by May Sage
Caim was stronger. He could have moved out of the way. Instead, he blocked the sword and punched Mael's face with his free hand as payback.
"No? Here to impress a woman, then?" he asked, thinking back to his conversation with Red.
He'd said some of the fighters who'd take part in the competition would be here for that.
Mael laughed. "No, sir. I've set my sights a little higher."
Caim feinted to the left before lowering his sword on the other side; the young man didn't fall for it. The hilt of his sword fell hard on Caim's fingers, making him lose his grip. Then as his eyes widened, Mael pushed his knee against the blade. A small move, barely visible, slowing the weapon's descent, to give Caim an instant to catch it and point it at his chest.
The commoner had won. Fair and square. If he'd let him lose his sword, Caim would have lost.
He hadn't. Mael given him his sword back in a way no one in the stands, except perhaps Red, could have seen.
I've set my sights a little higher.
Mael hadn't come for a lover. He'd joined the tournament to impress Caim.
Caim ignored the bored dwarf who pronounced him winner, keeping his gaze on the man.
Mael shrugged. "I'm better than anyone I've ever fought in the capital, but I don't have the right name, the right parents. If I joined the army, I'd be a foot soldier for the rest of time. I'd rather slit my throat. Or keep working the docks until retirement. I thought, just maybe…"
"Ten o'clock tomorrow, on the dot. You'll present yourself at the keep. We'll need to get you dressed properly. It wouldn't do to have a knight wearing rags."
Mael's eyes widened. "Knight? I mean, I thought you'd say maybe the city guard."
Caim was already walking back toward Red. "If I sent a man who can beat me to the city guard, I'd deserve a sword in the back at the next parade."
Mael grinned.
Red was far less cheerful. "That was reckless. You should have used the iron sword."
Caim shrugged. "You're the one who advised against it."
"Against weaklings. This boy has king's blood."
Caim redirect his attention to Mael. It wasn't impossible. He certainly looked like a high fae.
Many commoners had the blood of the nobles; some even descended from the old king. The fae had remained single through his long life, though he certainly hadn't been celibate.
Mael was a little shorter than Caim, but taller than Red. Caim, in the fashion of the noble Aos Si of old, was slender and lithe, a head above anyone with mortal roots tethering their veins.
Like Caim, Mael had the dark hair of the earth folk while his eyes were fire. Not unlike most of the younger generation of fae—anyone under five hundred years old—Mael was a mixture of so many races it was hard to pinpoint his many origins.
If he had king’s blood, it was obscured by everything else, rendered irrelevant.
"If I don't have the courage to fight a city boy, I've no place on the regent's throne. Now, tell me. How does Cassian fare?”
The tournament was always going to end between Cassian and Caim. Although Mael might have changed that outcome, if he'd cared to.
"Better than you." Red tilted his chin toward a ring west of the one where he'd just fought. "He's just pulverized Frayn. There are ten contenders left. We'll move to the last rounds soon."
Red handed Caim a clear glass. He shook his head. Red might be trustworthy, but there were many among the crowd who would love to see him lose. He'd only drink from closed and sealed bottles until there was a silver crown on his head. And perhaps even after. There were only a few rare potions that could harm him. He wasn't only a pure Aos Si—he was also one of the gentry. And unlike Mael’s, Caim’s origins could all be traced back to the very first generation. With or without a crown, Caim could already draw on the world tree to increase his power. This made him dangerous.
Killing him would be no small feat, but today, a simple slow-down hex would work well enough once he was facing Cassian.
Someone had blown up his uncle along with six other regents. Someone who was staying quiet, not taking credit for it. Caim had half expected that some mad extremist would have claimed the hit. Many commoner guilds spoke out against their system, and from time to time, they took action. This time, no one had come forward.
Which meant that whatever game they played, it wasn't over yet.
Contrary to what many believed, Caim hadn't been behind the assault. And he doubted that whoever was at fault wanted him ruling Silver. Especially if it was Lyr, as he suspected. He didn't intend to make it easy for anyone to get rid of him.
Over a hundred men and women had come to compete, so at first, a dozen fights had happened at once, but once it narrowed to six remaining competitors, they'd fight in the central arena, one pair at a time so all could see the more serious fights leading up to the grand finale.
After winning the second to last fight against a brute of a troll, Caim joined Red on the side of the arena and watched Cassian.
What he saw was alarming. Speed, agility, mastery, and something more. His cousin had improved during his time away from Argentas. He'd been trained with Red and Caim by the head of Theron's armies, Laurdek. Clearly, he'd learned a thing or two since.
Caim had grown in strength in the last few hundred years, but his power didn’t reside in swordplay.
He may lose. He may have to see Cassian take the throne. Cassian, who’d play, and sing, and dance. He’d make no difference. They would continue their journey into the age of nothing.
There was one way to guarantee he won. Magic.
Spells and curses weren’t forbidden during tournaments. Most didn’t resort to magic, as a blade was quicker than a curse, although Caim could cast his hexes fast enough to stop blades.
And do much worse.
He wielded a dark unseelie power. Using it meant killing his opponent mercilessly.
