Laurell K Hamilton - Meredith Gentry 07 - Swallowing Darkness

by Swallowing Darkness(lit)

  "I did not know," Doyle said.

  "Nor I," Mistral said.

  "Did you really think the queen spared the princess anything?"

  "Andais spared her the worst of our humiliations," Mistral said, "because Meredith had never seen her torture us as she did the night the princess saved us." He took one of my hands in his, and gave me the look that I had earned at last. It was a look of respect, gratitude, and hope. It had been Mistral's eyes that night, his glance at me, that had given me the courage to risk death to save them all from the queen. His eyes that night had said clearly that I was just another useless royal. I had done my best to prove him wrong.

  I wondered if he knew that, and something moved me to tell him. "It was your eyes that night, Mistral, that made me risk death at the queen's hands."

  He frowned. "You barely knew me then."

  "True, but you looked at me while she bled some of you and made the others watch. Your eyes told me what you thought of me, that I was just another useless royal."

  He studied my face. "You nearly died that night because I looked at you?"

  "I had to prove you wrong, Mistral. I had to risk everything to save you all, because it was the right thing to do. It was the dutiful thing to do."

  He held my hand in both of his, though his hands were so big, and mine so small, that he was holding more of his own skin than mine. He was still studying my face, as if judging the weight of my words.

  "She does not lie," Doyle said from the other side of me.

  "It's not that. It's that I have not had a woman care so much what I thought in longer than I can remember. That she reacted so, from just that glance... " He frowned at me, then asked, "Were we always destined to be together? Is that why one glance from me did so much?"

  I hadn't thought about it that way. "I do not know. I only know that it is what happened. You make me have to be more than I planned on being, Storm Lord."

  He smiled then. It was a smile that any man might have given a woman. A smile that said how pleased he was, and how much my words had meant to him. Everyone thinks that the magic of being with all the men is about the otherworldliness of them and me, but some of the most precious moments are the most ordinary. Moments that any man and woman could share, if they loved, and spoke the truth.

  Did I love Mistral? In that moment, as he gazed up at me, I had only one answer: Not yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The servant came in with a coat. It was leather pieced together with heavy Frankenstein stitches. The leather was shades of black, different sections having different textures, and some pieces of gray and white among the blackness, as if the coat had been made from different kinds of animals. The stitches and differences in skin should have made it an ugly coat, but it didn't. Somehow it all worked like a club kid meets Goth, with a little motorcycle thrown in.

  The really surprising thing to me was that it fit, not just closely, but perfectly. It was so tight through the arms and upper body that I had to take the bloody hospital gown off to fasten the buttons. I knew the feel of the buttons; they were carved bone. The coat fit tightly enough that my cleavage was framed nicely in its V-neck. The tightest part of the coat was under my breasts, so it was almost an empire waist. Then the coat spilled out and down like a ballgown. It buttoned all the way to the floor.

  Sholto actually knelt in front of me to finish the buttoning. He smiled up at me. "You look lovely."

  Was it shallow to feel better just because I had a coat that fit me well? Maybe, but as bad as I was feeling, I'd take anything that made me feel better.

  "It fits perfectly," I said. "Whose clothes am I borrowing?"

  "It was made for the queen of the sluagh," he said, standing.

  "What does that mean?" I asked.

  "It means that the court seamstress had a dream some months back. She was told that I would take a queen and that she should sew accordingly."

  I rubbed my fingertips down the leather. It was so soft. The seamstress had lined the inside of the coat so that the stitching didn't rub my skin.

  "You're saying your seamstress knew Meredith would be queen before anyone else?" Mistral asked.

  "Not Meredith, not by name, but the measurements, yes."

  "And you let her sew for some phantom queen?" Doyle said.

  "Mirabella has sewn for this court for centuries. She has earned the right to be indulged a little. But many of the clothes were made of scraps and pieces, like this coat, so it wasn't a loss." He gave me an appreciative smile. "Seeing Meredith in it lets me know that nothing was lost."

