by Melissa Marr
“You unman him with such a threat,” Devlin remarked.
“No,” Irial corrected. “I protect him. It is no different from what you would do for your queen.”
Devlin paused a heartbeat too long before murmuring, “Perhaps.”
“Inside on your own, or they’ll move you.” Gabriel clamped a hand on Irial’s shoulder. “I will not disobey my king—nor will you.”
Several of the Hounds shifted restlessly. They would obey their Gabriel, but after centuries of protecting Irial, they were uneasy at the idea of manhandling him.
“Your words are noted and will be relayed to my queen.” Devlin bowed his head, either to hide his expression or out of respect. Irial wasn’t sure which.
Niall was fuming when Irial entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone but them. “What were you thinking? Did you ignore everything I said yesterday?”
“No.” Irial was unabashed. He put his hand against the shadow-formed wall. “You are able to do things that I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”
“At least one of us is adjusting well.”
At that, Irial paused. “What do you mean?”
“Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me,” Niall said as calmly as he could. “You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that, as your king, I should be told.”
For a moment, Irial stood in silence. “If Gabriel were to be injured, the Hounds could replace him, and we cannot be certain that another Hound would support you as Gabriel will.”
“I know.”
“So of the two, I am more expendable.” Irial shrugged.
“You are not expendable…. And I couldn’t speak it if it were untrue”—Niall held up his hand before Irial could interrupt—“neither could you, so we both believe we speak truths. You told me of this visit, advised me how to proceed, and then undermined me. You should have told me what you learned.”
“I’m not very good at serving.”
Niall put one hand on Irial’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees. “I noticed.”
The truth was that even as he was apologizing, Irial was not subservient. Kings weren’t meant to become subjects, and after centuries of being a king, Irial wasn’t likely to change overnight. Or at all. The consequence of that truth, however, was that the one faery in the Dark Court best able to advise Niall was also the one least suited to being anyone’s subject.
“We need a solution or you need to go,” Niall started.
Irial lifted his gaze. “You would exile me?”
“If you work against me, yes, I will.” Niall frowned. “Tell me what you know. Maybe we need to do so every day. A meeting … or a memo … or I don’t know.”
Irial started to rise to his feet.
“No,” Niall whispered. “You will kneel until I say otherwise.”
A slow smile came over Irial’s face. “As you will.”
“I’m not joking, Irial. Either I’m your king or you are gone. If I am to rule this court, I need you”—Niall paused to let the weight of that sentence settle on both of them—“more than I think I’ve needed anyone since you failed me so many centuries ago. So tell me right now, do you want the court back, do you want to leave, or do you intend to be my advisor in truth?”
“I want to keep you and the court safe.” Irial looked only at Niall despite the growing number of faeries outside the shadowed barrier. “That means I cannot be their king.”
“Then stop trying to make all of the decisions.” Niall ignored the fighting outside the wall as well. A fair number of Ly Ergs stood in front of Devlin, who was steadily throwing them across the room as if they were weightless. “You learned that the High Queen wanted a strike that would be a noticeable display of her assassin’s strength.”
“Yes.”
“Gabe has arranged that—up to allowing you to act the fool,” Niall said.
Irial startled. “I see.”
“I sent Gabe to find out which of your spies you’d visited.” Niall let his pleasure in the situation be obvious in his voice. “I manipulated you, Irial.”
Irial turned away to watch another faery go sailing by the barrier. “May I rise?”
“No.” Niall hid a grin. “You will give me your vow.” “On what?”
“I will have your vow that you will tell me when there are threats that you consider protecting me from, threats to me or to the court or to you that you consider withholding, and you will tell me what they are as soon as you are reasonably able to do so.” Niall had weighed the words in his mind as he’d sat stewing over Irial’s deceit. “You will vow to trust me with ruling this court or you will become solitary, exiled from the court, and from my presence until I decide otherwise.”
The flash of fear that Irial felt almost made Niall waver. Instead, he continued, “You will spend as much time as I require in my presence, teaching me the secrets that you are even now thinking I can’t handle yet.”
“There are centuries of secrets,” Irial hedged.
“Either you kneel there and give me your vow to all that I just said”—Niall reached out, gripped the underside of Irial’s jaw in his hand, and forced his once-friend, once-more, once-enemy to look at him—“or you may stand and walk out the door.”
“If I tell you everything, neither of us will sleep or do anything else for months.”
Niall squeezed Irial’s throat, not hard enough to bruise—much—and asked, “If I directed you to tell me what you hide, would you be able to give me a full answer?”
“In time? Yes. Today? No. Centuries, Niall, I’ve been dealing in secrets for centuries.” Irial stayed motionless in Niall’s grasp. “I told you about my understanding with Sorcha. I had Gabe bring you one of—”
“Yes,” Niall interrupted, squeezing harder now. “Did they spy for you?”
“Only on you.”
With a snarl, Niall shoved him away. “You vow or go.”
Even as he struggled to remain kneeling, Irial didn’t hesitate in his words. “My vow … and full truth within the decade.”
