Darkest Mercy tf-5

by Melissa Marr

  She stumbled as the pain and emotions of that injury came to her as clearly as they had been that day. The scent of funereal flowers made her body remember what her mind wished to deny. Had Donia meant to wound me so badly? It was a subject they hadn’t discussed: the Winter Queen’s ice could’ve easily been fatal. If not for Keenan. He’d saved her, and in doing so, he’d pushed her—and pushed Seth—into confronting the undeniable connection between the Summer King and Queen.

  However, it wasn’t the pleasure of her king healing her that she felt now: it was the pain of ice coursing through her body that washed over her anew as she breathed in the death-fey’s sugar-sweet breath. She put her hand on her stomach. “What . . . how . . .”

  “You weren’t completely in my reach before your king interfered,” Far Dorcha said.

  The Dark Man sighed again, and Aislinn felt memories tugging her back. She could feel slivers of winter buried inside her body; she could feel the horrible sense that this wound was the one to end her newfound immortality. This injury will be fatal. Aislinn felt her knees give out.

  “Enough.” She clutched the grass, seeking the buried fecundity of the earth to steady her. This isn’t an injury; it’s a memory.

  The pain was still intense enough that she stayed on the ground for a moment longer, letting the warmth of summer life flow from under the ice through the soil and to her.

  Then, her guards were there. A rowan had her arm, as if to steady her, but she shook him off and stood. She took a step toward Far Dorcha.

  Be confident. Aislinn could almost laugh at taking advice from the faery whose injury to her she was now reliving. I am the Summer Queen. I can do this.

  “You do not come here and attack a regent,” she said.

  “Attack?” The Dark Man laughed. “We had a bargain, little queen. It is not my fault that you are uncomfortable with the results.”

  With sunlight pulsing into her body as truly as if Keenan had stood beside her, sharing his light with her, she pushed her sunlight into Far Dorcha’s chest, not as a strike but as a reminder of what—who—she was. “I don’t know what you are doing, but that’s enough.”

  None of the guards touched Far Dorcha, but one did step closer to her. “My Queen? Perhaps—”

  Aislinn held up a hand. “I didn’t agree to that . . . whatever it was.”

  “Remembering,” Far Dorcha said. “I’m only remembering.”

  “It’s not your memory.” Aislinn motioned for the guards to stay where they were even as they tensed. A queen kept her court safe, and she was pretty certain that attacking the head of the death-fey wasn’t likely to go well.

  “It should’ve been my memory,” he said. “If he hadn’t found you when he did, you would’ve been dead not long after.”

  Far Dorcha exhaled again, sending that sugar-sweet breath toward her in a prolonged sigh.

  Aislinn turned her head to avoid inhaling.

  Expression pensive, Far Dorcha looked past her. Then he said, “Some wounds take longer to kill. I should’ve been summoned. Your king has questions to answer, Summer Queen.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to mention that to him.” She motioned to the street. “I agreed to your escorting me to my door—”

  “Another day,” Far Dorcha said absently, and with as little sound as he’d made when he arrived, he left.

  The temper she couldn’t fully repress flared to life as Aislinn strode through the cluster of her guards, letting them scurry to reorganize themselves as they escorted her.

  By the time she reached the loft that was now her home, her temper had faded and clarity struck her: there must be a reason the head of the death-fey was in Huntsdale—and she couldn’t think of any reasons that didn’t worry her.

  Who has died? Will die? Her mind swirled with thoughts of Seth and Keenan, of her court, of faeries who weren’t hers but whom she’d still mourn. Seth and Keenan are away. It’s not them. Right? Where are they?

  She raced up the stairs, shoved open the door, and called, “Tavish! I need advice. Now.”

  Instead of her trusted advisor, Quinn came into the main room. “Tavish is with the Summer Girls, but I’m here.”

  The birds that used to be Keenan’s swooped around manically as Aislinn’s temper spiked again. “I need answers.”

