by Violet Grace
The full meaning of her words dawns on me.
‘So if I end up having to battle Damius, my magic won’t kill him. I’ll kill myself.’
‘Your strength is your greatest weakness. Your power is unprecedented. Our stories contain no records of such powers. Until you learn to conquer your fear, you must restrict yourself to small spells that your constitution can withstand.’
She walks over to me and takes my hands. ‘You must understand this, Chess. Your unauthorised rescue mission of that inconsequential unicorn could have cost you your life and cost the Fae and humans their only hope for peace.’
I bristle at her dismissal of Tom as inconsequential.
‘But what’s done is done,’ she goes on, the matter already forgotten. I guess that’s the other side of being amoral: no time spent ruminating over how other people might have failed you. ‘Events are moving faster than we had anticipated. Your uncle has marshalled forces far greater than we had feared.’ Gladys walks to the door. ‘Come. It’s time you met with your Council.’
‘Council?’
‘Your Council of War, of course. You didn’t think we were going to leave you to face the threat alone, did you?’
We wind through the corridors of the palace. I can feel every pair of eyes boring into me as we pass. In some faces I see awe, in others fear. But the reaction I notice most is faintly muted disapproval.
I’m unsure what offends them. Is it that I succeeded in harnessing my magical power to kill the pycts when they were hoping my mongrel blood would fail? Do they distrust me for leaving the palace to rescue the ‘inconsequential unicorn’? Or are they just pissed that I didn’t die in the process?
With me out of the way, Damius could take the throne without obstruction, or the Order of the Fae could carry on running its caretaker government. After thirteen years, why would they want a monarch back? Some would say that I’m no longer needed.
And I can see their point.
Or perhaps everyone I walk past is simply reflecting back the humiliation I feel over what happened with Tom this morning. The fear and disapproval I think I see in their faces are my own feelings about the way I disgraced myself: revealing too much, begging him to stay.
My stream of destructive thoughts is brought to an abrupt halt when we stop in front of a wooden double door with the unicorn emblem of House Raven embossed on either side. Two officers of the Protectorate stand guard. They bow and salute us. I nod back awkwardly and make a mental note to ask Gladys about the proper etiquette.
Gladys pushes open the heavy doors to reveal what looks like a ballroom that’s been temporarily turned into a meeting hall. About the size of two basketball courts, its walls are panelled in rough oak and covered with portraits and landscapes hung in gilded frames. The high ceiling is decorated in a mural of fairies, unicorns and mermaids in a garden with a fountain. The largest chandelier I’ve ever seen hangs from the centre of the room; its crystal-encrusted tendrils span out across the space.
The room buzzes with the voices of the assembled Fae. Helmeted men, well over six foot, tower above me as I pass. A week ago I would have assumed that so many tall men in the one place must be a basketball team dressing up for an end-of-season bash. Now it strikes me as obvious that they’re unicorns in two-legged form. Other people are dressed in variations of Jules’s uniform, with pins and medals that I assume denote differences of seniority. I compare my own bodysuit, and feel like an imposter. Judging by its decorations, I outrank the lot of them. I feel like a little girl playing dress-up soldiers.
The throng of people parts as Gladys and I move through the room, their conversation dampening. Some offer thin, grudging smiles, while others beam at me. I’m uncomfortable with both reactions. Their hum of conversation picks up again as soon as we pass.
At one end of the room I spy three golden thrones elevated on a red-carpeted platform. Each throne has a red velvet cushioned seat and rubies encrusted in intricate swirling patters.
I suck in a jagged breath when I see the footstool at the base of one of the thrones. I remember it. I used it to climb up into the enormous chair to sit next to my mother and father. A memory of music and dancing flashes through my mind. I sat right there in that chair, watching all the people dance. I wanted to climb down and join in. My mother looked over and smiled at me. She reached down and took my tiny hand in hers. With her other hand she traced the shape of a love heart into my palm.
The memory is so vivid, so potent, that I can feel her warmth. Her softness. I can feel the love of my mother’s touch. My eyes prickle with tears and my heart aches – literally, as if its essence has just been gouged out and all that remains is a hollow shell.
‘Not now, dear,’ Gladys whispers gently. ‘There will be time for nostalgia later.’
She takes my shoulders and spins me away from the thrones and back into the present. At the head of a long oval-shaped table on the other side of the room sits the Chancellor, dressed in his sapphire cloak, his fingers weighed down with rings. Next to him sits the Supreme Executor.
‘Your mother was never much good at following protocol either,’ she says as I approach the table. Her lips stretch into a smile that is more reproof than fondness.
‘And all have paid the price for it.’
I look towards the source of the snide remark. It came from a man standing to the side of the table. His blue eyes blaze with contempt.
I recognise him immediately. Well, sort of. The face is different and his mop of blond scruffy hair is cut shorter than I was expecting, but his nastiness is unmistakable. The Chancellor, clearly embarrassed by the man’s outburst, introduces him as Loxley, Officer of the Protectorate. In two-legged form.
I smile at one of the men at the table as the chatter restarts around us. From the rust-coloured skin and row of gold loops snaking up each ear I identify him as Wynstar. He stands and bows to me. I want to thank him for saving me after the pycts, but this isn’t the right time.