  "Why would it be that important that I have clothes here? Important enough for a prophetic dream?" I asked.

  "We are under siege," Doyle said. "Perhaps we will be here longer than we think. There are probably clothes to borrow for Mistral and myself, but you would be harder to fit."

  "But why would nice clothes be that important?" I asked.

  "Mirabella told everyone who would listen that I would take a queen and that she would be only this big." He made a gesture like you would measure a fish. "It forced the remaining hags and our female nightflyers to rethink their pursuit of me."

  "You mean women of your court stopped pressuring you because this Mirabella was sewing clothes that would not fit them?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Had you seen the clothes before this moment?" Doyle asked.

  "No," Sholto said. "The women of my court were much interested but I stayed out of it. Honestly, I thought Mirabella might be doing it to help me keep the women from pestering me so hard." He ran his hand down my leather-clad arm. "But it was a true dream, this."

  "I hope it doesn't mean we'll be trapped here," Mistral said. "Nothing personal, King Sholto, but that would mean that the humans were not able to get us out."

  "I do not wish for anything to go wrong with Meredith's plan, but I can't say that having her with me longer wouldn't be a pleasure."

  There was a soft, respectful knock at the door. I knew without really being told that it was a servant. It's as if they are taught that knock with the job description – a way of drawing attention to themselves, but not interrupting.

  Sholto called, "Enter."

  The woman who had brought the coat bowed as she came through the door. "King Sholto, I am sorry, but there is a matter that requires your attention."

  "Speak plainly, Bebe. What matter?"

  All three of her eyes flicked a look at Mistral and Doyle, maybe just a little more to Doyle, before she asked, "Are you certain you wish court matters to be spoken of before strangers?" She went to her knees immediately, "I do not mean Queen Meredith, but the two sidhe."

  I thought it was an interesting distinction that they were sidhe but Sholto and I were not. Was it simply that you could not be sidhe and rule the sluagh, or was it an acknowledgment that we both looked too unsidhe-like? I didn't know Bebe well enough to ask her thoughts, but it was still interesting.

  Sholto sighed, then turned to us. "I'm sorry, but it is true that you are not sluagh. I'll be right back, hopefully." He didn't look happy leaving us, but he went out into the hallway with the servant.

  "Interesting that they do not consider their king to be sidhe," Mistral said.

  "Or me," I said.

  Doyle came to me, running his hands down the arms of my new garment. "You do look lovely in the coat. It becomes you."

  "Yes," Mistral said. "I do not mean to ignore your beauty, Princess. Forgive me." He actually went down on one knee as I'd seen the guards do for Queen Andais when they feared that they'd displeased her.

  "Get up," I said, "and never do that again."

  He looked puzzled, but he stood, though the uncertainty on his face was almost painful. "I upset you. I am sorry."

  "It was the dropping to the ground like you would for the queen," Doyle said.

  I nodded. "I've had to do my own groveling on the floor all my life. I don't want to see it in my kings, or the fathers of my children. You can apologiz
e, Mistral, but never drop to the ground as if you are afraid of what I will do. That is not my way."

  He looked at Doyle, who gave one nod. Mistral came to stand by us. He smiled a little uncertainly at me. "It may take me a little while to understand this new way of doing things, but I am eager to learn things that keep me off my knees."

  I had to smile at that. "Oh, I don't know. I like a man on his knees if it's for a good cause."

  Mistral frowned.

  Doyle explained. "She means that if you are giving her pleasure, you can kneel to reach."

  Mistral actually blushed, something I had never seen him do before. He looked away, but answered, "I would be happy to do that again with you, Princess."

  "Meredith, Mistral. My name is Meredith, or even Merry, when we are alone."

  The door opened with no knock, and I knew by that that it would be Sholto. He came in, his face very obviously not happy.

  "What has happened?" Doyle asked.

  "Your mother has sent a message. She demands proof that you are well, or the Seelie are prepared to do more than just camp outside the sluagh's mound."

  "Are they truly willing to attack you?" I asked.

