Promise of Darkness (Dark Court Rising Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  It’s troubling. Because my mother lets her minstrels sing songs of Old Mother Hibbert—and others—in her court, and I’ve seen the horror and fear in my people’s eyes when they listen.

  “We must guard our hearts against the treachery of the Unseelie,” she always said. “They’re monsters, Iskvien, and they must be subdued before they come to take what is ours.”

  Does she truly believe her words, or was she merely warping the truth to keep my eyes firmly shuttered?

  It makes me wonder about the great wars.

  They came to enslave us.

  They came to take what was ours.

  They served the Horned One, who’d grown in stature among his people and commanded two of the queens.

  They wanted to destroy us all.

  Is any of it true?

  “You fought for the Seelie Alliance during the wars, but you don’t consider the Unseelie to be monsters. I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, they’re monsters,” he replies, with a bitter twist to his smile. “But are they the monsters we consider them to be? What are monsters, Vi?”

  I don’t have an answer to that.

  “What drove them south?” he continues.

  “The Horned One,” I mutter, though now I’m not sure.

  “Aye. He conquered most of the north and turned his gaze south. Do you know what he called us? The bright and shining ones who sought to steal the Unseelie’s lands and magic. And maybe he was right. The Seelie had begun to eye the rich, fertile lands across the mountains. Long before my time, there were clashes. The northern half of Mistmere and Evernight were once Unseelie. When the Horned One turned his hordes south, they came to reclaim what had been stolen from them.”

  “You sound as though you almost feel sorry for them.”

  Thiago slips through the forest on a wraith’s feet, barely even disturbing the leaves. “I don’t know what to think, Vi. There were atrocities committed on both sides. And which side is right? Which side is wrong? It depends what you believe. It depends what you’re heard and seen with your own eyes. As I said, stories change, depending on the one speaking them. Wars are woven with lies. They’re fought with weapons and swords, but they’re started with words. I know what words can do to a person, or even a people.”

  I think of everything my mother has said of the Prince of Evernight.

  Monster. Bastard. Usurper.

  Unseelie, she’s even whispered, when in her darkest mood.

  And before I was given to him, I called him those names too. I feared him and hated him, and I had no reason to do so, beyond that which I was taught from the cradle.

  “My mother said you overthrew your queen and then killed her sons. She said you came from nowhere to serve your queen as her warlord, and then you betrayed her.”

  Thiago’s shoulders stiffen. “Is that a question?”

  “Yes.”

  I need to know.

  Because I don’t think I can see the truth for lies anymore.

  This wicked prince can be both cruel and kind. And I married him. I loved him. I don’t know what I feel right now, but there’s hints of those feelings still left inside me. If I’m to make sense of everything I feel, then I need to know the truth.

  “I was Araya’s warlord,” he replies, eyes focusing on the forest as if he can’t look at me right now. “I was never her lover, no matter what the stories say.”

  “She granted you favors beyond those she gifted others.”

  His lips twist bitterly. “Yes. But I think I’ll keep the reason why to myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “And if I do?”

  He grants me a firm look. “Then I’ll tell you. One day. The day you cast your mother’s lies aside and choose me in the gathering.”

  The next rites are only a month away, but I can feel them looming like an executioner’s block.

  “I’ll hold you to that bargain,” I warn.

  He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “And I’ll pay the price freely.”

  If I cast off the curse and remember him.

  “Tell me of Araya’s sons then,” I continue. “They say you overthrew them in single combat.”

  “You’re full of questions today.”

  “You’re the one who speaks of wars and lies. All I know are lies. Perhaps I want to know the truth. Your truth.”

  Tension lingers in his shoulders as he strides ahead of me. “Araya had two trueborn sons, Emyr and Arawn. Emyr was cruel, but he was generally expected to be named his mother’s heir. He was big, and strong, and virile. He spent hours practicing his sword work and rode at my side, countermanding every order I made. He thought himself a warrior, but he wanted to be a conqueror. I hated him with every ounce of my being. Arawn was his opposite. Smart, agile, a lean whip of a man who spent most of his time on politics or in books.

  “A month before she was murdered, Araya called her sons together and announced that Arawn would be her heir instead. I was there. As her warlord, I needed to know who to back. And I think she wanted me to be the shield between Emyr and Arawn, for any fight between them would end with Arawn’s death. He was never a fighter.”

  “So Emyr killed her.”

  “No.” The words are soft. Full of malice. “Emyr was never smart enough to plot her murder. The queen was no fool. If Emyr had done it, he would have driven a sword straight through her chest, taken the crown from her head, and then sat upon her throne, bloody sword and all.”

