The Exile: Book One of the Fae

by C. T. Adams

  It made no sense.

  “Your majesty.” Leu could feel Moash’s eyes upon him; the old doxie seemed to see through the calm exterior Leu presented to the assembly. “A word in private, if I may?”

  At Leu’s curt nod, his other advisors stepped back. Moash quickly used one claw to etch a circle just big enough to contain the two kings. He spit on it, the acid saliva burning into the marble tile, and at the same time sending flickering green flame racing around the circle. When it closed, the kings stood in a bubble of silence so complete that their very breaths sounded loud.

  “We are winning,” Moash observed. “But you do not seem well pleased. Why? Where are the dragons? And where are your children? They should be fighting beside you. Brianna would not willingly leave your side at a time like this.”

  “Not willingly, no.” Leu looked down at Moash, smiling at the old doxie. Moash was no fool. It was a shame about his son. The prince was a proud idiot. Then again, the same could be—had been—said about some of Leu’s own children. He felt a spasm of grief at the loss of Eammon, but forced his mind away from the pain.

  Moash pressed harder. “Tell me. I can’t help you intelligently without knowing what we’re up against.”

  Leu gave an exasperated sigh. He wanted to trust Moash—needed to trust someone. “I met with Fate the other night. I know I am betrayed, that I am to die this day at a traitor’s hand.”

  Moash took a sharp step back, and was brought up short by the power of the circle. A calculating look came into the Doxie King’s eyes. “Which is why the palace is so lightly defended—and none of your children at hand.” Leu could see the calculation running through the doxie’s eyes as he looked at his High King’s plans with this new information in mind. He saw awareness, and admiration dawn.

  “If I die,” Leu said quietly, “and the ring is taken from my finger, you’ll need to stay as far back as you can.” He gave a wolfish smile.

  Moash arched a single eyebrow. “I’m surprised you would trust me with this information, sire, but I am glad to hear it. I probably won’t be alive to see it. But I suspect it will be—”

  “Electrifying,” Leu promised. “And I do trust you. Ju-Long found no evidence that you were aware of your son’s plots.

  Moash gave a nod of satisfaction. “Of course not. There is none.” He turned, looking at the map floating nearby. “With this new information in mind, may I make a few suggestions?”

  “Suggest away.”

  Moash reached down, deliberately breaking the circle. He and the High King strode over to the map. The King of the Doxies raised a claw, pointing at a particular spot on the map, and said, “Here is what I have in mind.”

  43

  JU-LONG

  He had failed. He knew it the instant he heard the shot—saw the human assassin in the flash of his weapon, standing in the shadows behind an overstuffed garbage Dumpster. He tried to shout a warning, drew his .45 and his magic, but it was already too late. Lucienne staggered as the bullets impacted her chest. The entrance wounds were small. The exit tore out half of her back and chest. She crumpled to the ground, blood frothing from her mouth and spurting from a severed artery to pool on the filthy cement.

  He fired, and missed, his first shot taking a chunk out of the brick wall by the assassin’s head, making him flinch, causing his shot at Ju-Long to go wide.

  Ju-Long’s second shot caught the man in the throat, and with the heavy caliber of his gun severed the assassin’s spine. Head and body fell separately to the ground.

  He turned, intending to rush to Lucienne’s side, and found Fate standing in his way. The crone bent down, her words a sibilant whisper just beyond Ju-Long’s hearing. She laid a gentle kiss on Lucienne’s forehead and the dragon watched in shock as the old woman’s soul slid into the dying body and Lucienne’s essence flowed upward, becoming a new aspect of Fate.

  Sirens blared, close and coming closer: Brianna’s shop, being downtown, was close to the main police station and ambulance dispatch.

  “You need to go now, before the authorities arrive.” It was Lucienne speaking, standing over her own corpse.

  He just stared. Behind her the back door of the shop opened. His daughter Mei stood there with Morguenna and the Ard Reigh herself.

