by Jocelyn Fox
Chapter 12
Darkness pressed close around the cloaked figure sliding with quick grace through the shadows. Breath plumed in a frosty cloud from within the hood of the cloak, and spidery veins of ice transformed the stones of the courtyard into a treacherous wintry path. The figure navigated the ice surefootedly, looking almost like a dancer whirling across the flagstones.
Ramel watched from within the concealing blackness of a deep arched doorway on the other side of the courtyard. He kept his thoughts tightly controlled; he could not think her name or let his love wash through him at the sight of her slim form slipping swiftly through the night. Their meeting was clandestine, held in the outer reaches of the claimed Unseelie territory, but even the farthest corners of Mab’s claimed part of the city felt her cold wrath. Winter had descended on the Unseelie portion of the White City, proclaiming their Queen’s rage and despair almost as loudly as Mab’s declarations of treason against one or another of her subjects.
Finally, Molly reached him. He kept the hilt of the newly made Brighbranr covered beneath his palm; the ruby set into the pommel, awake and rolling like a bloody scarlet eye, seemed to give Mab more purchase on his thoughts. Ramel despised the fact that he was suspicious of even his own blood-bound weapon, but he kept his hand on the ruby all the same, feeling a little shiver of displeasure from the blade.
“I was not followed,” she said in a low voice as she reached the doorway. She stood an arm’s length away from him, her body coiled like a spring as she glanced about for another long moment. Then she reached up and pulled back the hood of her cloak.
“Even that is not certain,” said Ramel in a voice thick with the concentration of keeping his thoughts free of her. Meeting clandestinely was so great a danger that he had almost balked, but in the end he couldn’t deny that ignorance of what was happening to Mab was more dangerous to many more than just her. In a way, he was proud of her courage.
It had been terrible, when Mab had plucked the knowledge that Molly had regained her memories from Ramel’s mind. He’d let his guard down, and he still cursed himself for it. The Queen had not been herself for some time, but after the battle at the Dark Keep and the first desparate days of attempting to bring back the Unseelie Princess, Mab had plunged into a deep and unrelenting spiral of seething sorrow and bitterness. Eventually, that sorrow and bitterness had hardened into rage and suspicion. Rage at her inability to cure her sister, and suspicion that even her closest advisors were plotting against her. Queen Mab had planted the seed of what seemed to be a self-fulfilling prophecy as her moods became even more unpredictable and her fury even more terrible. Ramel feared what would happen at the next Winter Solstice, when it came time for all to renew their blood oath to the Queen.
When she had drawn the knowledge from his mind that he had restored Molly’s memories, Mab had summoned him before her throne. He hadn’t had time to send a missive to Molly warning her of the Queen’s knowledge, and he had feared for her more than himself as he strode toward the throne room. The young Vaelanmavar had not been there, but the Vaelanseld had stood by the door.
Mab sat on the throne that her artisans had carved from black stone, her fingers gripping the elaborately engraved finials at the end of the throne’s arms. Ramel had seen in alarm the scores in the stone, each set of four shallow gouges the perfect distance apart to match Mab’s clawed fingers. He could not say for certain, but he had thought that her fingernails shone a little blacker, a little more like the talons of a predator rather than a graceful Sidhe Queen. Mab’s face, too, changed a little more every day, the planes sharper and more angled, her eyes burning with a dark and furious intensity.
Ramel remembered the blazing eyes of the syivhalla in the barracks at the Royal Wood, what seemed like a lifetime ago; and he quickly pushed the comparison from his mind.
“Vaelanbrigh.” Mab’s voice had rung out coldly in the cavernous room.
He had dropped to one knee before her throne and bowed his head slightly.
“I can taste your fear, my Knight,” the Queen had said, the words sliding through the bitterly icy air like snakes, flicking their tongues into his ear.
A shudder ran through him. “Yes, my Queen.”
“Why are you afraid, Vaelanbrigh?” Her voice had remained stony.
He had taken a slow breath, watching a spiral of frost form on the stone before him. His knee ached from the cold. “Because I fear I have displeased you, my Queen, and my greatest desire is only to serve you.”