  “Arawn, then?”

  “I was the one who found her, slain on her throne room floor. Someone had cut her throat from behind. And Araya was the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met.” He falls silent for a moment, as if he’s picturing it again. “To get near her, her killer had to be someone she knew. Someone she would never suspect nor defend herself against. Someone smart, who could lay the blame at another’s feet. Someone who had something to gain.” Thiago glances toward me. “I can never prove it, but Arawn was the next one through the throne room doors with an entire complement of guards. They found me there, kneeling by her side with her blood wetting my fingers. Emyr came through the other door, just as the guards fanned out.” His lips quirk. “I don’t know who was more surprised. Emyr challenged me. Of course, he challenged me. All those years we’d sparred together, and he still couldn’t see his death looming. I cut him down within minutes and fought my way free of the castle.

  “Arawn declared me her murderer and set about hunting me down, but he forgot one crucial fact… I was Araya’s warlord. Most of the army belonged to me, and I had Eris and Baylor by my side. The other two warbands split and sided with Arawn. It meant we had to fight our own, but I was younger then. Furious and lost in grief. I knew he’d done it. The smarmy little prick always did like to prove how clever he was. But I didn’t want to ride against our friends and allies. When we arranged ourselves on the field, I offered a chance of single combat so no blood would be spilled. Arawn refused to meet me on the battlefield himself, but he sent his finest warrior, and I cut them down.”

  His voice softens. “If there’s one thing an army respects, it’s sacrifice. I had wagered everything I had on that duel. I could have ridden through those that stood against me—I had the numbers—but I chose to spare them instead. And when Gawad fell, by the terms of the duel, I was a free man. But Arawn ordered his generals to take my head. It was the second mistake he made. Trial by combat is unassailable. And he’d gone back on his word. So they brought me his head, instead.”

  And he became the usurper. The bastard. The murderer.

  His armies worshipped him, and those in his court counted him as both prince and friend, but the people in Ceres…. I couldn’t forget the pain in his voice when he spoke of their disdain for him.

  And for what? A lie. A petty, scheming prince’s aborted attempt to take a throne.

  Thiago’s never overthrown that mantle. He probably never will.

  It’s true.

  Words have a power even a blade can’t
match.

  Finn slips through the forest, appearing out of nowhere. “Keep your voices down,” he breathes. “We’re nearly there.”

  “Nothing ahead?” Thiago asks.

  Finn shakes his head. “Nothing but bones littering the forest floors and hanging in warning from the trees. Even the squirrels avoid this area, and judging from the spiderwebs, they have good cause.”

  Spiderwebs. I give Thiago a long, hard look, which he ignores. There was no mention of spiderwebs.

  “And Blaedwyn?” he asks.

  “I can see her castle through the trees, but there’s no sign of her guards.” Finn scrubs at his mouth. “Her banner is hanging from the tallest tower.”

  Which means she’s home.

  Another complication.

  Thiago turns to me. “Are you ready?”

  The sooner I get in, get the answers I need, and get out, the sooner we can slip unnoticed from these cursed lands.

  “Let’s get this done,” I tell him.

  We move out, and Finn leads us directly to a chasm in the side of the mountain ahead. He’s right. Bones hang from charms in the trees, swinging in the wind. Someone’s drilled hollows in them, so as the wind catches them, they give an eerie whistle.

  But it’s the spiderwebs that cling to every rock and tree that cause me the main concern.

  “What size does a spider have to be to create a web like that?” I hiss as Finn slices through one that bars the way ahead.

  “I really, really don’t want to know,” Thalia mutters.

  “You’re not the one who’s going to have to find out,” says Eris, looking as grim as I’ve ever seen her.

  I eye the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Is Eris—the almighty Destroyer—actually nervous?

  “Here we are,” Thiago says as Finn hacks through the last of the webs.

  I stare into the cave ahead. Moss hangs over the opening, and spider silk glistens in the late afternoon sunlight. It’s dark and gaping, like the hollow mouth further north that allegedly leads directly into the Underworld.

  “Look at me.” Thiago’s hands cup my chin, and he turns my face to his. “I can’t go in there with you, Vi. Not even to save your life. I’ve already been once, and the Morai vowed a second visit would be my undoing. They cannot lie. What they see is bound to come true.” He hesitates. “You don’t have to do this.”

  If this is the only way to gain answers, then yes, I do.