  He turned to Brianna, said, “I’m sorry,” before stepping back through the still-open portal and sealing it closed behind him.

  Standing on the bank of the river again, tears stung his eyes. He’d failed her, failed his king. And Lucienne had paid the price. As Clotho her soul would live on, but she was not, would never again be Lucienne.

  Fate would give the ring to Brianna, and perhaps that was as it should be. But what of him?

  Listening, he heard the fighting in the distance. Could it be? Had the king synched time between the two worlds again for the day of battle?

  Ju-Long felt a surge of hope. Perhaps he could still do his king some good, could still redeem himself in others’ eyes, if never in his own. And perhaps he could take his revenge on the woman responsible for placing the assassin behind Brianna’s shop.

  In a rush of power he transformed into his true form and launched himself skyward. It was time he joined the battle.

  He flew through the air of Faerie, through the clouds, cold and wet against his scaly skin. He was looking to see where he could do the most good. Looking down, the earth was small, the creatures on it tiny ants, only visible at all when he strained to see them. His destination was the royal city. But before he reported to the king he wanted to see the lay of the troops, the progress of the many battles. Only a dragon could fly fast and far enough to get a true overview.

  Cloaking himself in illusion he dropped down in altitude. Now he could see individuals as bodies, though not faces.

  Everywhere he looked the fight was on—outside the city farms had been set ablaze, fields of grain turned to battlefields muddied with Sidhe blood, corpses drawing the inevitable circling of carrion birds.

  In the forest he glimpsed enemy forces. The wild men of the west, Valjeta’s allies, creeping forward, their mottled green clothing making it difficult for him to see them clearly. The doxies, in the trees above them had no such problem. Waiting until the perfect moment they dropped down from the branches on top of their enemy wreaking death and devastation with unholy abandon.

  On the road leading into the east gate of the city he saw mounted troops galloping forward to attack a knot of guards seemingly pinned down—then watched as the ground itself seemed to erupt and thousands of rocs, the gargoyles tiny kin, swarmed up and over the horses, covering them in a squirming mass of grinding rock; devouring horse and rider with abandon.

  On the wall above the west gate he saw Teo and Nama’an, working together using a grenade launcher, to devastating effect, though where they’d gotten it and how they’d learned its use he had no clue.

  No one here needed his help.

  He circled, debating where to go, wondering where the bitch Valjeta had gotten to. She was the enemy’s leader. She was in the field somewhere. He knew it. But there’d been no sign of her.

  And then he remembered: the tunnels. If Lucienne’s messenger had failed to get through they were unguarded. It felt right. Using the tunnels Valjeta would be able to get into the palace itself—fight her way to the very throne room.

  Ju-Long snarled. The enemy might even now be sneaking into the palace unhindered by the fierce battles raging above ground.

  He circled back to the Guardsman Tavern and found it under attack. Enemy troops had it surrounded. The inn itself was ablaze. Still, guards fought on, raining magic down on the enemy from entrenched positions, mounted cavalry harrying them, then slipping away.

  Ju-Long waited, choosing his moment with care. The riders came in on the attack, wreaking havoc on the enemy, who fought furiously, aiming both weapons and magic to take down beast and rider, with some success.

  One third less cavalry returned than had set out. But as they turned, when their beas
ts were far enough away not to be terrified by his presence, Ju-Long swooped down, shedding his veil as he went, drawing air deep in his lungs then sending it blasting down on the enemy troops in a wide swath of destruction.

  The guards cheered as the enemy was forced to draw back in sudden disarray.

  That was what Ju-Long needed. Rather than rise back in the clouds he pulled illusion around himself, shifting forms as he landed. Invisible to friend and enemy alike, he was at great risk of getting caught in the crossfire. The knowledge drove him, and he dashed at a full sprint to the entrance to the tavern’s stable and the tunnel entrance.

  44

  KING LEU OF THE SIDHE

  The enemy had come through the tunnels.

