by May Sage
Caim had not taken the crown to observe traditions. He’d wanted it to make a change. That meant going to the world tree, seeing and studying its spells himself.
Caim may be an adequate swordsman and a competent strategist, among other things, but his one true strength had always been his magic. His link with the wilder part of his fae nature. He could feel spells, and manipulate them to his desires. That had always been his true gift.
If he didn’t free them, who would? Who could?
He could attend Beltane to appease the people this year, and go to the tree at the next festival. Or journey there on his own.
But attending the priestesses’ ceremony would mean seeing the device in action, feeling its energy as it communicated with both Sidhe and Tartarus. Accompanying them was what he needed to do to understand their curse. He wasn’t going to question himself—and he wasn’t going to delay what mattered either. If he did, and left it another year, and a year after that, how would he be different from his uncle, from the other lords blown to pieces?
Caim repeated himself, "I won't."
Red's expression might have been amusing had he not been about to launch into what Caim expected to be a lecture.
"This isn't open for discussion, Rhedrek," he said before the man spoke. "I'm informing you of my decision. We can plan the event accordingly."
What he said meant one thing.
I am regent.
I rule.
He didn't want his relationship with Red to suffer for it, but Caim didn't want to give him the impression that he could contest his will at the very beginning of his rule.
Red nodded once.
"Fine. Well, someone is going to have to preside over the ceremony."
Caim grinned. "Yes. Someone will."
A flash of anger crossed the soldier's gaze. "You can't mean that foreigner."
Caim laughed. Who did Red think he was? "It would be poor manners to throw her to the wolves so soon. But I do have the perfect delegate. He's standing right in front of me."
Rhedrek's eyes widened, in horror, no doubt. He wasn't one to spend more time than necessary among the gentry. Then he sighed, resigned. "Very well. There'd better be good wine."
A Dangerous Oath
Mel had to admit that her new quarters certainly exceeded her previous accommodations in terms of style and comfort.
The modest, warm room at the inn had been far better than the cell. A comfortable closet with an open door would have been better than a cell in a dark, gloomy dungeon, but she wasn’t given a closet. Her rooms in Caim's keep were on another level.
It was a grandiose, vast, state apartment, featuring delicately carved reddish-dark-wood furniture encrusted with gold, soft blue curtains falling to the polished marble floor like silk and velvet dresses. And so much light. Everywhere, there was a door, a window. All open, reiterating what Caim had told her many times: she was free.
She had a study and a sitting room, a drawing room, a bathroom larger than her entire living room in Paris, and then, her bedroom, with a bed that could have easily accommodated a dozen adults.
And no doubt, they were made for just that. Caim had told her that her rooms were connected to his, which probably meant that this was where the mistresses of the regent usually stayed. More misdirection to confuse his court. She didn't mind. He was helping her and Quentin, who was housed right next to her in equal luxury. It was only right that she helped too, however she could.
Mel couldn't recall ever staying in rooms as opulent as these. But beautiful as it was, this place wasn't home.
The pool in her bathroom was filled with warm golden water.
Gold was the color of rivers, lakes, and landside waters here, and green, the color of the seawater that was poisonous.
The golden water responded to her a little more than the green, and did energize her almost as much as tap water at home. But it felt weak. Dormant. Mel attempted to summon it. It moved a little, slowly and indolent. In short, she could do little magician's tricks for the children, but this water was no weapon. She sighed. Good thing she wasn’t in immediate need of a weapon.
She found it comforting all the same.
After a long bath that soothed both her muscles and her mind, she dragged herself out of the pool and reached her closet. Caim had said she'd be able to find suitable attire in there, and she had to admit, she'd dreaded the thought of donning more tight gear—or worse.
She'd seen at the Ironers' party the previous night. Their thing seemed to be yards of tulle and chiffon and corsets. Not her style. She liked to be able to move freely—particularly in enemy territory.
She gasped as the closet's opened doors led to an entire room with hundreds upon hundreds of outfits.
Mel breathed out.
It wasn't too bad at all. There were dresses, and pants, and cloaks, tops and shoes, in various sizes. Some were just as lavish as the gentry's party dresses, but there was also a fair bit of casual things; even some jeans, although they weren't in her size.
She pulled out a pair of soft, dark leather pants that would fit, and a boatneck top, so very similar to what she could have worn in Paris.
The weather was chillier here in Silver—not cold enough to warrant a coat, but after pulling out a nice duster, she decided to wear it nonetheless. Exchanging her boots for simple red ballerina flats that shone like they'd just been polished, her outfit was complete.
Feeling a little more like herself, Mel left the apartment, walking as fast as she could down the grand staircase that led up to the second floor.
At every corner, eyes followed her—eyes of guards, servants, gentries—but she ignored most. She did smile to those who appeared friendly. They were few.
Mel explored the keep, though it wasn't her intention.
She knew what she had to do now, the question was how to go about it. On Earth, she would have asked the first person who crossed her path without giving it a thought. But all these people were fae. Their delicately elongated and curved ears served as a reminder. As did their eyes, too bright and mischievous. They looked like they were just waiting for the first opportunity to cause trouble. And Mel had had enough fae trouble for some time.