She had laughed then, a frightening sound that started low and rumbling like the beginnings of an earthquake, rising until her voice summoned the fury of a raging winter storm shrieking around the throne room. Ramel had stoically bent his head against the physical onslaught of her mad laughter. The edge of insanity in his Queen’s voice shook him deeply.
“Serve me?” she had said finally into the echoes of her laughter. “It seems you wish to serve yourself, restoring memories to your half-mortal whore.”
He had dared to glance up at her supplicatingly, his eyes taking in the sight of her beautiful face twisted into an ugly mask of fury, her dark nails biting into the stone of her throne. “My Queen,” he said, “I wish to serve you. I restored the fendhionne’s memories only to test a method that I believe will restore the Crown Princess.”
Nausea turned his stomach as he said the words, even as he suppressed his own disgust at his own cowardice before the fury of the Queen. But if supplication could save Molly’s life, he would abase himself before Mab in any way the Queen desired. He had focused his thoughts on his loyalty, his desire to serve, hoping that Queen Mab would rake her claws through his mind and draw those bits of his consciousness out like a hawk disemboweling a rabbit.
“The fendhionne was not willing,” he continued, “but I forced her.” He had tasted bile at the back of his throat but kept his face carefully earnest. “I wish to serve you, my Queen, and restore your sister to you. I did not wish to harm the Crown Princess, and so I bade the fendhionne be my subject for my experiments.” He had bowed his head again. “I beg your mercy if I displeased you by using the mortal girl.”
Mab had fallen still, her dark eyes fixed on Ramel with cold consideration. “You have succeeded with the fendhionne, and you shall succeed with the Crown Princess.”
Coldness had spread to every part of Ramel’s body at the unspoken threat in Mab’s words. “Yes, my Queen. I hear, and I obey.”
“If I commanded you to kill the fendhionne, as I have no more use for her, would you obey?” Mab had asked the question almost lazily.
He had raised his head and saw the glittering amusement in her gaze. “My Queen,” he had answered steadily. “I am yours to command.” He paused. “The fendhionne, though, might be suffered to live a bit longer, that I may perfect certain other methods on her. The restoration of her memories did scar her mind, but I believe it to be a result of her mortal weakness.” He had spoken carefully.
“So she is mad?” asked Mab, digging one talon into the dark stone.
“At times,” Ramel had allowed. “I wish to study her further so that I may better help the Crown Princess.”
“Study her further,” Mab had repeated mockingly. “I suspect that you do indeed want to study her further, Vaelanbrigh.” She suddenly stood, sweeping down from her throne. She had seized Ramel by the face, her fingers digging painfully into the tender underside of his jaw, one of her sharp nails piercing the skin of his throat. He had held his body carefully still as she wrenched his head up, his gaze downcast in respect.
“Look at me,” she had hissed, the faint scent of carrion washing over him with her breath.
He obeyed, gazing up at her darkly blazing eyes and sharp face, keeping his mind carefully blank.
“Fail, and I will make you wish you were dead, Vaelanbrigh,” she said in a low voice. “Betray me, and you will be dead, along with your mortal whore.”
He had not been able to speak with her hand gripping his face, but i
n his mind he thought clearly, I live only to serve you, Majesty, Queen of Winter and Night, my one true Monarch. My life is yours as is my loyalty.
She had given a low hiss that could have been satisfaction as she released him, sweeping back toward the throne. He had dragged in a few breaths, feeling the cold burn of her phantom touch and the blood sliding down the side of his neck. Then she had settled back onto her throne and dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. He had bowed and walked away; the Vaelanseld did not meet his eyes as he passed him at the door.
Now Molly gave a hiss of her own as she glimpsed the raw burns on his face, the imprint of Mab’s fingers clear in the pattern. One of her hands moved as if to touch him, but she let it fall to her side. His terse missive had cautioned her against any display of affection; he was afraid that feeling her touch would break his control over his thoughts.
“We have little time,” Ramel said in a low voice, “so please don’t waste any on pity.”
“Not pity,” said Molly, “anger.”
