Tuathal leaned his back against a column and slid down to sit heavily on the floor. His chest heaved, and he gasped, “I’m sorry for that. Had to get you away.”
Claire blinked, feeling each part of her body with new appreciation; her fingers and toes, her eyebrows, her tongue that seemed too large in her dry mouth. “What is happening?”
“I am spent,” Tuathal breathed. His head lolled backward against the column. “If this is the end, I would say to you—”
A crack like lightning cut off his words. The Unseelie king stepped into the middle of the room, power crackling off him, filling the air with ozone. Claire couldn’t tell whether it was magic or terror that made her hair stand on end.
The throne room behind the Unseelie king had vanished, lost in shadow or perhaps black smoke.
The Unseelie king spoke in a voice like thunder, “Rise, Tuathal, and let me kill you on your feet quickly. Or if you prefer, die sitting down, slowly, ingloriously, and painfully. But die now, you will.”
Tuathal blinked slowly. His eyes were dulled, but there was a flash in them that gave Claire hope, for an instant. Her hope shattered when Tuathal tensed, as if he wanted to rise, and then let out a soft breath and remained on the floor.
The Unseelie king gave a nasty, feral grin, showing his sharpened teeth, and stepped forward.
I have to do something.
The naiad had been reluctant to fight when she didn’t know exactly what she faced. Maybe that was typical of creatures that could live thousands of years… unless they made a mistake. Bluffing seemed to be Claire’s only option.
She stepped in front of Tuathal and said, “You seem to be overlooking me. I’m here now, and I’m in a foul mood. I suggest you leave.”
The Unseelie king’s dull orange eyes flicked over her, hard and cold and leaving her feeling somehow slimy. “You are all that Tuathal has to stand for him now.”
“I am more than enough!”
The Unseelie king laughed softly. “I see a little of what Tuathal saw in you. You are quite striking in your fury, but surely you see the futility of your position, and the humor in this. Don’t you?”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “I’m not amused. I am rather irritated, though.”
“You have no concept of the powers you are dealing with. Your courage is amusing, but I will not be… um… distracted…”
He had paused when Claire, remembering her butterknife, had drawn it from its sheath in her pocket and deliberately licked it. The Seelie court had been nonplussed by her doing so earlier, and she hoped he would be similarly intimidated. To her surprise, her hand did not shake.
Taibhseach’s eyes narrowed, and he studied her.
Giving him time to consider how best to kill her did not seem wise, so she took a step forward, hoping he would back away.
He did not step back, and his amusement disappeared. “An iron blade. You are human. I have killed humans, including some with iron blades.”
I can’t back down. I can’t even show that I’m scared, or he’s won. “Does that include any that have carried the foinse cumhachta? I think not. I’m going to poke this cold iron into you until I find a tender spot, and you’re welcome to prove you have the power to stop me.”
“I can kill you from here, without even coming close. My power staggered Tuathal; you would be killed instantly!”
Yet he did not advance, only tensed his shoulders as if he were imagining ripping her apart.
Claire gasped as she finally understood something; perhaps it was not everything, but it was something. Tuathal had said she would give him power over her. He’d said he could not bring her to Faerie without her permission. He had waited for her to say her wishes out loud before… well, everything. And none of the other creatures had cast a spell on her, despite their physical attacks. She said to herself, wonderingly, “You… you have no power over me!”
The Unseelie king snarled and drew a long bronze knife. “I would bet my skill and speed with a knife against yours, though!”
He’s actually taking me seriously! Claire’s thoughts raced. He’s right. Even with iron, I can’t win a fight against him. He’s hesitating because he’s uncertain. I need to push now, while I have a slim chance. The knife doesn’t really matter… and Seelie don’t really understand lies or bluffing. Does he?
Claire slid the knife back into the sheath in her pocket and stood straighter. “All right. No knife for me then. Let’s do this. Me, unarmed, against you and your knife. Let’s see what tricks we each have up our sleeves.” She smiled slowly and spread her arms, showing her empty hands. “I can take you like this.”
The Unseelie king’s eyes widened. He paused, and then said, “I admit I am impressed by your courage. I think you are being untruthful. But… I see no reason to test you. If I kill you, I win. If you depart, I win just as well, and I gain nothing by killing you. You may go. I will not pursue you, nor attack your people.”
The idea of fleeing was like a siren call, the promise of impossible safety.
From the floor, Tuathal whispered, “His promises are not to be trusted. You are safer facing him here than letting him choose the time and place.”
Claire wondered whether he had figured out that she was bluffing and was intending to help her, or whether he was merely telling her that leaving was not really an option. It made no difference, though.
The Unseelie king smiled more broadly, malice glinting in his eyes. “I think you lie, as humans are known to do. But you are beneath me. I am a king, with all the authority that implies. I have an elite guard and army for a reason. The guard is here to bear witness to my killing Tuathal, but I think I will share a little.” He gestured, and the smoke behind him cleared, revealing some fifty terrifying beasts of various species.