  "Whether they would do it, I cannot say, but that they threaten it is true enough."

  "Do they not understand what they risk?" Doyle asked.

  "I think they see no humans to tattle on them, and we have all made small battles one against the other where the humans have not seen them. We do not bear tales to the humans."

  "Taranis changed that when he went to the human authorities and accused my men of rape."

  "That was... odd," Sholto said.

  "And if we can get to the human authorities, we will return the favor, but with a true crime," I said, and even to me I sounded grim.

  Doyle hugged me, and I slid my arms around the warm bareness of him.

  "We can speak on the court mirror to your mother." Sholto got a strange look on his face.

  "What is it?" Mistral asked.

  "I just realized that this will be the first time I've spoken to my mother-in-law."

  Doyle startled in my arms. "I have thought of Besaba as an enemy for so long, but you are right. She is Meredith's mother."

  "No, she only gave birth to me," I said. "You have seen the death of the only woman who earned the right to be called my mother. Gran raised me with my father. My mother wants me now only because she thinks it may make her the mother of the queen of the Seelie. Before Taranis began to show interest in me, she cared nothing for me."

  "She is your mother," Sholto said.

  I shook my head, still wrapped in Doyle's arms. "I believe that you must earn that title. It's another by-product of being raised among the humans. I don't believe that just giving birth earns you anything."

  "The Christians believe that you must honor your father and mother," Doyle said.

  "True, but ask most Americans and they'll tell you you have to earn that respect."

  "Do you wish to ignore Besaba's request then?" Sholto asked.

  "No. She's pretending to be the aggrieved party. We must show her that there's no reason to be aggrieved." I gazed up at Doyle. "Would it be good or bad to have Doyle and Mistral at my side? Would you prefer that it be just you and me, Sholto?"

  "I think a show of force is called for," he said. He looked at the other two men. "If you have no objection, I think Meredith and myself in front as king and queen with you at our sides, and some of my other guards behind us. Let us remind them what they would fight."

  That seemed to meet with everyone's approval. Sholto said, smiling, "I think I have some clothes that will fit you both, though Mistral's a little bigger through the shoulders. Maybe an open jacket with no shirt, a very barbarian king."

  "I will wear what you like," Mistral said. "I appreciate you letting us stay at Meredith's side in this moment."

  "Those of the Seelie who are not afraid of the sluagh will fear the Queen's Darkness and Mistral, Lord of Storms."

  "It is long since I have had the power to do what my name says."

  "You hold the spear that once belonged to the Thunderer. Taranis's mark of power is in your hands, Storm Lord."

  "I think," Doyle said, "that that is information best not shared with the Seelie. They are already here for the chalice. If Taranis knew that one of his objects of power had chosen another hand to guide it... " Doyle shook his head and put his hands out, as if grasping for a word.

  I finished the thought for him. "Taranis would go apeshit."

  "Apeshit?" Doyle made it a question, then nodded. "I was going to say that he would kill us all, but yes, that term will do."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Doyle and Mistral fit nicely in Sholto's clothes, but then except for Rhys and myself, all the sidhe I knew were around six feet tall. The men were all broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and well built. The guards were muscled and hardened from weapons practice or actual battle. But Sholto was right about Mistral's shoulders. They were just a touch broader than either his, or Doyle's. Not by much, but it was enough that the shirts didn't fit, straining so badly that they didn't look right. Better to wear less clothing and look good than to wear more and look bad. We were about to deal with the Seelie Court, and they were all about appearances. If it looked good, it was good. So dysfunctional a family, that.

  Mirabella, the court seamstress, walked around Mistral tugging at the coat she'd found for those broad shoulders. She pulled one side with a pale, slender hand, then smoothed a fold in the rich blue cloth with her black-and-white tentacle.

  Her right arm was the tentacle of a nightflyer. She seemed perfectly human, except for that bit of extra. The tentacle was very dexterous, as I knew the nightflyers could be. She used both limbs without thought. It was the effortlessness of years of having both. Was she part nightflyer? The child of some attack, or even a willing roll in the hay? I wanted to ask, but it would have been rude.

