by May Sage
Every now and then, the guards came down to take one of the prisoners upstairs. Most came back. Or rather, were carried back down. She knew she had to get out of there when they took her. Exhausted as she was, she just had to. Because the alternative was dying in this hole.
Mel had never given much thought to the concept of dying. She'd never had any reason to before now. But eventually, all lives ended. Hers would too.
Not now. Not here. She'd accomplished nothing, done very little. If she died here, she felt like she would have failed at living.
The door to her cell slid open. From her folded blanket, she looked up at the smiling figure.
Lessara.
Mel did the one thing she could: she smiled back and greeted the woman like a long-lost friend. "Took you long enough."
"I was busy."
"Kidnapping others?" she asked, her tone conversational.
Lessara nodded. "Yes. Now we have everyone, though. The lords are enjoying themselves upstairs, questioning the prisoners. And I get to play with you."
Something told her she wasn't going to like the game.
Lessara knelt to her level, her face so close she could feel her breath on her forehead. "I want you to know, now, while you're still thinking clearly, that I will enjoy every minute of this."
Mel had expected the Aos Si woman to hit her. Whether it would be with her fists or her magic, she'd anticipated pain. And she'd had every intention of fighting back, hurting her as much as she could.
What came was worse. A soft breeze of air, whispered words that made her feel warm and comfortable. She wanted to give in—no, needed to give in to her influence. It was so inviting, soft. Like loving arms.
No. No. Don't.
She knew she shouldn't listen to the soft voice but it was so beautiful, so enchanting. And all it wanted her to do was give in. Spots gathered before her eyes as the dank cell drifted away and Mel found herself on the Mediterranean shore, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. She knew those waves. She knew the white hills, the smell of thyme, rosemary, and lavender thick in the air.
And something else underneath it all.
She turned away from the sea, back toward the ancient white city she knew too well. Aeaea, Circe's island, now home of the muses and their descendants.
Mel walked the path leading to her home, her pace quickening with each step, a terrible feeling growing inside her as the stench underneath grew stronger.
As she reached the gates, Uri appeared in front of her, eyes wide in horror, a silent scream on her lips, moments before her head was severed from her shoulders. Thick gold blood surged out of her severed throat, drenching Mel's face. Mel tried to yell, but no sound came out. She rushed forward, determined to exact her vengeance on her cousin's murderer. Lessara stood in front of her, grinning.
Mel called to the water surrounding the island, every last bit of it, willing it to fuel her anger. She was going to make the woman suffer a thousand deaths.
But the waters didn't respond, remaining still.
Fine. Mel could kick her ass old school then. She launched herself at the murderous hag. And her fist hit air, as if she was immaterial.
As if she were nothing.
"Watch, darkling. Just sit there and watch," the Aos Si said.
And Mel had no choice but to do just that. Watch her kill everyone. The children. Clio, who had the sweetest voice. She taught history to the younger immortals. Lessara cut out her tongue before carving her heart out and crushing it in her hand.
Sometime between the fiftieth and sixtieth death, Mel realized that it wasn't real. She felt, smelled everything as if she were right there, but it couldn't be real. All her friends had their own voices and fighting styles as they struggled against the fae and failed. But Mel was in a cell, on Sidhe, and so was Lessara.
This was not real. Realistic as it seemed, it must be an illusion. It had to be.
And it crushed her anyway.
Not real, not real, not real. She chanted those words over and over again.
Mel's fingertip moved. Not just in her mind; she could feel them touch the rough fabric of the blanket she was sitting on. She concentrated on it, caressing the thread. This was solid. This was where she was.
And where the bitch she needed to kill was, too.
Mel felt Lessara's breath. Her hands were on either side of her head. Was that how she controlled her?
She waited patiently as her senses returned to her. Two hands. All of her arms and her legs. She was whole. More exhausted than she'd ever been in her entire life, but whole.
Mel slowly drew her head back, keeping her eyes closed to not alert Lessara. Then she clenched her jaw and slammed her head against the other woman's, before wrapping her legs around her torso and flipping her on her back, holding her down with a heel on her throat.
Fuck, the woman was strong. Keeping her there as she thrashed around took all of her weight and strength.
Lessara pulled a long lance out of nowhere, and pushed Mel back with its blunt edge, shoving her against the wall that zapped the heck out of her.
The fae got to her feet and yelled, kicking her in the chest, so hard Mel would have thrown up if she'd had anything in her stomach.
Then the Aos Si stepped back.
Mel laughed. It hurt, but she laughed anyway.
"Are you insane?" Lessara seemed confused.
Mel got painfully to her feet. "Just amused. I get on top of you, and still, the best you can do is push me back. If you had any power, that blade would be in my skull right now. So sad to be you."
Mel didn't know why she was pushing the woman like that. Maybe because she was so helpless and being cruel was making her feel better. Maybe because Lessara had seriously screwed with her head and she refused to let her see that. Or just because bravado was what she did.
Lessara left in a huff.
She wasn't surprised when the woman came back the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.