The front row was composed of minotaurs, the largest of which was nearly as tall as Taibhseach himself. It stood upright on hooved feet, with the head and horns of a bull and furred, clawed paws gripping an enormous axe with a head of oighear. The head of the axe alone must have weighed close to one hundred pounds, but the beast handled it as if it were feather light.
The Unseelie king stepped a little to the side and gestured. “You, Bródúil, cleave her.”
The minotaur locked its coal-black eyes on her and roared. It leaped forward, swinging the axe far too fast for her to even flinch backward.
No!
She raised her right arm in a futile, reflexive attempt to block the massive blade.
Time seemed to slow around her.
Light glinted on the oighear blade, sharp as a razor and bright as diamond, as it descended toward her head.
She closed her eyes, willing the blade to stop, but felt the sting of the blade slicing through the skin of her raised arm. A gush of hot liquid splashed her face and shoulder.
But… she was not dead.
She licked the blood from her lips… no, it wasn’t blood. Water? She looked down at her missing arm.
It wasn’t missing. Cut, yes. A clean, deep cut slashed across her forearm. It bled freely, but it wasn’t spurting; it must not have been deep enough to cut an artery.
The haft of the axe lay on the floor, missing the head. She was standing in a small cloud of… steam? And a large puddle of water.
The minotaur staggered away from her; it gave a strangled cry of fear from deep within its throat. White showed around both its dark irises.
Claire looked down at herself again. She appeared to have been drenched in a large bucket of water.
What could…?
She stole a glance at Tuathal, wondering if he had saved her again. But he seemed as startled as anyone.
Wait. The axe cut me. It made contact with my blood, and the oighear blade instantly flashed to warm water. Was it the iron in my blood? No, Tuathal has touched my blood and was not burned. My fingers were bleeding when I touched the oighear manacles and they did not dissolve. But… She glanced at the minotaur again. It, and the rest of the Unseelie, appeared to still b
e frozen in shock. It was something in my blood, anyway. Something happened. Perhaps it will happen again, or at least they’ll believe it when I threaten that it will. Bluff harder!
She looked at her arm. Blood ran down the pale skin to her fingers and dripped to the floor, diluted by the water that drenched her.
Then she looked past the king at the Unseelie guard, meeting their eyes one by one. In a quiet, reasonable voice she said, “I suggest you all flee while you can. Your king would sacrifice you to fight battles he fears to.” The monsters looked at Taibhseach and then glanced at each other. Feet shifted uneasily.
Are they afraid of me? I hope so.
She flung her arms up, as if to scatter a flock of birds, and screamed, “FLEE, I say!”
Blood drops flung from the tips of her fingers and scattered sparsely over them. The minotaur in front scrabbled back away from her, and the others flinched backward. Their fear turned to screaming terror as the drops began to burn into them as if they were made of molten iron.
The room was suddenly, shockingly quiet.
They had fled the same way they had come, leaving the throne room empty but for Taibhseach, Claire, and Tuathal.
Taibhseach looked at Claire uncertainly, his massive fingers gripping the hilt of his knife spasmodically.
Tuathal coughed out a strained laugh. “It’s over, Taibhseach. You can feel both our armies as well as I can. Your guards spent much of their power jumping all the way back to your army and are rushing to the healing tents… those who can still travel on their own, anyway. I feel panic spreading.” He gasped for breath and smiled, his eyes glinting dangerously. “I am sure word of the hero who handles iron with her bare hands, stood off Taibhseach unarmed, and routed his whole personal guard by spewing burning death from her fingertips is spreading like wildfire. Your army is already vanishing. They will be scattered to the winds within minutes. You should leave now, while you can. The war is over, and you have lost.”
Taibhseach shifted, his dull eyes intent on Claire. “I was just thinking that the only thing that would stop the desertion was if I produced her head immediately. I think a bronze knife would do the job quite well.”
Tuathal rose, one hand braced against the wall. “Are you certain of that?” he murmured, his voice laced with menace. You’ll notice she has retrieved her iron weapon, and you’ll be fighting both of us, you know. I’m growing stronger by the minute.”
Taibhseach gave a low grunt. “I still calculate the odds in my favor. She is quite slow, and I think more fragile than she has let on. And you can barely stand.”
Claire gave a snort of derision, but Tuathal’s voice cut through the air before she could think of anything to say. “You should reconsider. My personal guard, who can also tell things have changed, will be here in minutes, closely followed by the rest of my army. Even if you were to defeat us, you would not be unscathed. You would not be able to outrun them.”
“You both would still be dead.”
“As would you. Since you are trying to take the throne, and we are trying to prevent that, that would still be our victory. At this point, you cannot win. The only question is whether you die or not.” Tuathal smiled mirthlessly. “Besides, you should not assume you will kill us. I think we have both been surprised more than once in this meeting. Another time is not out of the question, is it?” He paused. Claire couldn’t tell whether it was to give Taibhseach time to consider the threat, or whether to catch his breath. “Consider,” he continued, “You’ll notice I am again wearing the foinse cumhachta. So, what is that around her neck?”
Claire realized with a start that she seemed to be wearing the necklace she had worn for years. But she had given it back to Tuathal! Hadn’t she?
It seemed warm against her skin, and glowed with a soft yellow light as she looked at it.