Lose, or gruesomely murder his kin. Caim wondered what choice he’d make, if he had to decide between those two options.
Hopefully, he was overestimating Cassian’s skills as a swordsman—or underrating his own.
Seeing Mael standing to his left, Caim walked away from his friend, advancing toward the young man. His new knight. As long as he won the next fight.
To distract himself, he decided to engage the boy in a conversation. "Why did you come to me? You could have chosen to support Cassian."
Mael shrugged. "I watched you fight separately. I also watched the rest. I saw you talk to the lesser fae who bring up refreshments and clean the field. You're cold. Severe. But you're not dismissive. With him, they don't even exist. I think you'll win the fight. And I know that if he wins, I don't want to work for him anyway."
Caim might have smiled, had his mind not been focused on his cousin as he pivoted midair and slashed his opponent right over the heart, hitting his breastplate.
"Do many men from the docks have eyes quite as observant as yours?"
Mael shrugged. "You'd have to go talk to them to find out, wouldn’t you?"
It was a jab. Caim doubted Theron had ever visited the docks at all. And Caim might not have either, had he not met an intriguing fighter with too many skills.
“I suppose I should.”
He was going to need strong, loyal men at his side, if his enemies had grown in strength as much as Cassian had while his attention had been focused on his one obsession.
Lack of Knowledge
One guard in metallic armor appeared in front of her door shortly after the handsome and terrifying Aos Si had left. He was armed with a long-hafted mace charged with red energy. These people were way too fond of electric shocks. Something she could have used to her advantage on Earth, but here? Mel still couldn't feel actual, normal water. She certainly saw it outside, but the large sea running between the seven circles didn't feel like water at all.
And why should it? She was in space. On another planet. No, not even a planet. An artificial world floating like a moon
around an alien planet. Just because there were large greenish-blue pools of liquid didn't mean they were water at all. She doubted the substance was made of hydrogen and oxygen. Hell, she'd eat her hat if hydrogen and oxygen existed out there.
Which brought her primary concern to the forefront of her mind.
She could breathe here in the ship. Obviously, those people had adapted the environment so that they didn't die upon entry. But what about out there?
The buzzing doors slid open. Mel took in the soldier in front of her. Could she take him? Yes, probably. These people were as strong as she, but not invincible—the fact that she’d killed Coder was telling.
But she doubted he was alone. And even if she got away, then what? She didn't have a spaceship driver’s license. A clear gap in her otherwise accomplished education.
"Forward," the soldier ordered.
"How come you speak English? Is it the intergalactic language?" So, she talked when she was nervous. Someday, it might get her in trouble. Hopefully not today.
She couldn't tell under his full helmet, but she would have sworn the large brute didn't so much as twitch, entirely ignoring her.
"Forward," he repeated.
Mel stepped back. "What are you gonna do if I don't comply, handsome?"
His mace was so fast she almost missed the window to block it before it fell on her face. He twirled it in his hand and hit her head with the other end of the weapon. The blunt metallic haft might not have been designed to harm as much as the heavy head with spikes, but she felt a shock nonetheless. Shit. He was strong. They all were.
As fast as he'd moved, he returned to his post.
"Forward.” The brute’s word came slowly this time. More threatening.
She felt sure there wouldn’t be a fourth warning. Mel advanced. She was going to have to pick her battles with them. This wasn't one she needed to win.
The other prisoners had also been ordered out of their cells.
A quick headcount revealed that there were twenty-seven of them. They were of different ages, sexes, ethnicities, but all were immortal, that much was clear to Mel. People like her had a certain feel, an aura. Humans felt like cute little red foxes, while her kind were wolves.
The youngest was perhaps nine, and the oldest was the man who'd been in the cell next to Mel. Dark-skinned, with sun-kissed hair, he looked young enough, as their kind always did, but there was something in his bright amber eyes that betrayed his age.
Now that she was outside the cell, Mel got to see the entire room. It was strangely, annoyingly splendid. There were long, smooth beams decorated with carvings running along the cavernous walls and ceilings. Even the cells were rather elegant, oval orbs lit up from the inside.
Mel would have preferred ugly, futuristic, modern décor she couldn’t admire, to make her captors seem more different. Other. But they had style and taste. She didn’t know what to make of that.
As she'd guessed, the exit was to her right, a large rounded door made to accommodate something far larger than them.
"In line in the center."
She followed the elder, guessing he’d been the one who’d talked to her earlier. "Psst. What's your name?"
"They call me Throyn. These days."
"Well, Throyn, do you know what this is about?"
She couldn't comprehend what they were doing here, why they’d been brought to this place. Her first guess was slave labor, but it didn't seem to fit. Why would anyone go through the trouble of getting them for that? They could capture humans who wouldn't pose any trouble. Fucking with immortals was riskier.
"March forth." These soldiers were into simple, curt orders. "In silence."
Throyn replied nonetheless. "Nothing good."
Mel tensed as they drew closer to the door. But the first immortals in line didn't collapse as they passed the threshold, so she breathed out. Of course they didn't. Their captors wouldn't have gone through the hassle of taking them all this way just to watch them die right as they entered the atmosphere.