Paths
Caim hadn't slept for one moment the night of his coronation, and in the week since the regent's crown had been placed upon his head by his cousin, he didn't think he'd closed his eyes for more than half an hour at a time.
Rhedrek had returned to his post in order to tidy his affairs and prepare his family for a move to the capital. Caim knew he'd rest better once there was a lord he could trust in his court.
He smiled, seeing Mael approach for the start of his shift. Someone else. His newest knight had certainly proved himself.
The young man wore part of his armor: the helmet, wrist cuffs and rib protection. Otherwise, he was down to light pants and leather boots.
"What did I say about looking the part?"
Mael grimaced. "How are we supposed to move with cumbersome metal all around us?"
"The heavy metal is designed to protect you from fatal wounds."
"And slow me down. They can't kill me if they can't catch me ’cause they're too busy toting a ton of silver."
Caim smiled. "You'll wear your armor at court."
"Yes, sir." At least the boy had some sense of propriety.
They were in his office, a quaint room formerly used as a library, right next to the privy council chamber.
He'd met with his uncle's councilmen the day after he was named regent, just long enough to inform them that they'd been relieved of their positions. None were surprised. But now that he had a million important decisions to make, he wished he'd kept them around for a while. Little as he trusted or liked any of the lords, hearing them discuss matters might have clarified his next course of action.
Caim knew what he had to do. He wasn't certain about the best way to make it happen yet.
Taken by a sudden idea, he asked Mael, "Have you ever traveled outside of the circle? To Brass, Steel, Nickel…"
The young man shook his head. "Boat tickets cost a fortune and I don't have a transport that can fly that long. Not that I'd get the credentials to land anywhere, really.
"
Citizens of each circle had to request permission to visit the other kingdoms. For Caim, it was a formality. He'd never had to wonder whether his application would be accepted, but he still had to ask.
Mael tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
“Now that I'm regent, I should build relationships with the rest of Sidhe.” Caim’s grimace displayed his enthusiasm. “Whoever got rid of my uncle and the rest of the rulers has plans. And, no doubt, connections. Remaining friendless is a luxury I can't afford.”
Mael nodded. "Smart. Steel? We've always had great trade with them."
Steel, north of the tree of life, farmed the best fruits, brewed sweet beers and delicious wines. Caim shook his head. What message would that send?
"Our alliance is secured a thousand times over. Reaching out to Steel is a weak play."
His first diplomatic overture would not be the choice of a weak man.
"Iron, then?" Mael might as well have read his mind. "That would certainly make a statement."
Caim nodded.
There were tensions with most circles, but Iron was the one actual open enemy of Silver. They'd waged war a hundred times, over the small island at midpoint between their circles, over long-forgotten insults and lost heritages.
He hated one of their most popular lords, that much was common knowledge. Iron was a mess now, according to Red. Leaderless. Unhinged.
Visiting while they were vulnerable and most likely to lash out would tell the world that Caim feared nothing. That he'd do anything that was right for his people.
He could also attempt to open the communication between him and some of the lords of their court. Once they found and killed the natural heir of Echterion, one of them would be crowned. As long as it wasn't Lyr, there was a chance that Caim might be able to converse cordially with him or her.
And if he wasn't fighting Iron, it would free up his time to continue his research.
A risky move. A step that a wise, reasonable man may not have chosen to take. But for all his refinement, culture, cunning, and daring, Caim was Aos Si, as wicked as the rest of them. He liked to sprinkle some chaos when things grew too tiresome.
"What would you do, in my shoes—wait to see who becomes regent and propose an alliance once they have the crown, or go now?"
Mael grinned. "There's a chance a noble you don't like might take the crown, right? And you don't want that."
Caim inclined his head. Lyr heading the Iron Circle would certainly complicate international politics.
“I understand that once they kill the heir, they may have a vote among the gentry to choose the next regent,” Mael continued. “I say if you turn up and make it clear that your support is with someone else, that could affect his chances.”
An intriguing idea.
Either way, it came down to two choices. Playing it safe, or facing his enemy in his first week in his new capacity as ruler of his circle? Caim knew what his uncle would have done. What his cousin would have done.
He was neither.
"Go prepare. Tell Bass and Vlaryn we leave at sundown."
The knight beamed like someone had offered him an unexpected bequest.
"And Mael? Pack some damn armor!"
Iron Laws
Mel's notion of time was still completely screwed up, but she'd started to count one day for each of Lessara's visits. They seemed regular enough. The fae came to her and tortured her mind until Mel broke her spells. She was doing her best to hide it, but every time, it became a little easier to snap out of it. Not that it made any of the trials easier.
One day, Mel was chained in a crowd of strangers who took turns spitting on her, throwing their wine and food at her. Some went as far as kicking her. Why, she didn’t know. Cruelty needn’t have a cause.
Not real. Not real. Not real.
Chanting the words to herself didn't help, when she could feel each blow and smell the waste on her hair. Reality was a strange concept. If she could see, smell and feel something, it was real enough.
That day had been bad. She did get her small victory, though; after snapping out of it, she punched the bitch's nose hard enough to break it.