She looked around for Mael, Bass, or even Vlaryn, but the guards she passed were all strangers.
In her search for a familiar face, she found an indoor garden, and a large hall with barrels of wine in each corner, rooms she closed as fast as she'd opened them, as there were people in various states of undress, touching, licking, pinching, sucking, and fucking each other. Other rooms where she lingered as the sweetest voices and the most talented fingers sang and played tunes she'd never heard. Songs that seemed familiar nonetheless, like timeless lullabies.
Apparently, when the fae said keep, they meant palace. From outside, it’d seemed manageable, but she lost her way so many times, in countless directions, and it didn’t look like she’d even explored a tenth of it. Everywhere, there were more doors, corridors and rooms.
She kept looking and found other strangers. Guards, courtiers, artists, painters, dancers, fuckers. She was about to give up when she opened one last room, and froze.
It was an office, smaller than her room, but at first glance, she knew where she stood. Caim was sitting behind a monstrous silver desk with lion-claw feet, sculpted demons screaming from the sides, and a red leather top. His chair was just as monumental and terrifying. He was flanked by two shiny black columns around which snakes were carved in a polished marble-like green stone.
A red runner led to the regent. Behind him, black curtains hung at the windows.
There was no other furniture, nowhere for anyone else to sit.
This was where the ruler of this strange world worked. No one sat in his presence.
She didn't think she'd understood how much of a king he was until she saw him there.
He didn't look up from the letter he was writing with a long gray and white feather quill.
"Melpomene. Still running a
round and making my guards uncomfortable, I see."
She cleared her throat and stepped in. The door closed behind her. "Are you having me followed?"
Caim snorted. "What sort of a ruler would I be if I did not know what was going on within my walls?"
"A busy one," she shot back.
If she wasn't mistaken, he smiled. Just a little. It didn’t last long.
"Does your friend still think I'm a spy for the Iron Circle?" she asked him.
"Which one?" Caim replied.
So, there was more than one. "Well, I can't blame them. I was trying to find Mael or Bass."
Caim signed the document and applied a blob of wax and the seal on the ring of his middle finger, before taking a small pot to his right and dusting the paper with a fine layer of white powder. He rolled it up and tied it with a long-stemmed flower that looked a little like lavender, although its petals were bright red. She watched the whole thing with fascination, her attention on his dexterous hands.
He wore seven rings; the silver one in the middle of his left hand, and a smaller one with a red stone on his pinky. A black stone on his thumb. His right hand had rings on all fingers except the middle one—none had stones, but they all seemed made of different materials, with very distinctive craftsmanship. She wondered if they had a story. No doubt they were heirlooms of sorts.
Caim was a conundrum—or he would have been on Earth. He exuded masculinity. His athletic build, his heated gaze, his deep and suave voice were all man. And yet, he wore more jewelry than any man she'd ever seen. The rings. A silver necklace falling down to his chest. A stone at the tip of his left ear, dark blue and catching the light when he moved. His eyelashes were longer than hers, and she wanted to ask about his moisturizing routine, because his face had the sort of inner glow models would have killed for. His long brown hair was tied in a ponytail today. When they’d met, it had hung on his shoulders. Both styles fit him.
He was pretty and handsome all at once. Mel found it irritating. And fascinating.
“I sent them home,” the regent said. “They deserve a break after our trip. And they would have had to shoulder the bulk of my advisor's disapproval had they been here.”
She tilted her head. "Disapproval?"
Caim hadn't looked at her until then. He seldom did. But his stormy gaze was on her now.
She wasn't certain she liked it.
"Yes. My traveling to the Iron Circle may not have been entirely wise."
She opened her mouth to ask more details, and then, shook her head. "If I question you, it'll only make your friends think it more likely I mean to spy on you."
"Quite possibly."
"Besides, you're busy."
Caim tilted his head. "Indeed. And so, it might save your time and mine if you got to the point. You have a request."
That wasn't a question. She nodded. "Yes. I'd like to know where I can enquire about traveling back to Earth. You said you have some transports going there occasionally—how do I know when they leave? How much I need to buy the ticket, that sort of thing." After a moment, she added, "And I need to find a job. Is there, like, an employment agency?" she asked hopefully.
She felt foolish. What skill did she have that a fae might find employable? But even if she was just cleaning toilets, she needed to earn money.
Caim's gaze held hers, questioning, then he said, "Six months. Your timeline, not ours. In under two of our months, in the middle of the summer, there's a transport scheduled to leave for Earth. I asked. As for a…job," he quoted, "your assumed position here makes it a complicated matter."
Ah. Of course. His mistress wouldn't be caught polishing toilets, she supposed.
"What can you do?" Caim asked her.
A pertinent question. Mel gave it some thought. She could do many things, but none very well. She'd been trained to play various instruments, defend herself, paint, dance, understand sciences, know and understand most notable works of literature…none of which was useful. Those were the tools of a muse. Muses were notably idle creatures.
