by Melissa Marr
“Not directly.”
“He’s a good king.” Irial wasn’t quite pleading, but he would for Niall. The devotion he had for the Gancanagh was one of his greatest weaknesses. She felt another twinge of envy that didn’t show on her face, but that Irial, of course, knew all the same.
“I have no mercy for the Dark King—regardless of which of you it is. That won’t change.”
“I don’t often ask favors of you, Sorch . . . your high-ness”—he bowed his head—“but please don’t support Bananach’s intent. She would destroy my . . . his court. She—”
“Irial?”
He looked up.
“She didn’t ask for that. And even if she had . . . my sister is not meant for ruling. She’d be a force of destruction that I cannot imagine. 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 unorderly.
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 so wanted 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 temptation kneeling in front of her but unwilling to tell him to depart. She felt him remove the cord that bound her hair. Knew without looking that he stood gazing at her with the expression she wished she could just once see on another faery’s face.
“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. He didn’t mock her weakness. He never did.
“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.
Chapter 3
Sorcha sat and re-plaited 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 didn’t even smoke his cigarettes so close to her. For all his shadows, he had a number of qualities that made her nights too often lonely over the years. No one but the Dark King had ever touched her heart so easily.
He was different this time, though, and she didn’t particularly like it. He wasn’t really hers, but he was the closest to hers that she’d ever had. “Is it Niall? Are you back in his good graces?”
“No. I consider myself fortunate that he even speaks to me these days.” He looked so wounded that she reached out and caressed his arm briefly.
“You do fall in love with the least acceptable people,” she said.
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with anyone, even you. I enjoy how you make me feel. There’s a big difference.” The admission made her sad, but falling in love was so very unorderly. It wouldn’t do for the High Queen to get caught up in the melodrama of falling in love.
“You wound me,” he said.
“Not likely.” She gave him a genuine smile before picking up her garments from the floor. She held the pale cloth to her chest and turned her back to him. He moved her braid over her shoulder and fastened the tight bindings.
“I am worried about them both. I am worried about your sister’s machinations . . .” He watched her slip on her skirts while he spoke.
“She 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 exposed in a rare moment of vulnerability—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.
“Niall holds her reins better than I did of late, but . . .” Irial scowled. “She’s growing stronger.”
“And Gabriel?” Sorcha waited, hopeful that the Hounds’ allegiance to the Dark Court was intact.
“He supports Niall.”
“With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer . . .” She 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. In time, 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. “You need to go.”
“If I learn anything . . .”
She nodded.
“I do enjoy seeing you, Sorch”—his arrogance came back, covering the worry—“as much as we both know you enjoy seeing me.”
Then he unlocked the door and left.
Inside, she was filled with amusement and satisfaction . . . and a good dose of worry, but her face showed none of that as she strode out of the room.
She beckoned the nearest guard and said, “Escort him to the door so I know he’s gone from my home.”
Irial was relieved to taste the High Queen’s lighter emotions as he walked down the austere hallway. He’d actually considered speaking when he tasted the waves of regret she felt as he’d watched her dress. There were few faeries he’d count as friends—and fewer still Sorcha would trust—but for all of their opposition, they’d both valued their friendship. She didn’t speak of such things, of course, but he tasted her emotions. Which she knows. It would never be the sort of camaraderie that lead either regent to act in ways contrary to the good of their courts, but it was a valued bond. One that has ended.
He held hope that the new Dark King would one day find himself in Sorcha’s good graces—for both of their sakes. Centuries ago, when Niall had left Irial’s side, the High Queen had taken him in and cared for him. After I allowed him to be broken. Although she didn’t point it out to Niall, she knew then that he’d be the next Dark King one day. She’d refused to admit it when Irial lamented Niall’s refusal to even speak to members of the Dark Court, but her emotions revealed what her words would not.
There were so many machinations, so many secrets, and so little time to share that with the new king. Irial remembered his own early days of kingship, the errors he’d made, and the dizzying pleasure of finding his place. Niall was different, though; he hadn’t wanted to be king. He’d run from it for centuries, and so when Irial decided to bestow kingship upon him, with it came a silent vow of aid. Irial would do all that he could to allow Niall to settle into his role as easily as possible. It seemed a wise vow at the time.