  The palace was overrun. Chaos reigned. Smoke and magic filled the air and bright blood slicked the black-and-white marble of the throne room. In the crowded, confusing space, using projectile weapons was nearly impossible, so battle was being waged in the traditional way, with swords and spells.

  Petros had fallen, victim of a fire bolt that had been meant for the king. His body was only one of many, many fallen, attacker and defender alike.

  Leu and Asara were fighting back-to-back, swinging blades and slinging spells in an instinctive rhythm. They did it well, easily holding off any attackers who managed to force their way through the ring of defenders surrounding them.

  Gwynneth was engaged in a vicious battle with a warrior whose face was hidden in a hooded red cloak. They seemed well matched, trading blow for blow and feint for feint. Viktor had slain Alaric and was cutting a swath through the defenders, while continuing to shield Valjeta.

  A dive by Moash forced Viktor to the floor. On the second balcony, a gnome saw his opening. He grabbed a roc from the group waiting at his feet, loaded the little creature into his slingshot, and sent spinning toward the would-be queen’s head. The roc shrieked a shrill war cry as it flew. It struck Valjeta’s forehead and clawed out her eye.

  The usurper shrieked in pain and agony as blood and worse flowed from her eye socket. She grabbed the vicious little stone troll. In the instant before she flung it from her into the nearest marble column, it bit her hand, stone teeth shredding skin and crushing bone. Throughout the room, more rocs swarmed down from the balcony, rolling like a moving carpet to cover enemy soldiers, who screamed in agony as they were eaten alive.

  The vicious duel between the red-cloaked form and Gwynneth ended with a well-placed thrust of the enemy’s dagger into the guard’s armpit as he was recovering from a swing of his sword.

  Leu heard Asara gasp, felt, rather than saw her falter.

  It was a fatal mistake.

  Leu turned in time to see a red-cloaked Rodan pulling his bloodied sword from the corpse of his mother, a fierce, vicious expression of joy contorting his face into something monstrous.

  Leu called lightning, from the air. It struck Asara’s corpse, immolating it, melting the metal of Rodan’s sword to slag, cracking the marble where it hit in a sound that was lost in the roar of thunder that deafened everyone in the room.

  Eyes streaming from the intensity of the light, Leu found it hard to see, but he sensed that while many, even most of the throne room’s occupants had pulled away, leaving an open area around the king, one had not.

  He spun in the direction of a moving shadow, sword moving in a slicing arc, and found himself victim of the same illusion that must have killed Gwynneth.

  Pain, such incredible pain.

  Leu felt his knees give and he crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pumping in spurts from the severed brachial artery. His hand still gripped his sword, but he was too weak to move it even before Rodan’s booted foot slammed down on the flat of the blade, pinning it to the floor.

  Leu’s vision was fading. Breathing was hard, physical labor. Almost over: it was almost over. Soon, soon he could rest with his family, his lover.

  Leu’s world narrowed to the two of them. Rodan squatted down, bringing his face close to his father’s. “I’ll take what’s mine now.”

  Leu felt his son’s hand on his, prying his grip loose from the sword, working the ring from his finger.

  The explosion was just as spectacular as he had planned.

  45

  BRIANNA

  “The king is dead. Long live the queen.” Lucienne/Clotho dropped to one knee, the ruler’s ring extended in her hand, offered up to her half sister, Brianna Hai, High Queen of the Sidhe.

  Brianna felt empty. She’d weep if she could, but had no tears. The ring in her hand was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as the weight of the stares, the expectation in those eyes. Hope. They looked at her with desperate hope, where she had only despair.

  She accepted the ring, sliding it onto her finger. “In one hour I want a status report. I need to know which lands we hold, and what has fallen, and I need to know if the veil needs to come down, and our people be evacuated. One hour.” She turned to walk away. From the corner of her eye, she saw Pug move toward her, and Adam’s small shake of the head as he reached a hand out to stop the other man.