Across from us stands Jules. I quickly scan her for injuries from this morning and I’m relieved to find no sign of any. She gives me a brief nod and then looks away, her smile gone. I follow her gaze to see who she’s staring at.
Loxley.
He sends back a malicious grin.
The woman next to Jules shakes her head disapprovingly at Loxley. She’s introduced as the head of the Protectorate, General Sewell. The General looks considerably older than Jules, but I’m not fooled by her cropped grey hair. The sureness of her posture and the muscle definition beneath her bodysuit makes me think she’s earned every one of those medals pinned across both sides of her chest.
I catch a glimpse of familiar blonde curls in the crowd. She has her back to me but I’m certain it’s Abby. What’s she doing at the Council of War meeting?
I look beyond her to the person in the doorway and my heart stops.
chapter 26
He’s here.
At the far end of the room.
Tom.
Beautiful, dressed in a khaki kilt, leather jacket and unlaced army boots.
I tune out from the buzz of chatter around me, unable to concentrate on anything else.
He looks directly into my eyes with such single-minded intent that I feel like we’re the only two people in the room. All I can think about is that the only person who’s ever made me feel happy and safe is still here.
But then my memories from this morning assault me with such force that I grab hold of a chair to steady myself.
The truths I laid bare.
All that I shared.
I dropped my guard, lost control. Why did I have to ruin everything?
My mouth is parched, my palms wet.
I was never going to see him again. That thought devastated me but it was also a comfort. At least I wouldn’t have to face him. Yet here he is.
His head cocks to one side. A half-smile creeps across his face, flashing a dimple at me. My desire to flee is as strong as my compulsion to run to him. Bu
t I’m bolted to the floor.
Abby squeals as she spots Tom across the room, startling those closest to her. She weaves her way through the crowd to embrace her brother. He returns her hug and whispers something into her ear.
Even from the far end of the room, I see tears in Abby’s eyes. I’m genuinely happy for her, happy for them both. And for the briefest of moments I’m proud of myself. I told Abby I would save her brother, and I did.
Tom’s eyes return to mine over the top of Abby’s head.
Searching.
Penetrating.
Probing.
I look away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. It’s a relief when Gladys guides me to my chair.
Tom and Abby move around to stand behind Jules and the General. I’m so attuned to Tom that the scent of his masculinity intoxicates me from where I’m sitting.
I really wish that it didn’t.
Abby catches my eye across the table, and mouths, ‘Thank you.’
She abandoned me to a pyct army and now we’re supposed to be friends? Fortunately, the Chancellor calls the meeting to order so I don’t have to respond.
A hush falls across the room as some of the assembled Fae take their seats. Others remain standing around the perimeter of the inner circle.
‘Ours are extraordinary times. They will test us all,’ the Chancellor begins dramatically, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I could swear he’s enjoying his moment as the centre of attention.
‘Our queen is lost to us. Our princess is under threat.’ At this he beams at me. ‘And our own kin are being turned, against their will, into pycts, to form an army whose very purpose, we must assume, is to destroy us and all we hold dear.’
Loxley lets out a deep, gravelly, equine snort. ‘You don’t know that all are unwilling.’
‘Of course they are,’ snaps the Supreme Executor. ‘The pycts have been extinct for generations. No Fae in their right mind would choose a form so vile. But as we have learned from Apothecary Abby Williams, the pycts have now amassed in the hundreds.’
I feel the blood drain from my face.
‘The pycts were Fae?’ I whisper to Gladys.
‘We believe so,’ she replies.
‘But I killed them.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Gladys says matter-of-factly. ‘But there are more. Many more we must deal with.’
Blood pumps in my ears like the beat of a drum. My chest tightens and my hands begin to shake as I think about all the people – my people – I murdered. I’m part of this bloodshed, of the killing I was supposed to stop.
‘I don’t understand,’ I splutter. ‘How can a fairy or a unicorn turn into a pyct?’
‘We believe Damius has created a virus,’ Gladys replies in a hushed voice, but by the way the room falls deathly silent, it’s clear that everyone is listening.
The Supreme Executor capitalises on the silence and conjures an image above the table. My best guess is that it’s a single-strand genome of some sort. I should have paid more attention in biology.
‘This is the RNA virus that is causing the pyct infection,’ the Supreme Executor says as the molecular structure rotates above us. ‘The virus triggers a genetic mutation in Fae DNA, flipping the exact genetic sequence to turn Fae into pycts.’
‘But that’s not possible,’ says Abby as she stares intently at the genome. ‘Making such a structure would require genetic material that does not exist in our kind. Unless … unless …’
All eyes shift to Abby.
Abby’s eyes settle on me.
‘Unless what?’ the Supreme Executor says, her eyes shifting between Abby and me.
‘Nothing. I spoke without thinking,’ Abby says, in a way that seems completely out of character.
‘All we know is that the virus is highly contagious,’ the Supreme Executor continues. ‘It starts with corporeal weakness and pain, followed by the loss of mental faculties. In a short time the transformation is complete and another Fae is lost to Damius.’