  Quinn ducked as one of the cockatiels flew dangerously close to his ear. He was wise enough not to swipe at the bird, but the scowl he flashed it wasn’t fleeting enough for her to miss. “Can I help?”

  Aislinn extended her arm for the offending bird. It settled on her wrist and walked sideways up to her shoulder. She wasn’t going to tell Quinn about her encounter with Death, but there were other subjects that he could address. Be assertive. She’d been patient for almost six months, waiting for the Summer King to return to his court. She’d waited for Seth while he was in Faerie. Is Keenan hiding in Faerie now? Is that where Seth is again too? Seth had disappeared several days ago, and given that he had been claimed as a child to the High Queen, Aislinn suspected his disappearance was tied to her. Keenan might not be close with Sorcha, but he’d had centuries of dealing with her. Did he go to Faerie for something too? The High Queen had answers, and had been at odds with her mad twin sister, Bananach, for centuries longer than Aislinn had lived, but she wasn’t coming to offer aid to any who now dealt with the strengthened War—and Aislinn didn’t expect her to do so. According to Keenan, the High Queen had kept herself withdrawn from the centuries of conflict between Winter and Summer. And I cannot ask her for insight because I can’t go to her. I can’t even go find out if my king or my . . . Seth . . . is with her.

  “How is it that I’m not aware of how to enter Faerie?” Aislinn let her temper simmer in her voice and on her skin. “Where are the gates to Faerie?”

  “My queen—”

  “No,” she interrupted before he could begin another litany of the dangers of entering Faerie without the High Queen’s consent. “Everyone else seems to know how to enter Faerie. Seth knows. Niall knows. Keenan knows. Why do I not know?”

  “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, my queen, the others are not new to being fey, aside from Seth, who is the Unchanging Queen’s. . . . She is fond of him.”

  At the flash of light that sizzled from the Summer Queen’s skin, Quinn added hurriedly, “But in a different way than you are, my queen. She knows he is your . . .” Quinn’s words faded, and he ducked his head rather than try to finish that sentence.

  What is Seth?

  Once he’d been her friend; then, he’d been her everything. Then he’d become a faery, and she’d made some stupid mistakes. Now she wasn’t sure what he was. Which doesn’t mean Seth should take off without telling me. Aislinn scowled. Neither should’ve Keenan. Her king had walked out on her, left her in charge of a court with only half the strength of the regency, and she was trying her damnedest not to flounder too much.

  Be assertive, she reminded herself. Maybe I should do so with Keenan and Seth too.

  “Aislinn?” Quinn said her name cautiously.

  “What?” She looked at him, only to realize that the room was filled with rainbows from the tiny rain shower and sunbursts that had begun while she was thinking. “Oh.”

  The plants and the birds and the various creatures that lived in the stream they’d put in the room all thrived under these conditions, but Quinn looked a bit perturbed by his sopping clothes.

  There’s a psycho faery who thrives on violence and has noticed Seth and who took him to Faerie once already. My king has bailed. Oh, and Death is visiting.

  She shook her head. “Send Tavish to me.”

  Quinn tried to wipe the rain from his face surreptitiously. “For?”

  The Summer Queen paused midway through turning away from Quinn and glanced back at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Is there a message?” Quinn’s expression was the carefully bland one that she’d quickly learned to identify as a mask.

  “The message, Quinn, is that his queen—your
queen—has summoned him.” She smiled, not kindly but with a cruelty that she’d had to learn when Keenan left her to rule the Summer Court on her own. With a deceptively soft voice, she asked, “Is there a reason you want to know what I say to another faery? A reason you question your queen?”

  Quinn lowered his gaze to the muddy floor. “I hadn’t intended to insult you.”

  For a breath, she considered pointing out that she noticed that he had avoided the question she’d asked. Misdirection, omission, and opinion were the faery standbys to work around the “no lying” limitation. Quinn, and a number of other faeries, seemed to think that her relatively recent mortality and her age made her easier to mislead. And sometimes it has meant that. Not always, though. She kept her own expression as mask-bland as his.

