Kings: Chaos Book 5.5

by Claire Farrell

  Disconcerted, he stared at the land in view. He had seen that lighthouse before, on a journey from the Fade. The Fade was a terrible place, a purgatory for trapped souls until they lost themselves and became monstrous shades. But Cara had done the unthinkable and rescued him, and on the way home, she had pointed out the human beach she used to visit.

  But she had shown him the lighthouse from the cliff by the Hauntings. That meant he should be able to see the faery realm, too. But there was nothing, and soon, even the lighthouse seemed to recede. He kept watching, and as a cloud shifted, the shadow of the cliffs he sought out momentarily appeared. He squinted, trying his best to focus. The cliffs appeared then disappeared as though flashes of magic revealed the location.

  His heart skittered. For a split second, he saw the cliff clearly, and the flutter of a black cloak above. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and no matter how much longer he watched, he saw no other sign of land. But he was almost certain he had seen something on the edge of the cliff, a figure soon shrouded in mist. Could it be have been Cara?

  Of course not. How could it be? They couldn’t have found the stone of destiny already. Please let them find it, he prayed silently to Brighid, a god he had openly shunned. He prayed to her in moments of desperation on behalf of those he cared for, but never himself. Please let them find the stone. And keep them safe. All of them.

  Chapter Two

  Drake

  He pushed his horse as fast as it would go, travelling through an unwelcome forest to get to his sick wife. If she died, the balance of power shifted unfavourably. All would be lost.

  And a piece of him—a piece he kept well buried—worried for her sake, too. She was his only companion, the only one who understood the pressure of running the Silver Court, the only one as tortured by fear as he. Too many in his court still thought in terms of Seelie versus Unseelie, of pain equalling power. Sorcha had been the one who caused pain in order to give him power. He wasn’t ready to give that up so soon.

  After the joy of not only finding the stone of destiny, but using it to seal the rift in the Fade, being told of Sorcha’s illness was the ultimate anti-climax. What was the point in saving the realm if he was going to lose his kingdom?

  The daoine sídhe, Dymphna, rode behind him, the muscular brunette loyal in her concern. The messenger who had come to fetch him struggled to keep up. She quickly fell behind, her horse already exhausted from her search for her king.

  Drake’s horse skidded on a patch of soiled earth. He could have sworn the land had grown even more blackened since the last time he had passed that way.

  His sole consolation was that he had found the stone. The rift was sealed. His side of the job was done. But did he have a court left? Banshees didn’t fall ill… had Sorcha been poisoned? Attacked? The Silver Court was mysterious and secretive. It was likely his courtiers knew exactly what was wrong with Sorcha but hadn’t allowed the messenger to tell him in front of Cara. Without Drake there, Sorcha obviously hadn’t remained in control.

  The twin castles rose up on the horizon. Two cliffs, two castles, and at one time, two queens. Twin sisters who had hated each other so much that they rarely met and conversed even less. They glared at each other, safe within the shelter of their castles, and waged a pathetic war using the weather as their weapons. Drake had born witness to their cruelty and foolishness during his vengeful search for his own father. Their people had suffered from the siblings’ hatred, the fertile lands had been neglected, and the soil itself had been irrevocably changed.

  Since then, the land had been rapidly eaten by the blight, and the fae had been forced to turn to the human realm to feed themselves. He’d been encouraged to go to great lengths to cover that particular fact when it came to many members of his own court who disdained humans but appreciated the show of deceit.

  When he and Sorcha had made a pact to marry, they had each taken a castle for their own. The Silver Court appeared destined to repeat the same suffering until a bridge had been built between the castles. Slowly, husband and wife had moved everything to the larger of the two castles, but there was still a distance that could never be crossed. He could never love Sorcha. And as it turned out, Cara, the mother of his only child, could never love him. He was cursed in every part of his life, fated to be miserable since the age of six when his faery father had murdered his human mother and taken him home to the realm of the fae.

