s Flight is the night the Unseelie—and any Seelie who still worship the old ways—celebrate the Raven King. There are masks and bonfires and feasts. Dancing and fucking and ribaldry.

  We edge closer.

  Our luck couldn’t have been better.

  Yes, there’s hundreds of Unseelie flocking to the castle to celebrate, but on the other hand, there’s hundreds of Unseelie flocking to the castle to celebrate. Two more travelers might be overlooked.

  The trickle of travelers stretches along the road, where they laugh and cavort and threaten each other in loud, leering voices.

  Most of them are masked already, and I realize I’m staring at a basilisk. To see its face is to know death, so they cover them at all times, only revealing them when they intend to kill. Behind it, a trio of fae wearing large black cloaks and polished silver masks keep a respectful distance.

  “I have an idea.”

  Eris follows my gaze. “This is a bad idea.”

  “We need a way in, don’t we? I don’t think relying on your charm and grace is going to cut it.”

  She snorts. “If we get caught, I can’t protect you.”

  “Who said I need protection?”

  “Does a goblin like gold?”

  One of these days…. “If you have a better idea, I’m open to it.”

  Eris and I stare each other down. She finally looks away, the muscle in her jaw flexing. “Fine. Those three.” She points to the masked fae trailing behind the basilisk. “You distract them. I’ll kill them.”

  The ploy works well. Too well.

  We’re inside the castle, and the guards barely glanced at us in our borrowed finery. Something’s going to go wrong. This is too easy.

  Blaedwyn’s the least dangerous of the Unseelie queens, though one should never underestimate her.

  She’s over five hundred years old, and there are tales of her heroics—the ones that cost her soul. Fair Blaedwyn, the Seelie princess who buried the Sword of the Mourning in the Erlking’s chest, vanquishing him into an Otherworld prison. The princess who sacrificed herself in order to ply the ancient relic of power and trap an Old One.

  Wielding the relics comes with a cost.

  The sword warped her and turned her into this… creature.

  Now she’s cruel and vicious and far more powerful than she ever was. The sword still hangs at her hip, and even from here, I can sense its malevolence vibrating through the air. It binds her to Mrog the Warmonger, who is said to bring turbulence and hatred wherever he rides.

  She’s never been defeated whilst she has that sword in her hand.

  The Unseelie of her court howl and rampage through the ballroom in celebration, flinging horns of mead everywhere. They’re the misshapen brethren of the fae, mixed breeds and monsters alike.

  Blaedwyn herself sits on her throne, one leg crossed over the other as she watches her court revel. Her raven hair is braided in myriad little plaits that are all bound together, and raven feathers hang from the end of each plait. Kohl darkens her eyes, making her look like some sort of bird of prey.

  Hanging above her in a gilded cage is Thalia, though there’s no sign of Finn or Thiago. Every now and then, one of their Unseelie captors stabs a spear through the bottom of the cage, cackling as Thalia’s forced to dance to avoid being skewered from below. Though it’s unkind to leave her there, at least she’s alive.

  “Where is he?” I whisper, trying to blend into the vines that snake their way up the walls. I’d know if he was dead, wouldn’t I?

  If we were written in the stars as he claims we were, then I would feel something so monumental as his death. Surely.

  A troll stomps past, casting us a leering smile, and both Eris and I freeze. The club it wields is bound with heavy iron spikes, and its rank scent is strong enough to almost knock me over.

  “I can’t see him,” Eris growls. She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “Though I can smell him.”

  “Through that?” I nearly gag. “How can you smell anything after that great hairy unwashed armpit just strolled by?”

  “With great difficulty,” she says. “He was here, and there was blood, but not enough of it to mean his throat was cut.” Eris hesitates, her gaze sliding toward Blaedwyn. “If she knows she’s captured the Prince of Evernight, then I doubt she’ll kill him. He’s too useful.”

  “The Alliance would never trade them power or lands in exchange for him.”

  “No. But….” There’s something she’s not telling me. “If they can turn him, then it’s possible he might… become their vassal. And Unseelie’s biggest weapon.”

  “Thiago?” My voice rises a little in disbelief. “Working for the Unseelie queens?”

  He’d never cast aside his kingdom, his people.

  He’d never cast me aside, which is what he’d effectively be doing.

  “The Darkness inside him is not from the light courts,” she whispers, and this time I see the desperation in her eyes. “He holds it at bay with great difficulty, but every day is a battle. If he were overwhelmed, then it’s possible it wouldn’t be Thiago left standing, but the creatures inside him. And they would very much like to destroy every last fae that liv
es in the south.”

  I know virtually nothing about the things he calls the Darkness, but I can remember the snarl of their voices and their grasping hands. I can remember every single word they whispered in my ear.

  “They’re powerful, Princess, and whilst they’re trapped inside him, the world is safe. But make no mistake. If even a single one of them gains control of his body, we may as well kiss our lives goodbye. He could walk through the gap in the mountains, walk right into Seelie, and destroy anything they sent his way.”

  A shiver runs through me. “So she won’t kill him, she’ll seek to use him. Can he control his daemons? Or can she break him?”

  Eris looks unhappy. “Both. Neither. I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.”

  I stare around the gathering.

  Perhaps Blaedwyn doesn’t yet know who she holds in her castle, but I’d much prefer she didn’t find out.

  “We need to move. And fast,” I mutter. I glance toward poor Thalia, still swinging in her cage. “If I create a distraction, can you track Thiago down and free him?”

  A hand locks on my arm as I take a step toward the dais. “What do you intend to do?”

  My gaze falls upon Blaedwyn’s sword where it’s propped against her throne. “I’m going to steal that bitch’s sword.”

  36

  The best laid plans are the simplest.

  I slip through the crowd, gaining a layout of the throne room. There are at least three exits, and the one I don’t want to take leads directly into the labyrinth.

  Eris’s argument lingers in my ears. The Sword of Mourning is no simple sword. Its power is immense and tied directly to the Hallows and the ley lines. It alone is the key to opening the Erlking’s prison world, and only a creature with the power to control it can set hand to its hilt.

  The cost of failure is phenomenal.

  Wielding it once cost Blaedwyn her light-blessed soul.

  And as far as Eris knows, I don’t have anywhere near the power to even touch it.

  As far as I know, I don’t have the power to touch it.

  But I guess there’s only one way to discover if I truly am this leanabh an dàn .