Ramel took a breath and nodded. “Anger is good. Anger will help us survive.” He took another breath. Holding his thoughts in alignment while he spoke of a different subject had always been difficult, but he was glad he had practiced the discipline. Perhaps it would save at least her life now. “Mab knows. I told her I had forced you.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that entered his words; he controlled his thoughts at the expense of showing emotion in his voice. “I also told her you are a bit mad and I wished to continue to experiment on you, to better help the Crown Princess.”
“You already tried the restoration on the Crown Princess,” said Molly in a low voice of agony. “It didn’t work.”
“The Queen doesn’t know that yet,” Ramel replied wearily. “She might still kill me, and she might still kill you. But I’m trying. I’m doing my best.”
“I know you are,” said Molly, her words thickening with unshed tears. Then she straightened, drawing back her shoulders, and he had to suppress his sudden pride in her. “Tell me what must be done.”
“You must act a bit mad, and I will have to keep you as a sort of prisoner.” Ramel let the words fall heavily into the bitter cold. He wished briefly that he could apologize, but all his will was focused on the serenity of his thoughts to feed the connection to Mab. Perhaps that was why his next words surprised even him. “If you begin to hate me,” he said, “it might be easier for you when she kills me.”
“I won’t let her,” Molly said immediately, her voice fierce. Her fists clenched by her side. “And I will never hate you.”
He nodded. “I won’t be able to show that…I won’t be able to show any of it.” He couldn’t even speak the words for fear that his thoughts would follow.
“I will always know,” she said in that same fierce voice. “Even if you cannot show it, I will always know that you love me.”
He took a deep breath. Exhaustion pressed down on him, and his face burned from Mab’s touch. “We cannot meet again like this.”
“I know.” Molly gazed at him for a moment and then her face hardened in resolve. “You aren’t alone, Ramel. I won’t leave you, not even if she threatens me. We’ll fight together.” She drew her hood up again. “Come and collect me as your prisoner in the morning. I’ll be sure to act properly mad.”
And with that, Ramel watched her ghost away again across the frost-laden courtyard. The ruby in the hilt of the Brighbranr pulsed sharply, and he drew his hand away, staring at the cut that the sword had bitten deeply into his palm. For a long moment, he watched the pulse of blood from the cut, and then he walked away without even bothering to bind it, heedless of the dark trail of blood dripping onto the icy stone.
Chapter 13
“I still think this is overkill,” muttered Tess, tugging at the hem of the long tunic and wishing for her plain, well-worn shirt and breeches.
“If I can wear this frippery without complaining, then so can you,” said Vell pointedly. One of the Wild Court fighters who had some skill as a tailor had suggested to the Vyldretning, in sly jest, that she wear a gown to the council; and the answering growl had ignited sparks of amusement in the eyes of all in the room.
“Frippery,” repeated Calliea with a chuckle. They all stood in one of the rooms behind the wolf tapestry, not the great room with the hearth, but something more like a dressing room. There was even another scarlet tapestry enchanted to reflect their images as surely as any silver mirror. Tess glanced at it; the scarlet rippled and parted like a curtain, revealing her reflection. She wore an emerald green tunic – thankfully, no one had suggested a gown to her – and a tailored vest of mahogany leather. The vest contained echoes of a corset in its snug design: the top of the vest reached to just below her breasts, and it flared slightly at her hips so that she retained freedom of movement. She had to admit that it was beautiful in its simplicity and it complemented the green of the tunic. As a bonus, she’d discovered that the tailor had added a small hidden sheath under her left arm, so she could wear a slim dagger to draw with her right hand. Her only jewelry was Gwyneth’s pendant, the rubies that had once been her blood catching the light, and Vell had braided her hair as they’d done while traveling. Tess slid the Sword and its scabbard from its bandolier to wear it at her hip. Vell had said that this was not a council of war, and so they would not be wearing armor. But Tess would be damned if she’d leave the Caedbranr in anyone’s hands but her own, especially after it had awakened again. She felt its power sleeping behind her breastbone. Sleeping was better than absent.