  As he neared the castle, he and Dymphna were greeted by a groom with fresh horses and water.

  “Saw you coming,” she explained. “Looked like you were in a hurry.”

  “What’s happening?” Drake panted.

  The groom shrugged. “Nobody’s been told anything. The queen is locked in her chambers with some banshees and the daoine sídhe. Nobody else is allowed in. It’s all quiet. The leanan sídhe has been holding court.”

  “Of course she has,” Dymphna said, a deep frown creasing her broad forehead.

  Donella was Cara’s ancestor—and Drake’s natural daughter’s ancestor—who desired power above all else. Her alliance with him gave him much, but he feared for his life because of her, too.

  “It’s good to have our king back,” the groom said, one of the few subjects who were open in their loyalty to Drake. She had once known the terror of serving the Seelie Queen and thought him an improvement.

  “We should hurry,” Dymphna said.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” Drake said. “You must miss your daughter.”

  “With every fibre of my being,” she admitted. “But Eithne is safe under Cara’s care. Scarlet is, too,” she said meaningfully. “When I know that you’re safe, I’ll leave again.”

  “Thank you,” he said gratefully. He meant it. A daoine sídhe favoured by the other courts gave him an advantage. As long as he managed to keep her on his side. If Sorcha died, he lost the banshees. If Donella left, she would take half the court with her, and if Dymphna abandoned him, the rest of the daoine sídhe would likely follow. He had been playing a delicate game since his unlikely coronation—one that had primarily been a case of mistaken identity—and he wasn’t sure when, if ever, that would change.

  On fresh horses, they galloped the rest of the way to the castle. A lone banshee stood by the front doors. Like Sorcha, her banshee sisters were all beautiful but sullen, and he knew they were only loyal to him for the sake of power. They had risen with him. They all had to stay on top to survive.

  “Take me to my wife,” he called out as he dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. “I need to see the queen.”

  The banshee beckoned him to follow.

  “What happened?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see,” she said cryptically.

  Dymphna followed him up stairwells and along corridors, ignoring fae who bowed as they passed, but the banshee made her wait outside Sorcha’s quarters.

  “I’ll be right here,” she told Drake.

  He nodded and followed the banshee into his wife’s quarters. Closed shutters sealed the room from the rest of the world, and the rich tapestries that hung along the walls had dulled in the darkness. Incense burned in every corner, but it couldn’t hide the stuffy smell.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “She wants to tell you,” the banshee said dully.

  She lit a candle and handed it to him. The shadows danced around her face, reminding him she was of Death. His stomach twisted with unease as he took the candle.

  He reluctantly moved to the bed and held the candle over his wife’s form. He gasped in surprise. Sorcha’s cheeks were raised in a rash of spots and pimples. Her eyes were closed, cupped with dark bags. Her lips were dried and cracked. Her hair was greasy, of all things. His normally beautiful wife looked extremely sick, and for the first time, a true flash of concern for something other than a loss of power reached him.

  “Sorcha?” he said softly. “Sorcha, are you all right?”

  He
r eyes fluttered open. Her black eyes were filled with apprehension, but when she recognised him, she smiled. He took a step back, for it was her eyes that reminded him what she had made him lose in exchange for his crown.

  Her face fell, and he forced himself to sit on the bed. “What did they do to you?”

  “Nothing.” She licked her lips. “Let us be alone.”

  “Water!” he shouted. “Get her some fresh water. Now!” His temper flared, the pain blinding him as he shouted at the banshees to get out.

  He turned back to Sorcha when the room had emptied, but his rush of anger hadn’t calmed.

  She touched his cheek. “Red again,” she whispered. “We mustn’t let them see you like this, Drake.”

  He made an effort to shrug off the weight of fealty and calm down, just as she had taught him. He hadn’t imagined the suffocation he would feel as king, the pressure and pain as powerful fae swore fealty to him. His skin seemed to stretch, almost as though the power would explode out of him, but his wife often assured him it was just his mind weakening, that he would grow strong enough to contain it all one day. Sorcha was the one who kept him sane when the darkness threatened to drown him.