  Mistral looked amazing in the coat. The rich blue color seemed to make his eyes blue too, like a summer sky. The wide collar was lined with gray fur so that his own cloud-gray hair seemed to meld with it, and it was hard to see where fur ended and hair began.

  Mirabella had him turn so she could see the long coat billow around him. There was more gray fur in a wide line down the back of the coat, so that the free spill of his ankle-length hair continued that mingling illusion – not an illusion of magic, but of skill and choice of clothing.

  "It looks like it was made for him," Doyle said dryly.

  The seamstress smoothed her brown hair in its neat bun with the tentacle, then looked at him with the full force of her olive-green eyes with their hint of brown and gray, and even almost gold around the irises. They were the closest a human could get to having multiple-colored eyes like a sidhe. She was tall and lovely, and moved with that stiff, strangely graceful, perfect posture that said that she was wearing a corset under her dress. The dress looked very 1800s, and was a deep, almost blackish green, which brought out the green in her eyes. The sleeves did not match the historical accuracy of the everyday dress. They were puffed at the top, and belled wide at the bottom so that they spilled back when she raised her limbs, and you got glimpses of the tentacle which went at least to where her elbow might have been.

  Sholto said, "Mirabella, did you make this for Mistral?"

  She didn't look at her king, but continued to fuss with the coat, which was almost more of a robe.

  "I told you of my dream, Your Highness."

  "Mirabella." He said her name with more force to it.

  She turned, and gave him a nervous flick of eyes, then turned Mistral toward us, as if for inspection. He'd taken all her fussing without complaint. Queen Andais liked dressing up her guards for dinners, dances, or her own amusement. Mistral was used to being treated as if his opinion did not matter when it came to dressing. Mirabella had been utterly professional compared to Andais. Not a single grope.

  Mistral was wearing a pair of black trousers,
tucked into knee-high boots. Mirabella had tied a wide blue sash at his waist, and the color looked good against the moonlight-white of his bare stomach. The deep, deep blue of the coat framed his chest, all that pale muscled flesh. When Sholto had said that Mistral would be a very barbarian king, he'd been right.

  "That coat was never made for my shoulders, Mirabella," Sholto said, giving her a look.

  She shrugged her shoulders, and something about the movement made me certain that there was a human shoulder under the sleeve, or something harder, and with more bone than the tentacle.

  She finally looked at her king. There was anger, no rage in those fine eyes. She dropped to her knees in a spill of heavy skirts and a glimpse of black petticoats. "Forgive me, My King, but hubris has gotten the better of me. If the Seelie are to see my work after so many years on other than you, King Sholto, then I want them to be impressed. I want them to see what clothes they might have had from my two good hands if Taranis hadn't taken one of them."

  That answered one question. Once upon a time, Mirabella had had two good hands.

  "You must have stayed up all night to sew this coat, and the outfit for Doyle."

  "Don't you remember, Your Highness? I made the red for you, but the queen did not care for it at court, so you never wore it again."

  Sholto frowned, then smiled and shook his head. "She thought it was too much color in her court. She called it too Seelie. I had forgotten."

  Doyle was dressed in red, a beautiful clear crimson that looked spectacular against the darkness of his skin. The contrast was almost painfully beautiful. The coat looked like a modern business suit jacket, except for the color and the fit. The fit flattered his broad shoulders and narrow waist – an athletic cut, they called it in the stores. There were pants to match, which she'd had to make small darts in so that they fit more closely at the waist, but the crimson cloth fit like a glove through the hips and thighs and spilled a little wide, so that the hem fell nicely over a pair of shiny black loafers.

  She'd chosen a silk shirt in an icy gray, which complemented both the red of the suit and Doyle's skin. She'd even had the nightflyer who had accompanied her do his hair in a long braid. The nightflyer had used her tentacles to weave red ribbons through all that black hair so that it trailed to his ankles with the line of red tracing back and forth.