“Within the year.”
Irial shook his head. “That is impossible.”
“Two years.”
“No more than three years,” Irial offered. “You have eternity to rule them, three years is but a blink.”
For a moment, Niall considered forcing the matter, but if it had taken him centuries to change, it was far from unreasonable for Irial to ask for less than a decade. Niall nodded. “Done.”
“May I rise now?” Irial asked.
“Actually, no. You can stay like that. In fact, maybe you should always stay like that when you bring me news.” Niall dropped the barrier and launched himself into the fracas.
This, at least, I understand.
CHAPTER 9
IRIAL FELT UNCONSCIONABLY PROUD OF his king as Niall waded into the fight that was now more than a conflict between Devlin and the Ly Ergs. Niall had always fought with unrestrained passion. The Dark King was in the thick of the fight, swinging at Hounds and Ly Ergs and Vilas.
Glass shattered over Irial and rained down on him. With it came the remains of a bottle of merlot. The dark wine dripped on Irial, but he stayed exactly where his king had told him to stay: kneeling in the midst of the chaos of a beautiful bloody battle.
For several minutes, Irial remained kneeling in the midst of the fight, which now included a full three score of faeries. More than a few faeries took advantage of the melee to pelt things at him or at the walls and ceiling. Debris rained on him. At least three blows struck him. He didn’t ignore them, but fighting while kneeling was a new challenge.
Finally Niall came over and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Get up.”
Irial obeyed—which was the point of the exercise. He brushed bits of glass from his arms and shook splinters of wood from his hair.
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“Stay next to me or next to Gabe,” Niall demanded as he swung at an exuberant thistlefey. “Clear?”
“Yes.” Irial grabbed a length of what appeared to be a chair and sent it like a spear toward Devlin.
The High Court assassin knocked it from the air with a nod. He wasn’t injured in any visible way, but he was blood-covered and smiling. Devlin might choose to ignore the fact that he was brother to both Order and Chaos, but here in the midst of the Dark Court’s violence, it was abundantly clear that he was not truly a creature of the High Court.
Another faery went sailing through the air, knocking into Devlin as if a running leap would make a difference. It didn’t. The High Court’s Bloodied Hands swatted the faery from the air and moved on to the next opponent.
“They lack structure,” a Hound grumbled as she stomped on a fallen Vila’s hand. “No plan in the attack.”
“Was there supposed to be a plan?” Irial asked.
The Hound looked past him to Niall, who nodded. Then she answered, “No. Gabe thought a bit of sport would be good for everyone. The king agreed.” She lowered her voice a touch and added, “He fights well enough that I’d follow him.”
“He is remarkable.” Irial glanced at Niall. The Dark King was enjoying himself as the fight began to evolve into a contest of sorts. In one corner, Devlin stood atop a pile of tables and wood; in another, Gabriel stood with his back to the wall; and beside Irial, Niall stood on a small raised platform. All around the room the Dark Court faeries scrabbled toward one of the three victors. Without speaking, the fight began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everyone wanted to topple one of the three strongest fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were still having fun.
Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighters, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could have been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.
And Niall had made his point.
The new Dark King had played them all like pawns.
Irial started to back away, and the Hound next to him clamped a hand on his arm. Irial glanced from her to Niall, who grinned, dodged a punch from a glaistig, and said, “I don’t think you were dismissed.”
The Hound and the glaistig both laughed.
I love my court.
“As you wish.” Irial stepped around the Hound to lean against a wall out of the fight. He had more than his fill of fighting. If he could fight Niall, it’d be different, but fighting for random sport wasn’t his preferred entertainment.
Almost an hour later, Devlin bowed to Gabriel and then to Niall.
The faeries dispersed, limping, bleeding, stumbling—and chortling with glee.
“The High Queen sends her greetings,” Devlin said as he approached Niall. “She reminds the new Dark King that he is no different than any other faery and that she expects him to abide by the same restraints the last”—Devlin looked at Irial then—“Dark King observed.”
None of them spoke the unspoken truths about the numerous visits that Irial had paid to the High Queen in Faerie, but they all knew of those visits. Such is the way of it. Irial kept his gaze on his king rather than reply to Devlin. It was the king who needed to answer the invitation implicit in those words.
Niall didn’t disappoint.
“Please let Sorcha know that her greeting was received, that her assassin has made her willingness to strike at me and mine abundantly clear, and”—Niall jumped down so he was standing face-to-face with Devlin—“if she ever touches those under my protection without just cause, I will be at her step.”
Devlin nodded. “Will you be requesting an audience with her?”
“No,” Niall said. “There is nothing and no one in Faerie right now that interests me enough to visit.”
For a breath, Irial thought Devlin was going to strike Niall, but the moment passed.
Then, Niall smiled. He gestured behind him, and a Vila escorted a sightless mortal man into the room.
“This”—Niall didn’t turn to look at the mortal—“is unacceptable. My court has offered this man protection. He will not be taken to Faerie or otherwise accosted.” He kept his gaze on Devlin.