  He swallowed hard, pushing the panic to the back of his mind. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed. “It happened. We’re having a child. I’m… I’m giving you an heir.”

  He gasped as though the breath had been knocked out of him. They rarely shared a bed beyond the nights he suffered most, when she comforted him and hid his weaknesses from the court. “Are you… sure?”

  Her expression softened, which was somehow even more bizarre than her appearance. “Yes.”

  “Then what is… this?” He gestured at her skeletal fingers. “They told me you were sick. You look ill, Sorcha.”

  “This is what happens when a banshee is pregnant.” She tried to smile. “Don’t worry. When it’s over, this will end.”

  “The baby is poisoning you?”

  “Something like that. I’m just very tired. I’m sorry. I tried to take care of everything, but I—”

  “It’s over. I’m back. You get rest and whatever else you need.” But fear had taken him. She looked as though she were dying. He wasn’t sure what he needed more: an heir or a queen.

  “Did you do it?” she asked. “Did you use the stone of destiny?”

  He nodded. “We did. It worked. The rift is sealed. The blight will surely end. And Brendan will bring back the First Tree and heal our soil. We’re winning, Sorcha.”

  “He will,” she said firmly. “He’ll find it. He’ll bring it back. We’ll all be saved. You did it. You and Cara. I hated her, but she’s saved us so many times.”

  “Hush. Don’t think about that now. Sleep.”

  “Will you come back?” She sounded scared. “Will you visit me?”

  “Of course.” He tried to smile, and then he got out of that room as quickly as possible.

  ***

  In his own quarters, Drake washed, ate, and then sat on his bed and tried to figure out how he felt. He let a flame flare in his hand, a foolish waste of finite magic, but releasing the power made him feel in control of it, let him focus the pain on something other than himself. Sometimes, it made him feel less alone. This time, it just wasn’t enough.

  He had a child with Cara, a beautiful child full of life whom he couldn’t love because it would put a target on her back. A child with a banshee, on the other hand… He imagined his child growing up as sullen and apathetic as the other banshees and shuddered. How could he have fathered a child of death?

  He pressed his fist against his mouth. Nothing had turned out as he wished. Nothing would ever go his way. He was cursed as a child of Deorad, the son of a depraved monster. The Chaos Court was full of his blood, of half-siblings and other relatives who hid their father’s madness in their veins. Just like Drake. And yet his daughter appeared to be safer there than with him, he who needed a banshee to hide his inherited madness. What would Scarlet inherit?

  I’ve been alone most of my life. He sucked in a breath as the air grew thin.

  I know nothing of being a father. The skin on his fingers burned.

  Cara told me I’d move on with Sorcha. He flexed his fingers.

  She doesn’t care anymore. Pain shot up his arms as he formed his hands into fists.

  She doesn’t love—

  His bedroom door burst open, startling him out of the episode.

  Donella sashayed into the room. “Well, look who it is.” Her eyes gleamed. “I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. You’re back.” She shut the door behind her. “You’ve heard the news, I take it. Your wife is expecting a child.”

  He bristled, his heart racing. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, you know how I am. Always hearing the juiciest gossip first. So you’re having a banshee child.”

  “My heir.” The word felt too big for his mouth.

  “I didn’t think her capable.” She faced him, as smug as always. “You must be so… proud.”

  “Of course,” he bit back.

  Her eyes appeared to darken. “And did you succeed on your mission?”

  “We did. Cara and me both.”

  “Of course she was there. She gets her sticky little fingers into everything.”

  He frowned. “She’s been essential to our plans.”

  She waved a hand. “She’s the one who tore the rift open wide enough to quicken the blight in the first place. I wouldn’t call that essential.”