Unfortunately, the inevitability of his dealings behind th
e thrones—of his court, of the High Court, and over the years, behind the Summer Court and Winter Court— weighed on Irial. Revealing the degree of the machinations that Irial had indulged in over the years took time. Going into Niall’s office and dropping the full extent of the job on him was cruelty that remained unnecessary. Eventually, he’d need to tell Niall everything, but in the interim, Irial would do what business he could.
It staves off boredom anyhow.
He stood at the gate to the mortal realm, and for a moment, he let himself wonder how life would’ve been if he’d brought the court home when Beira’s reign became so overpowering. Back then, when Miach died, the thought had occurred to him. It felt like a wise possibility—but it also felt like retreating. The Dark Court thrived on upheaval, so returning to Faerie instead of letting them grow strong while the young Summer King tried to find his missing queen . . . it simply wasn’t logical.
Irial snorted. Logical. Clearly, he’d been too long in her presence.
He pressed his fingers against the veil that divided the two worlds. The material twisted around his hands, holding him for a moment. It had always done so before, recognizing him as its own. The fact that it still did so comforted him. He was no longer Dark King, but in actions, he functioned as if he still retained a share of the mantle. Like a consort. He smiled to himself at the thought of telling Niall that he’d opted to fill the role of Dark Court consort.
Actually . . .
Telling Niall such a thing was sure to set off an entertaining argument. The new Dark King had the infuriating habit of trying to pretend he was merely a seat-warmer holding the court. He clung to his maudlin mourning— as if Keenan hadn’t been likely to betray Niall since the beginning. Inevitable. That was one thing that Irial knew for certain: some truths are inevitable. There are surprises, pleasant and not, but on the whole, faeries were who they were; courts were what they had always been; and centuries passed without too many unforeseen choices—but those who did take surprising routes were fascinating.
Niall was fascinating; Leslie was fascinating; the new Summer Queen had the potential to be fascinating. To one who had the possibility of living for eternity, encountering so many unexpected faeries and mortals was a treat.
“Irial?” Devlin had caught up with him.
The expected could be entertaining as well. “Mmm?”
The High Queen’s brother was never unexpected when he was within the boundaries of Faerie. His activities in the mortal world, however, belied his insistence that he was a creature of order.
Devlin began, “I will be in the mortal world for business. As a courtesy to the current Dark King, I would let you know—”
“I’ll tell him.” Irial paused, tasting Devlin’s emotions even as the High Court assassin repressed them. “Perhaps the court could offer you our hospitalities?”
“Your intercession is kind.” Devlin nodded curtly and turned away. The relief he vehemently suppressed was all the sweeter for the guilt that threaded through it.
“One of these days, you’re going to admit to her that you belong in the shadows,” Irial murmured.
But despite fey hearing, Devlin did not reply. He was a curious one, claiming allegiance to Order even though the shadows in him belied his court affiliation.
Like Niall before. The new Dark King had clung to the frivolity of the Summer Court, denied his pleasure in a good fight or skillful manipulation, for centuries. He was settling in to his rightful court of late, but he hadn’t shaken the judgmental habit that he’d picked up over the years. Should he know of the things Irial handled behind the scenes, it would be worrisome. It wasn’t that any one secret would be particularly traumatic for Niall to learn of, but the sheer number of secrets Irial kept made waiting seem prudent. Niall was at a delicate place in adjusting to the court.
And I am unwilling to tell him things that will make him frown at me.
Ranting was acceptable. A certain amount of violence could be overlooked. It was disgust and disappointment that Irial hoped to avoid.
Chapter 4
After centuries of making the transition, the journey from Faerie to the mortal world still felt jarring. The differently colored landscape, the disconnection 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. Irial marveled at the ways the world 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, an attempt at a lie of sorts to pretend that Niall was unhappy to see him. They were both aware of the fact that, as Dark King, Niall had known where Irial was for several moments prior to this. He’d felt Irial’s emotions, knew them well enough to identify Irial without looking behind him. Irial smiled and let his joy at seeing Niall flare.
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.
“You are fond of the spot when you are pensive.” Rather than bother hiding it, Irial let himself reveal his happiness at that truth. Communicating with Niall was far easier now that Niall could taste all of Irial’s emotions. “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 allow. Their shoulders were brushing, and Irial whispered, “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 more than 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 libr
ary 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.”
“No,” Irial said. “I gave it to the rightful king. Don’t be absurd.”
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.”