  “Fetch Tavish. Find some answers on where in the hell Seth and Keenan are. I’m tired of excuses . . . and I want instruction on how to enter Faerie,” she said.

  Then, before her mask of confidence slipped, she turned away.

  Chapter 5

  “My staying here in Faerie is not an option,” Seth repeated to his queen. “You know that as well as I do.”

  Sorcha turned her back to him, as if the movement would hide the silver tears that trailed down her cheeks, and walked away.

  “Mother.” He followed her into the garden that had replaced the wall of his room as she had approached it. “You needed me, and I came.”

  She nodded, but didn’t face him. Tiny insects that were neither dragonflies nor butterflies darted toward her, fluttered briefly, and zipped away. The metallic glint of their wings made the air around her appear to glitter.

  “I’m not going to respond well to being caged. You knew that when you chose to be my mother.” He put a hand on her shoulder, and she turned toward him.

  “I can’t see you, and their world is . . . treacherous.” She pursed her lips in a pout that made her seem childlike.

  “If I were the sort to abandon those I love, I wouldn’t have come home to you,” Seth pointed out. For all of her centuries of living, parenthood was new to Sorcha. Emotion was unfamiliar to her. There was bound to be a bit of adjustment.

  Her adjustment just about ended the world. He put his arm around her and led her to a stone bench. If she were angry . . . The thought of a furious almost-omnipotent queen made his skin grow cold. Devlin had done the right thing in closing the gate to the mortal world, trapping Sorcha here in Faerie.

  Sorcha clutched his arm so tightly that he had to hide a wince of pain. “What if she kills you?”

  “I don’t think Bananach will.” Seth pulled her to him, and she let her head rest on his shoulder.

  “I can’t go after her.” Sorcha, the very embodiment of reason, sounded petulant. “I tried the gate.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He bit back a smile, but she still lifted her head and looked at him.

  “You sound amused, Seth.”

  “You’ve been all-powerful since you first existed, and now there are restrictions . . . and emotions . . . and”—he squeezed her briefly—“you wanted to change, but it’s not as easy as you expected.”

  “True . . . but . . .” She frowned. “How is that humorous?”

  He kissed her cheek. “Your worry and your desire to be near those you love are very human. For someone who isn’t my birth mother, you have traits I share. I return to the mortal world to be with those I love.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder again. “I would rather you stay here in Faerie, where I can keep you safe.”

  “But you understand why I’m not going to?” he prompted.

  For several moments, she didn’t answer. She stayed next to him, and together they were silent. Then she straightened and turned to face him. “I don’t like it.”

  “But you understand?” He took both of her hands in his so that she couldn’t walk away. “Mother?”

  She sighed. “If you get killed, I will be vexed.”

  “And if I kill your sister?”

  “I would be pleased.” Sorcha’s voice became softer.

  “Was that your plan when you made me a faery?”

  Sorcha didn’t flinch from his gaze. “I needed you to be bound to my court even more than you were bound to the others. By giving you a part of me, I knew I would be no longer balanced by Bananach. I believe now—as I did then—that you are the key to her death.” She looked away. “I thought you might die as a result, but not that your death would matter to me.”

  “We cannot see our own futures,” he reminded her.

  “I saw yours until you became mine. You would have died. If I hadn’t remade you, you would be dead now. My sister would have tortured you, and your Ash would have led her court to a battle they could not win.” Sorcha frowned. “I would not object to the Summer Queen’s death, but I did not want War to have what she sought. If I gave you this”—Sorcha motioned around Faerie—“you would be mine to use as I required.”

  Seth felt the flash of unease he’d felt when he first met Sorcha, remembered how alien she was to him, but he also remembered that mere days ago she had come near to destroying Faerie because she missed him. He smiled at his mother and assured her, “I don’t blame you. You gave me what I sought—even if it was for your own selfish reasons.”

  “And for your selfish reasons, Seth.” The High Queen almost laughed then. “You are impertinent, but I am glad that you are mine.”