  “If Cara hadn’t gone into the Fade, you would still be stuck there. But enough about the past. All you need to know now is that the realm is on its way toward being healed.”

  She strode closer to him. “Are you sure?”

  “The rift is sealed. We just need Brendan to return with the First Tree.”

  She waved a hand. “He’s impossible to kill. He’ll show up again, I’m sure. But that doesn’t mean we can’t play our advantages in his absence.”

  “Stop it.” He turned away. Sometimes he hated Brendan, raged against him in Sorcha’s presence, but they were connected. Harming Brendan would sever a piece of himself, too.

  Donella wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against his back. “You could have it all. The entire realm. Don’t you want all of that power?”

  Yes. No matter what he earned, it wasn’t enough. He constantly longed for more—ached for it. With enough power, he wouldn’t need to depend on alliances, wouldn’t require the banshee to teach him anymore. None could touch him. He could control everything. But hadn’t Brendan once thought the same? His soul had been trapped in the Fade instead. Drake could do with learning from Brendan’s mistakes.

  “Enough, Donella,” he said with a sigh, pulling away from her grasp.

  “Come,” she traced her finger across the back of his neck. “Aren’t you lonely after your journey? Perhaps Cara opened her legs for you, but don’t mistake her. She’s just waiting for Brendan to return. She used you to get to him. Everyone knows that.”

  All of the elements under the surface of his skin that he tried so hard to ignore pulled together, forcing him to suck in a breath just to steady himself. His sudden rage was so intense that he saw red spots in his vision.

  He whirled around and faced her. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Dare tell you the truth?” she said coquettishly. “The entire realm talks about how they spend their nights. After all, he’s virile, a champion among men.” Her gaze turned dark. “She’s a mere human. From what I’m told, she’s crawled after him since they met. And then there’s the rumours about the child. She may have your eyes, but wasn’t Brendan in control of your body when she was conceived?”

  He pinched her shoulders and violently shook her. “Never speak of them!”

  Her features creased with pain until he released her.

  He had left finger marks on her beautiful shoulders. “I apologise,” he said gruffly, forcing hims
elf to swallow the blazing fire in his soul.

  Donella’s calculating smile returned as she ran her hand from his throat to his belt. “Don’t you need some comfort?”

  “With you?” he said with a sneer.

  “Why not? You surely know by now that I offer a far more significant alliance than Sorcha or Cara. I have the power and the persuasion, the influence and the allies. I have what it takes to be a queen. Together, we can rule it all, take back what they took from you. They’ll always call Brendan the true king if you don’t stand up to him, and Cara? She stole the Darkside from right under your nose! You haven’t yet recovered from that mistake.”

  He hadn’t. He knew it. His shoulders slumped at the memory. If she had just trusted him…

  “Drake, I can help you make it right. Nobody will rue the day we get rid of a banshee queen, and they’ll all celebrate when I step into her shoes.”

  “You’re stepping very close to the line of treason,” he said sharply, partly because he was tempted by the easy path. But without Sorcha, he would lose all of the threads that kept him sane. Donella would cut them to gain an advantage.

  She slid her dress off her shoulders. “I can look like her if you want. I can wear her face whenever you want. But if you don’t make a move soon, you’ll lose everything I have to offer.”

  As he watched, she glamoured herself. Her face rippled, her hair deepened, even her skin darkened. And then it was Cara’s face staring back at him, Cara barely holding her dress over her breasts.

  “Don’t,” he said pleadingly. “Don’t do that.”

  She moved closer. “It’s all right. Everything will work out.”

  Gods, she even sounded like her. She ran her hands up through his hair and pulled him close for a deep, passionate kiss, even managing to mimic Cara’s aura, that distinctive power that set him at ease whenever he touched her. It was a cruel joke, but his body reacted before he could think. He forgot everything else. He lifted her into his arms, relishing that scent that tortured him whenever she was in the same room. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carried her to the bed, thinking of nothing but the peace he would feel once inside her. He tugged at her dress.