Then, there had been the time when she'd been burned for hours. No one had known such suffering and lived. Ten days later, the reminisced stench of her skin searing still made her feel sick and dizzy.
There had been no victory that day. No response. She had pulled out of the nightmare, but she'd had no energy to hurt Lessara back, in deed, thought, or words.
Mel had half expected that the woman would burn her again. She'd sensed the difference, she could tell. Sensed that for once, she'd truly been close to breaking her spirit.
But the next day, Lessara had started another game.
Some of the torture sessions were a little more obscure. Mel couldn't tell what was distressing her about running in the woods, chasing a silhouette, screaming, begging it to wait, to turn back. But she was spent, exhausted and crestfallen after that one nonetheless.
It felt like a series of tests. Like Lessara was trying to understand what made Mel tick. For a grand finale, perhaps. When she decided she was done with her, she'd destroy her body and soul a thousand ways.
Until then…
Mel snapped out of the woods and leaped forward, a knee in the air. Lessara moved at the last second, but she hit the side of her jaw anyway.
As the fae pulled back, Mel managed, for the first time, to wrap her hand around the hilt of her weapon.
It was just a footlong tube, but when Lessara pressed it, it extended into an electrified lance.
Mel grinned and pressed her thumb on the button.
Her smile fell, and Lessara laughed.
Nothing.
"It's tailored to me, idiot."
Dammit.
Mel shrugged. "Fine. I did well against you for a month without any weapon. Let us see how I fare with a baton, shall we?"
If Lessara was worried, she didn't show it.
Mel braced herself. She knew little of the woman's fighting skills; she'd always been quick to pull her lance and end the fight. She was fast, and had magic mojo. But the footlong tool did make a difference. Mel had trained with a xiphos and a hoplon, because Calliope was ridiculously old-fashioned like that. The small tube might have been useless to most, but it was close enough to her weapon of choice. Just a little shorter, and bladeless, but Mel had never needed an edge to take down an enemy.
Thirty-five days ago—or thirty-five of Lessara's visits ago, anyway—she'd considered her chance of getting away from the guards. She'd thought about how she could return to Earth. Now, none of those concerns were important. She needed out of this cell. That was it. Her one goal.
An entirely unexpected sound caught her attention. Clapping.
Mel and Lessara turned to the door. Both stiffened, and Lessara dropped to her knees, head bowed. Mel considered planting the lance's hilt against the back of Lessara’s exposed neck. However, she didn't want to imagine what the man looking at them would do to her if she gave into that impulse.
The predator was here.
Lessara greeted him. "Lord Lyr."
She had a name to use during her nightmares now. Lyr. It suited him, radiating power and malice.
"My lady. Still playing with your food, I see."
Lessara lifted her head and smiled. "With your leave."
"Of course. You have a blood debt, you're welcome to exert your right."
Mel’s fists tightened at her sides, frustrated, angry, and trying to hide it. She felt like she was missing half of the conversation. She daren’t ask.
His eyes turned to her, and he smiled. "The lady of Seina is displeased with me," Lyr told her. "I gave her your life, as is required by our customs. Your death, however, belongs to me."
Ah. So, she'd been right, Lessara wasn't allowed to kill her.
Mel lifted her head. "There's one person my life and death belong to. And she doesn't dress like either of you."
Le
ssara was in gray gear, and Lyr wore an outfit that could only be described as dramatic: tight, form-fitting white pants, a ruffled shirt, and a long coat with blue accents, under a gold cape.
He looked down and frowned.
"You don't approve?"
She shrugged. "Depends. Is it Mardi Gras?"
Did they even know what Mardi Gras was here?
The man laughed out loud, turning to Lessara. "See? It'd be a shame to get rid of her just yet."
He touched the side of his head slightly, and closed his eyes. Before her eyes, the pants lost some of their shimmer and turned brown. The ruffles disappeared. The cape stayed, but turned black. "Better?"
It was. Now the man looked like her idea of a Prince Charming from the fairy tales. Although he was technically the villain abducting fair maidens in folklore.
In the tales, those men always tried to make them their brides. But that wasn't why he'd taken her—and the rest of the prisoners under the castle. Mel still had no idea why they'd dragged her here. All she knew was that right now, she was a dead woman on borrowed time.
Lyr had instructed Mel to entertain him. She'd done that successfully, apparently. Her defying Lessara was amusing him. Her calling him out on his terrible sense of fashion was funny.
The moment he stopped laughing, she'd be taken upstairs, like so many of those who'd come with her.
And she doubted she'd return here.
"Certainly less gaudy."
"Good. We have an unwelcome, but nonetheless important guest on his way, if my spies are correct." His attention returned to Lessara. "Which is why I must cut your fun short. The regent of Silver has invited himself. Your family will, no doubt, want you to change into something a little more fetching."
Lessara got to her feet and rushed out of the cell and up the stairs. Lyr laughed.
It wasn't a nice or a kind laugh.
“Women.” His tone was amused. His eyes weren’t.
Mel hesitated. He made her feel profoundly uncomfortable, but there was an electrified field separating them and he hadn't tried to cross it. Maybe he didn’t plan to hurt her. Just maybe.