She looked up.
Taibhseach was gone.
Claire turned to Tuathal, who fell back against the wall and slid down it, gasping.
“Are you all right?”
Tuathal gave her a sharp-toothed smile. Then his eyelids drifted closed, and his head flopped sideways against the wall as he lost consciousness.
Claire fell to her knees beside him, darkness flickering at the edges of her vision.
The sound of a door at the far end of the throne room announced the arrival of the Seelie army as everything seemed to grow dim.
Chapter 34
“Such courage! You became the hero you wished to be.” The soft words drifted through Claire’s mind, and she smiled, or she intended to smile, at the pride and love thrumming through the words.
She woke, and slept, and woke again.
The air was gold and scented with fuchsia blooms by her bedside.
She slept and woke again.
Silver moonlight slanted across the silk sheets on her bed, and she watched the fabric move as she breathed.
She slept and woke again.
The blue-gold-silver of early morning light filled the room with hope.
She slept and woke again.
Was it the same morning, or a different one?
Claire opened her eyes, feeling like a seed buried for months upon months, finally feeling the warmth of spring on her tender skin.
The room was made of sunlight and gauzy silk, gold sunlight glinting on exquisite gold sconces on the walls. It was spacious, though Claire could barely see the walls from her position nestled into fluffy pillows.
A familiar voice that she could not at first identify said, “Well, that took long enough.”
Faolan’s face hovered over her. He had a bandage around his head and one arm in a sling, and she frowned in confusion, trying to remember how and why he had been injured.
His face looked different than she remembered, and something about it seemed to change as she studied him. There was no obvious change she could identify, but the impression she got by looking at his face was somehow different. His eyes no longer seemed narrowed in suspicion, but narrowed in focus; his tight, twisted mouth seemed pinched with long-held frustration or pain rather than anger.
“You’re awake,” he said. “How do you feel?”
She licked her lips, which were dry and felt oddly distant. Her toes obeyed when she attempted to wiggle them, though they too felt distant and strange. Nothing particularly hurt. “All right, I guess. Not worth much, though.”
He gave a bark of laughter, and the smile lingered on his face.
“You look different when you smile,” she murmured. “Nicer.”
“Most people do,” he countered. Then he sobered. “Tuathal has not yet woken. He gave more of himself than he took from you, and he was, if you recall, in rather worse shape when you began.” He sighed, his eyes flicking away as if he did not want to meet her gaze. “There is nothing we can do for him now. We must wait.”
Something in his voice made the air seem suddenly colder, and Claire whispered, “What do you mean?”
Faolan’s gaze met hers. “He has not woken since your battle with Taibhseach. The two of you vanquished the Unseelie forces.”
She frowned faintly, trying to remember exactly what had happened. “In a dream? Or was that real?”
Faolan shrugged one narrow shoulder. “Dreams and reality are not so disconnected as you humans seem to think. Tuathal’s title The Lord of Dreams is not mere vanity.” His eyes flashed a dark satisfaction. “Was it not through your dreams that he first understood you?”
“But how is he?”
The imp’s expression grew grim. “He is alive. That is all that can be said with any certainty, and that may not last long.”
“I want to see him.”
Faolan’s dark eyebrows rose, and he hesitated, then said, “Perhaps you can do something for him that we have been unable to accomplish.”
He pulled a little cord by the bedside that Claire had not yet noticed, and a moment later two Fae girls entered with deep, graceful bows and a soft murmur of words in a language Claire did not underst
and.
Faolan spoke to them quietly, and after a moment they nodded and began to help Claire from the bed. She felt slightly dizzy at first, but the feeling passed with a few deep breaths.
“Was I hurt?” Claire asked, looking down at herself.
“Not in body,” Faolan said softly. He glanced to the side, then met her eyes. “I hesitate to speak for His Majesty, but given his…” His mouth worked for a moment, “Given his inability to speak on his own behalf at this point, I will venture to speak for him.” Faolan looked down again, his uninjured hand clenched by his side. “Magic is like a three-legged stool. One must have native ability, will, and skill. Most humans utterly lack ability and thus they can do no magic. Those who have some small native ability often do not have sufficient strength of will; humans are flighty creatures, and rare is the man who can focus his entire heart, mind, and body to one purpose for more than an instant or two. Most of those few humans who touch magic, by accident or intent, quickly go mad.
“Everyone born in Faerie has some degree of native ability, but the extent of such ability varies. Skill must be learned; some learn more readily than others. Strength of will is important. The king was weakened by his long imprisonment and the injuries he suffered, both physical and magical, during his torment. His will has always been strong, but with his mind shattered and heart hidden away, he could not rely upon the strength to which he was accustomed. Also, the Unseelie were strengthened by their months of victories, and you may remember that the war had not been going particularly well even before His Majesty was captured.”
Guilt sat like a stone in Claire’s stomach, and she gasped at the weight of it, cold and hard and bitter, spreading through her like poison.
Faolan glanced at her. “Don’t take the entire weight of war upon you. It was brewing for a millennium before you were born, and fought for a decade before you carried the king’s power. There is guilt to be born, but only a little of it is yours.”
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