They'd been given heirlooms aplenty, riches from another world, so they'd dedicated their lives to helping artists and scientists achieve greatness. Their way to make Earth a better place.
Mel bit her lip. She was a bookseller. How useless was that here?
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I used to brew potions but I don't recognize the majority of your flora. I don't even know what your water is made of. I spent the last few years as a bookseller. Before, I did other things." Now she was just grasping at straws. Mel didn’t think she’d ever questioned her accomplishments before. Unfortunately, there weren’t many. "But I'm a fast learner."
That, at least, was true.
If Caim was as unimpressed as she, he didn't show it. "The archivists have their hands full on the best days. Our kind relish losing themselves in old dusty volumes that demand most of their attention. But there's a specific project I require help with. I'm researching information among a sea of books—along with ruling this kingdom. If you were to read and annotate mentions of a certain subject in the volumes I assign to you, you would save me a considerable amount of time."
She blinked. Read books? That was something she could definitely do.
"Seriously?" she questioned, wondering whether he was just taking pity on her.
Caim nodded, almost solemnly. "It's an important task. As well as a secret one. If you were to undertake it, I would pay you well for it. But I will have you swear that you'll talk about it to no one."
Mel's eyes narrowed as she tried to read his expression. She had yet to know what to make of it. It was even more neutral now.
She knew one thing, followed one simple rule: never swear an oath to a fae. He could twist the words until she belonged to him body and soul. "What oath would I have to take?"
Until then, she'd only seen hints of his smile. Now, his lips curved up, a little higher on the right side, and she wished she'd never seen it at all.
It was brutal. It was teasing and above all, his smile was devastatingly, unfairly beautiful. She wondered how many women he'd led to their doom.
"Just what I said. You'd have to swear to keep the details of your employment secret."
Caim was being willfully obtuse. She refused to fall for it.
"Under what terms?" she pushed.
His eyes flashed. "Why? Do you intend to break your oath?"
Fae were literally the worst. "I just want to know what I'm signing up for, is all. I know your kind are tricksters."
Caim brought his hand to his jaw and balanced his chin over his middle finger as he considered the question. "Let me see…if you break your oath, you'll be mine for a score of years. Mine to command as I please."
Her jaw fell open. Servitude? She couldn’t believe her ears.
Actually, she could. This world may be a million years ahead of them when it came to technology, but it was thousands of years behind Earth in terms of civilities.
"Twenty years?" she questioned.
"The entire purpose of a penalty is to ensure that the beholden keeps his word, so yes. Twenty years seems like a good place to start."
"Your years, or mine?"
He chuckled. "You're rather invested in arguing your way out of a punishment for being untrue, are you not?"
"Look, buddy, if someone holds a gun to my head and asks me what I'm doing for you, I will say I'm reading some dusty old books. So yes. I want to know what it'll cost me. And I want it to be a reasonable price."
Caim lifted a brow. "Couldn't you lie?"
She sighed. Arguing with him was useless. She'd keep her mouth shut for a month and a half—six months—and that was that. "How much would I get paid?"
"As much as any junior archivist. I'd have to look at specifics. But for your oath, I will throw in the price of the fare to your home. For you and the boy."
A very good deal, then. Especially since she had room, board, and clothes taken care of too. Which meant that he was either very gener
ous, or plotting something.
Or genuinely desperate for someone to do that job for him.
His carefully blank expression made it impossible to guess which.
“I get to tell people I’m working in the archives,” she negotiated. “But I’ll keep the details to myself. Is that okay?”
Caim considered her request. “No. It’s too specific. If asked, you will say you’re undertaking administrative tasks for me.”
"All right. You have a deal."
A deal she could not afford to break. Especially if betraying his trust would cost her a hundred years of freedom.
Complications
Caim had to admit: he was enjoying watching Mel squirm. A little too much perhaps.
"So how does this work? Do I get a contract?"
Caim considered his options. She'd been right, he was busy. Which meant he probably ought to tell her that her verbal acceptance was enough. With a common fae of lesser blood, she might have needed to spill blood and sign hexed documents in order to be beholden to her contractor, but with an Aos Si of the old blood, her promise alone bound her as tightly as any spell.
Instead, he extended his hand, beckoning her.
Mel didn't hesitate.
Contrary to what Vlaryn believed, Mel wasn’t naïve. She might have been rather quick to accept leaving with him in her eagerness to leave Iron, but since then, she’d proved to be careful and intelligent. She knew to be wary of his kind, knew they enjoyed mischief. And yet, though she might not realize it herself, she trusted him. Enough to give him her hand when he asked for it.
Caim lifted her palm up to his eyes. Her hand was short and dainty, especially in comparison to his. Small fingers, thin. A palm half the length of his.
Her hand was warm and soft. He looked at the quill on his desk, and considered planting its iron tip inside her flesh to draw blood. Just to see it. Hear her gasp, watch her wince or bite her lip. Just applying a small amount of pain because he could. Give in to his desire, his nature.