The ghost of a smile flickered on Devlin’s face, but all he said was, “I shall relay the message to my queen.”
“And any discussion she has on Dark Court matters”—Niall stepped forward—“will be handled between regents or via official emissaries.”
Devlin did smile this time. “My queen has only one emissary. Do you have a chosen proxy?”
“As of this moment, no, but”—Niall glanced at Irial—“perhaps that will change in time.” The Dark King turned his back on all of them then and said only, “Gabriel.”
The Hound inclined his head, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward the door. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then only Irial and Niall were left in the destruction.
Irial waited for the words that went with the frustrated anger that he could taste. He counted a dozen heartbeats before his king turned to face him.
“Don’t push me again, Iri,” Niall whispered. “I rule this damnable court now, and I’ll do it with you on my side—as you promised—or with you under my boot.”
Irial opened his mouth, but Niall growled.
“You tell me you care about them, and about me, so you better prove it.” Niall blinked against a trickle of blood that ran into his eye. “I don’t expect you to change today, but you need to trust me more than you have.”
“I trust you with my life.” Irial ripped the edge of his shirt off and held it out.
“I know that,” Niall muttered. “Now, try trusting me with my life.”
And to that, Irial had no reply. He kept his mouth closed as Niall stomped through the destruction and left. The Dark King was here, truly and fully, and Irial would do what he could to serve his king.
As truthfully as I can.
There was no way to tell Niall everything, but he had three years before he had to be fully honest. An otherwise unoccupied faery could get a lot accomplished in three years, and the sort of king Niall was could get their court in order in far less time than that. All told, the Dark Court was better off than it had been in quite some time.
And so is Niall.
EPILOGUE
IT IS INEVITABLE, BROTHER,” SORCHA SAID by way of greeting when he finished his report.
“What is?”
“Her ascending to strength.” Sorcha could not see her twin’s future, but she knew well the results of Chaos’ growing stronger. The world was not as it should be. Deaths that Sorcha would mourn, in her way, were coming.
As Sorcha reached into the seemingly empty space in front of her, she plucked at threads of possibilities. She let them slip through her fingers, each one as unsatisfactory as the next: her former lover dead, her brother dead, a pierced mortal dead, her once-friend dead, Faerie blackened. They were only possibilities, but none were pleasing.
“She is not going to be stilled easily,” Sorcha whispered.
“You are stronger, Sister.” Devlin smelled of blood. It wasn’t visible on him, but the lingering scent of violence clung to him.
A weapon to be used to keep Chaos at bay.
“Will you help me?”
“I serve the High Court, my Queen. I cannot fathom any reason that I would do otherwise.” He stared at her as he spoke. “Do you know of a reason I would do otherwise?”
There was no pleasing answer to that question. She knew many reasons that he would do otherwise: he was Bananach’s creature too; he wanted things not found in Faerie in centuries; he resented her; he enjoyed violence. None of those were new facts. Logically, none were worth speaking.
“There is a mortal I see.”
“An artist? A Sighted one? A halfling?”
Curiously, as Sorcha tried to look at him, the mortal with the metal decorating his face, she saw o
nly blackness. There was nothing. It was akin to attempting to see Devlin’s or Bananach’s future. Or my own future. In the moment between seeing the mortal and speaking of him, he had become part of one of the three of their lives. He matters.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Watch for him. He is young but not a child. He will matter to one of us.”
Devlin bowed.
Sorcha closed her eyes trying to recall other details, but her glimpse of him had been too brief. “He wears an assortment of metal in his skin.”
“Steel?”
“I do not know. I cannot See him now.” She opened her eyes. “He was a glimpse, and in that glimpse, he was still and bleeding, lying on the soil here in Faerie.”
“Did that please you?”
She shook her head, but did not admit the curious sense she’d had that this mortal’s pain hurt her. The Queen of Order did not mourn. It was illogical. “I do not believe it did.”
Devlin approached her. Silently, he reached out and swiped a tear from her cheek. He lifted it and held it up.
They both looked at it, a silver droplet on the tip of his outstretched finger.
“The body does odd things at times,” she whispered.
“It’s a tear.”
Sorcha lifted her gaze from the oddity to stare at her brother’s face. “I do not weep.”
“Yes, my Queen.” He pulled his hand behind him, and she knew without looking that the tear was still held there.
She nodded and brushed past him. At the doorway, she paused for a servant to appear. She did not speak to him; in order to be worthy of being allowed in her private rooms, those most trusted sacrificed their hearing. At set locations, they waited with eyes downcast so as not to lip-read the words she spoke. The servant saw the hem of her dress on the floor before him, and so stepped forward to pull the tapestry away from the doorway.
“I will find him,” Devlin said from behind her. “The mortal.”
Her heart felt oddly constricted. “Not all threads are truths, Brother. What is truth is that Chaos grows. Every possibility I See shows me the results of her strength. I need you to be mine.”