‘Even our strongholds are not immune,’ says the Chancellor. ‘Under this very roof, one young maid succumbed and responded to Damius’s call.’
A knot tightens in the pit of my stomach. He must be talking about Callie. That explains Brina and Anastasia’s reticence.
I can’t breathe. The room spins. It could have easily been Callie in that pyct army. If she had turned into a pyct one day earlier, or if I had fought them one day later, I would have murdered Callie. Who did I kill instead? Hundreds of lives cut short because of me.
My trembling hands fly to my chest as I try to suck in air.
A golden hue radiates from a hairpin Gladys has removed from her bun. She conjures a glass of water and orders me to drink.
I gulp down the water, this time not at all surprised by the taste of raspberries and honey. The tightness in my chest eases ever so slightly. I can breathe again, but the meeting is a blur. It’s not until I hear Tom say my name that my focus is ripped back into the room. He and Jules are giving a report about Damius’s attack on me at Marshall’s house.
As I listen to their retelling of events, something occurs to me. I was an easy target for Damius. But his flames went around me. Even I would have better aim than that. If Damius is as powerful as he’s supposed to be, surely he would have been able to hit me.
The Chancellor thumps his hand on the table. ‘The unprovoked attack on our princess cannot go unanswered.’
‘Annihilating Damius’s pyct army is a proportionate response,’ says the Supreme Executor in agreement. She instructs General Sewell to draw up battle plans for the attack.
‘No!’ I blurt.
The room goes quiet as all eyes turn to me. I fight the impulse to sink low in my chair.
‘I mean … You can’t just kill the pycts. They’re innocent.’
A brief moment of indecision follows as the Chancellor and the Supreme Executor exchange glances. Neither says a word. Instead, they both turn to Gladys, waiting, demanding some kind of explanation. Gladys sits back in her chair and coolly returns their glare.
‘Your Highness,’ begins the Chancellor, with the smile of someone explaining a basic point to a child. ‘They are pycts. This is our way.’
‘It’s not my way.’
A deeper silence envelops the room as everyone stares at me. My cheeks burn and I can feel the crimson rash snaking up my neck. I’m not used to this sort of attention and I can’t decide if I want to burst into tears or vomit. Or both.
But I can’t back down.
‘They’re your friends, your family. Our maids,’ I say, trying to hold my voice steady. ‘You cannot kill them in cold blood. Our fight is not with the pycts. Our fight is with Damius. Killing innocent people to punish Damius accomplishes nothing and makes us just has bad as him.’
The Supreme Executer leans forward. ‘My dear princess, Damius tried to kill you – the heir to the Fae throne. We cannot tolerate —’
‘Damius did not try to kill me.’ I shoot Tom and Jules an apologetic glance for contradicting them. ‘Damius was toying with me, menacing me. He was sending a message. He didn’t kill me because he wants what everyone else wants: the key to the Chalice. And he needs me alive in order to get it.’
I decide not to mention the small detail that I have no idea where the key is or how it could possibly unlock a glass cup that doesn’t even have a lock. But I figure if they don’t know what I don’t know, I might as well use that to my advantage.
The Supreme Executor turns to Tom and Jules, both of whom are looking uncomfortable.
‘What Chess – excuse me, Her Highness – says about Damius’s attack is possible,’ Tom says in a considered tone.
I see Loxley’s eyes narrow at Tom’s slip-up with my name.
‘We can use the key as bait to drag Damius out into the open,’ I say. ‘Then you can have your battle with him if you choose. But no more killing innocents.’
Wynstar is on his feet. ‘You have the key already?’ A beat later, he adds, ‘Y
our Highness.’
I’m taken aback by his sudden interest and forcefulness. ‘No.’
‘But you know its location?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But you can find it?’ Wynstar prods.
‘I, um, well …’ I hesitate, feeling my plan beginning to unravel.
Loxley tosses his hands into the air. ‘You plan to bait Damius, Princess, but you do not have the bait?’
‘I’ll get it,’ I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. ‘Give me time to get it and stop the senseless killing.’
Glances are exchanged across the table. I’m not sure who, if anyone, I have convinced with my plan. I turn directly to the Supreme Executor with my final appeal.
‘Innocent Fae are dead. My mother is dead. My father is dead. Many of their supporters are dead. If we keep going at this rate, this war will kill us all.’ Emboldened, I continue. ‘You say it’s not your way. Well, look at what your way has caused.’
Silence.
I look around at the faces of those seated and then to those standing around the room. Some are clearly shocked into silence. Others seem interested, unsure how to respond, and still others look irritated by my interruption, at having to indulge their naive princess.
I look at the only person who really matters to me and see his eyebrow rise quizzically. His head tilts slightly as if he’s considering something, then he folds his arms across his broad torso.
No one speaks, so I continue. ‘I’ve been outside the walls of this palace. Beyond this island of privilege and luxury lies a wasteland, a land in ruin. You sit here planning a war, planning the destruction of hundreds, even thousands, of your own as if it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. For all your planning and councils and talk of war, you’re isolated, cut off from the very world you’re trying to save. And you pretend it’s nature taking its course. But it’s not. You have done this. All of you.’