  She was glad. Pug meant well, they all did. But she needed to be alone now. An hour wasn’t nearly enough time for her to assimilate the vast changes in her life—not nearly enough time to grieve for her father. But it was all there was—and even that more than should be risked. There would be advisors to meet with, plans to make—and while the police were gone for now, along with the corpses that had been Lucienne, and the assassin, Raymond Carter, they’d be back.

  A queen does what she must, and the woman pays for it.

  She closed the bedroom door softly behind her. Dropping to her knees she did something that was rare for her. She prayed. “Deities, help me.”

  Peace, soft and silent as falling snow, descended on her. It didn’t erase the sorrow of her loss, nothing could, but she felt warmth envelope her, as though she were held by strong and loving arms. In that gentle, invisible embrace, the walls holding back her emotions shattered.

  She wept.

  It seemed no time at all before there was a light tap on the bedroom door. Brianna wiped her eyes with a tissue from the end table, blew her nose, then rose. When she reached the door she was in control of herself. She felt … better, strong enough to take up the burdens awaiting her. She silently thanked the deities for their gift and opened the bedroom door.

  She found herself face-to-face with, not Adam, but King Moash. The doxie was very much the worse for wear, his wings and fur heavily singed and smelling of smoke, rents in his hide still bleeding sullenly despite having been stitched closed. Still, he was upright, and moving, which was surprising giving what she’d seen of the fight in the throne room.

  “Your majesty,” Moash said as he bowed low before her.

  “Your highness,” she replied in acknowledgment, and he rose. “What word of the battle? And where is the Diamond King?”

  “He awaits you downstairs. Your workroom was the best place to lower the barrier again, and the only space large enough for the war council. I hope we were not remiss in using it?”

  “Of course not.” She followed him down the hall where the statue her father had sent her—just days ago—still stood. Magic gone now, it was just a statue, and a painful reminder of how much had changed in the past few days.

  “Ju-Long retook the tunnels, so most of our people in the palace were able to retreat to safety. But, Valjeta lives,” Moash said grimly as he made his way awkwardly down the stairs. Graceful in the air, the small space and his injuries made his body cumbersome and awkward. “She has lost one eye and was badly burned in the strike that killed your brother, but the bitch lives.” He turned, his gaze locking with Brianna’s. “She will not have the crown. Nor will she sit on the throne. When the High King died, they were sealed away from her by the magic of Faerie itself. She can see them, but she can’t touch them. According to the reports, she is near maddened with rage by this.”

  “Good.”

  “We need to evacuate our people
from around the city, to regroup. Your father had prepared well. There are locations all over this side of the veil that were made ready for just this eventuality.”

  They were passing through the front of the shop now, and Brianna could hear the sound of vigorous debate through the door that divided the shop area from the back.

  Moash nodded. He opened the door to the back room and held it open so she could enter, announcing as he did: “Her majesty, High Queen Brianna of the Sidhe.”

  She stepped through the door and silence descended. Every person in the room dropped to one knee in obeisance before her. Brianna stood still, taking in the room and its occupants.

  On the table was the four-dimensional globe, with motes of glowing red showing on specific spots of the earth where it was overlapped by Faerie. These, she presumed, were the places where the refugees would be encamped. Hovering above the table was a translucent map of Faerie similar to the one that had been in her father’s war room.

  She glanced around the crowded room, looking for specific faces. Adam was there, and Mei with her brother Chang, Morguenna and Ju-Long, and others. But where was Nick? Sophie, too, was missing.

  “Rise,” she ordered. “Syrelle,” she said to the woman who’d so recently served her father, “Moash has told me some of it. I will need to hear the rest once the spell is cast. Everyone but the Diamond King, clear the room until I send for you.”

  They left.

  It was suddenly so quiet. Just her, and Adam.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  He was speaking of the spell, of course, but there were so many things she was facing for which she needed to be ready. Her father had put his faith in her—her people were counting on her.

  Steeling her shoulders, she met Adam’s gaze steadily. “I am.”