  Seth felt his tension vanish. His queen, his mother, was serene again, and she’d admitted that which she hadn’t wanted to tell him, that which he’d known already: she’d intended to use and then discard him.

  “Devlin’s decision to close the gate to you was wise,” he said.

  Sorcha leveled an unreadable gaze on him, but she said nothing.

  “I saw that,” Seth said. “Not with future sight, but with logic, and I can guarantee that if I don’t survive, he will be here for you. You may not call him your son”—he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to object—“but he is. He loves you, and he will be here if you need him. Faerie is in good hands.”

  “You are impertinent,” she repeated, but her tone was undeniably affectionate.

  “I love you too.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Far Dorcha walks in Huntsdale. He is, like all death-fey, able to bring about the end of life for any faery. Unlike most death-fey, he is the only being allowed to do so without consent or order.” The High Queen paused. “When War strikes, he will be there, as will his sister, Ankou. You must not let them touch you.”

  “I will do what I must do. It’s why you made me, Mother. Bananach won’t stop,” Seth reminded her. “Those within Faerie will be safe. You are safe. Sealing the gate has done that . . . and I will go to Huntsdale and do what you sought: I will try to kill her. I’ve been training with the Hounds for this reason. They will want her death now. Niall will. It’s what we all want.”

  Sorcha turned away to watch the garden as it shifted around them, and Seth felt as much as saw the moods she was trying to keep in order. She was balanced now, but she was still unused to having emotions.

  After several moments, she turned her attention back to him. “I do not like when the consequences of a choice are not what I wish them to be. I want you to . . . I want you to not go, but since you are going, I require a promise that you will not get injured as Irial did. He could have avoided it. If you can avoid injury, you will do so.”

  Wisely, Seth decided not to answer. Instead, he asked, “Did you know he would do that?”

  Sorcha nodded. “And you?”

  “I did,” Seth admitted. “I looked at the other possibilities. They were worse.”

  “It would be better if Niall did not know of your foreseeing Irial’s death.” She frowned, and the garden became less orderly. “He cares a great deal for Irial’s well-being. He’s denied it for centuries, but his denial was transparent to many of us.”

  “And the new Shadow Court? How will that affect him?” Seth prompte
d.

  “My court balanced the Dark for forever. Without the balance, Niall will be . . . unwell.” The High Queen lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “The gates are sealed to me, so that world is not my concern.”

  “You know he matters to me, Mother. He’s my sworn brother. When I was vulnerable, surrounded by faeries, he protected me. He gave me family before I found you, and he’s taken me into his.” Seth frowned. “I want him to be well; I need that.”

  “I will be his balance again. . . . Simply convince the Shadow Court to disband; convince them to unlock the gates from Faerie to the mortal world,” she suggested.

  “No.”

  “Then there is nothing I can do. Niall will fall, or he won’t. I am unable to assist in either path.” Sorcha kissed both of Seth’s cheeks. “No foolish sacrifices.”

  “I can’t make that promise,” he admitted. “There are three faeries I’d sacrifice myself for. Two of them are in the mortal world.”

  “In fairness, you should know that I would kill them to keep you from doing that.” Sorcha began to walk toward his quarters, and he followed.

  “Which is yet another benefit of the gates being barred to you,” Seth said.

  The High Queen stopped and turned around. The assessing gaze she leveled at him reminded Seth that this faery had existed since before he could fathom, before—by her admission—she could remember. He wasn’t yet old enough to legally drink, and although he’d been on his own for a couple of years, he had lived only a moment compared to her.

  “Do not vex me, Seth.” Sorcha closed the distance between them and brushed his hair back. “I am well aware that you were influential in encouraging that Hound and Devlin to create a new court. I do not forget that you had a role in barring me from the mortal world.”

  “I want you to be safe,” he reminded her.

  “And unable to reach the mortal world.” She kept her hand on his head. “You are mine. You matter to me as no one else ever has, but it would be wise of you to remember that I am not mortal. Don’t forget that when you make such decisions in the future.”