She was dying to understand how the air wasn't harming them, though. Then, deciding that she didn't have much to lose, she asked Throyn. "Any idea why we aren't asphyxiating out there?"
The elder glanced to her. "Genetic conditioning. Darklings were designed to breathe on all the lands the gods colonized."
"Darklings?" she repeated.
"You don't know much, do you?"
She didn't attempt to deny that. Mel had been kept ignorant her entire life.
"Darklings," the elder continued, "is a term for all of the children of the older races—demigods, demon spawns, dark elflings. The exception is the descendants of the gods usually seen as benevolent: the nephilim, Zeus's many children. They don't like to be compared to the rest of us. If there's a drop of infernal blood in their veins, they're darklings. It’s a common term, though not used on Earth much."
"And you're a darkling, then?"
"Everyone here is, as far as I can tell." He shrugged. “I don’t get a clear read on you, but obviously, they did.”
Mel remained silent, frustrated, fuming inside. So, this was about lineage. The one thing she had no knowledge of, no control over. For decades upon decades, over a hundred years, she'd asked and begged to know why she was who she was, what she was. To understand what made her different from the other immortals.
She'd never been given any answers.
And now she'd been kidnapped and dragged to another fucking planet, and she didn't even know why.
When she got back home, she was going to head straight to the muses’ island off the coast of Greece, and kick Callie's ass.
Earth, 196 years ago
* * *
Calliope had a tell. She always angled her body slightly away from the side where she was going to attack to gain momentum. Mel had worked that out at nine years old. By the time she was twelve, her mentor's strength, speed, and centuries of experience were useless. She had the muse on her back each time they sparred, a smirk firmly in place.
"Fine. We're done with fighting. You can practice with the others. Let's move on to magic."
Magic was harder. Callie had started her studies early; most of them developed powers at puberty and Mel hadn't been an exception. Having to study energy, power, before feeling it was a challenge. But by the time the energy around her had started responding to her, Mel had known just how to control it.
At age nineteen, Callie stopped training her entirely.
"That's messed up," Urania had said at the time.
Mel remembered shrugging. "I passed, didn't I?"
"Every other muse studies for a hundred years. Getting you to start work before your bosom is even done growing is unheard of."
She'd been proud of it at the time.
Ten years later, though, Mel was bored. Unchallenged. Disinterested.
Mel had been named after the muse of tragedy who'd died a few decades before her birth. Calliope had seen fit to also bestow her job upon her. And she sucked at it.
She liked the arts as much as the next muse, but finding and inspiring talented humans to push their creativity had to be one of the most frustrating jobs in the world. Humans were talented—occasionally. They were also weird, lazy, and often sleazy.
Still, she'd put up with it, doing what was expected of her for a time.
Until that day.
After failing to inspire yet another goth painter, she'd come back home for the solstice—one of the celebrations their clan liked to gather for.
Mel wasn't sure what had changed, but seeing everyone assembled together, joking, smiling, exchanging stories, she felt her detachment. They were a community. Though she'd been raised right there with them, on a private Greek island, she felt like a stranger. An intruder.
The muses were minor immortals of no consequence. The subtext no one talked about was that they stayed on Earth for their safety. Most of them were bastard children with parents whose legitimate spouse might blast them into oblivion, if they heard o
f them. Although it wasn't a subject anyone broached openly, Mel knew Calliope was a daughter of Zeus. She had lightning at her fingertips and her eyes were a stormy sky. When she wanted to, she could fly on the wind like a graceful, terribly beautiful angel. Around the long rectangular banquet table, there were others like her, blue eyed, with an affinity for the sky.
There were others. The sons and daughters of Poseidon, and some from minor gods no one ever thought about.
What was she? Mel could have believed herself a daughter of the sea, had she not been so very different from the children of Poseidon. But she had little liking or affinity for horses, and saltwater irritated her eyes. Nonetheless, her power was water.
Why was she so very different from the rest of them?
She'd asked Calliope again. The muse knew, of course. Whoever had brought her here at birth had presented her to Callie, and asked that she be given a place among the muses.
And Callie had, yet again, refused to say a word. So, Mel had left for Paris, and in the years that had passed since, she hadn't been back.
Now, she was in the middle of a huge mess because of the one thing she didn’t know about herself.
Damn them all.
Hidden Motives
Caim had felt a lot more confident before his fight with Mael. He'd grown complacent if he could be beaten by a young commoner. It had been long since he'd crossed swords with Cassian. At the time, he'd wiped the floor with his cousin, but now? He wasn't sure he could rival him. The lord of the Mirkra had truly honed his skill.
Which meant he had to have a clear plan, a contingency. The regency mattered little in the end. What he needed was leave to keep up with his research. Perhaps he should talk to Cassian, see that they understood each other.
Unfortunately, Cassian wasn’t one to listen to a meaningful conversation if he could help it.
Damn it to the seven hells, why hadn't Theron named an heir?
Caim stepped forward into the ring. He wanted to believe Cassian would rule well. Justly. But at best, he'd be the same old regent, keeping the circle and the rest of Sidhe in their current state.