Tess caught Vell’s reflection behind her own. For all the muttered protests and growls, the Vyldretning looked magnificent, dressed in velvety black breeches and boots, a high collared scarlet tunic, and a sleeveless surcoat worked with rippling golden runes, fastened at the waist with a wide, braided black belt. Aside from the glistening runes on her surcoat, the only ornaments Vell wore were her plain golden circlet and a woven gold net pinned about the coils of her dark hair at the nape of her neck.
“Are you done ogling us both?” the High Queen asked, pausing in her restless pacing to arch an eyebrow at Tess.
Tess smiled. “You look fantastic.” She raised her own eyebrow. “Has Liam seen you?”
Vell waved a hand. “He will soon enough.” Her golden eyes sharpened. “You know Finnead will be there.”
“I’m not a schoolgirl with a crush,” Tess replied serenely. Though she did feel a faint tug somewhere in her chest, it was nothing like the maelstrom of conflicted feelings that she’d once harbored for the former Unseelie Knight. “Anymore,” she amended with a self deprecating smile. Then she sobered. “How is he?”
“He’s…withdrawn,” replied Vell, showing no surprise at the question. “He acts much more like he did when he was at the Unseelie Court as one of Mab’s Three. Not that I question his loyalty, I would know if he was disloyal without any words.” The High Queen’s golden eyes flashed as she spoke of the invisible bond that allowed her to feel her Three’s innermost thoughts. “He’s just…different.”
Tess tilted her head, considering. “When he drowned in the Darinwel, he was freed from Mab’s control. Making him one of your Three, part of the Wild Court, made him part of something new and young.”
“New and young,” repeated Vell with a chuckle.
“The Crown Princess draws him back toward Mab,” said Tess softly. “Or back toward what he used to be when he was in service to Mab, at least.”
“I think perhaps I’ve been allowing him to spend too much time in the Unseelie camp,” Vell said, a hint of agreement in her voice as she resumed her pacing. “But there’s a fine line between the discipline of a fair ruler and the cruelty of a jealous one.” The sound of a knock echoed through the room, despite the lack of a proper door. “Enter,” Vell called.
“My lady.” Gray bowed. She wore a red tunic, so dark it was almost black, a simple black belt, and black breeches paired with her well-used black boots. She’d set a scarlet feather like a jewe
l in her fair hair, the length of the feather curving against her braids. Her golden beauty remained undiminished by the scars she bore from the battle over the White City. A thin red line traced her jaw from her left ear to her chin, and then trailed down her neck. Only Gray’s Sidhe reflexes had saved her from choking on her own blood, thought Tess. If that cut had been just a bit deeper, Vell would have lost one of her Three. The Sword thrummed a little at her hip, as if to draw her from her morbid thoughts.
“Finnead and Liam?” Vell asked.
“Waiting just outside the door,” replied Gray. A knowing smile touched one side of her perfect cupid’s bow lips. “Awaiting your pleasure, my Queen.”
“My pleasure is not to deal with your sarcasm at this particular moment,” said Vell firmly. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.” She strode past Gray.
Gray bowed slightly to Tess. “Lady Bearer.”
“It’s good to see you, Gray,” said Tess, and to her surprise she actually meant it. There hadn’t been any particular love lost between them in the past, but Tess thought that Gray’s casual indifference toward her had warmed into a wary…something. Friendship was too strong a word. Perhaps it was because Liam was now one of Vell’s Three. But in any case, Gray accepted Tess’s words without qualm.
“And you as well, Lady Bearer,” she replied, falling into step just behind Tess as they made their way toward the invisible door of the room. Tess forced herself not to wince or hesitate, walking through the spot in the wall where Vell had just disappeared ahead of her. A prickling sensation not unlike what she’d felt when passing the Sentinel Stones coursed over her, and then she stood in the hallway.
“Can we ever just have doors?” Tess asked Vell, rubbing her shoulder where the prickling lingered. “Or would that be too ordinary for you to bear?”
Vell merely grinned her wolf-like grin. Liam walked forward to meet them. His tunic was a deep green, not jewel-bright like the color of Tess’s tunic but shadow dark, like the duskiest parts of a forest, and he wore a short axe in his belt. The sight of the axe reminded Tess painfully of Luca. She was fairly certain that the ulfdrengr had given her brother that very weapon.