  This curse isn’t merely a wedge between us, it’s an obliteration of who I am. I want those memories back. I want to be able to look my mother in the eye and ask her why. And I want my magic.

  Swallowing hard, I lock down every little scrap of fear that shivers through me and rest my hand on the hilt of my sword. “Spiders? Ha. You know what spiders are afraid of?”

  His brows draw together.

  “Fire,” I tell him, clicking my fingers and sending a spark into the air. “If I’m not back before nightfall, then give my mother my regards.”

  34

  The cavern’s enormous, and silvery threads decorate every surface. Moonlight reflects back off droplets of mist that cling to each strand, and as I look up, I see the gossamer threads go all the way to the roof of the enormous cavern above me.

  Webs.

  The entire cave system is covered in spiderwebs.

  On a scale of one to burn-it-fucking-alive, my feelings about spiders are firmly on the flammable end of the scale.

  “It could be hundreds of tiny little spiders,” I tell myself as I creep along the passage. Sticky strands burn away before my torch, but I can feel some of them clinging to my hair. “Maybe even a thousand of them.”

  It’s not.

  I know it’s not, but the art is in tricking your mind into believing it.

  The caves lead deep underground, and I follow the main cavern all the way down, ignoring the smaller caves that branch off. Spiderwebs cover their gaping mouths, and I pass numerous dried husks encased in fine silver thread.

  Some of them still move.

  If I pay the price, then I’ll be safe, Thiago said, and the flask of warm blood—mine—is strapped to my hip.

  Down and down we go, until the air is still and cold. The only light is the torch I carry, and I swear I can hear things scuttling in my wake.

  But I am not going to think about that right now.

  Finally, I reach an enormous cavern that gapes into infinity. In the distance, I can make out a dais where three shadows move against the canvas of an enormous loom coated with spider silk.

  He’d warned me about what I’d find, but even so, the reality is grotesque.

  The Morai are part spider, part… something else. Their bloated bodies scuttle about on long, spindly legs, though their torsos and faces appear humanoid. The upper arms glisten with spider silk, and their eyes are bound with simple linen. Rumor has it they gouged them out many moons ago, after they glimpsed a future they were never meant to see.

  The three of them freeze, bodies slowly undulating before the enormous loom. Their heads turn toward me as one, and the first one sniffs the air, letting out a hiss of delight.

  “Sisters three, what have we here?” it asks.

  “Smells like… dinner.” One of them scuttles toward me, its reddened lips wet with saliva, and I wave the torch at it threateningly. Fire’s the only thing that can keep them at bay. All that spider silk would burn like a whirlwind of flame.

  The Dreamweaver forges fate in her grasping hands. The web she sees can only be woven by the Threadcutter, and the Shadowbinder is the one who manipulates the fabric of the future.

  “I come seeking answers, O Great Ones,” I call, because a little flattery never hurts anyone.

  “Answers, sisters,” whispers the first one. “It wants answers. To what questions, one must ask?”

  “A thorny curse,” chortles another.

  “A deranged queen.”

  “A heart left shattered.”

  They fall silent, quivering with anticipation as they watch me. Well, now. That was creepy.

  “Ah, it is surprised,” one whispers. “Did it not know we see all? We see the past.”

  “We see the future.”

  “And we see the now.” The last sister inches toward me, pincers abstractedly weaving what looks to be a net.

  I wave the torch in front of me, though I have no idea what I’m going to do if they attack. My magic’s unpredictable at best. “Stay back.”

  “Did you bring the price of a reading?” asks one.

  “Hot and warm, I can smell it,” whispers another.

  “The blood, the blood, so sweet and wet.” The last sister traces her clawed chelicerae over her lips as if she can already taste it, and if that wasn’t enough to make my gorge rise, then nothing else will do it.

  “I brought your blood price,” I call, holding up the leather flask and praying my nerve lasts. “But in return, I want answers three.”

  Thiago told me what to ask for.

  And whatever you do, don’t run, he’d added.

  “Answers three.”

  “It’s a bold, greedy little thing.”

  “It dares much.”

  They creep closer, lips drawing back from sharp teeth.

  “It has sharp iron,” I call back boldly, “and fire.”

  “Fire dies.”

  “Iron rusts.”

  “And bodies bleed.”

  “All true.” I swallow hard, lifting my hand. Magic, don’t fail me now. “But this fire can’t be quenched.”

  A snap of my fingers and the spark inside me ignites. Flame whirls into life, chasing the crisp nothingness of broken webs and dreams.

  The Morai draw back with a collective hiss, their shadows painted large upon the walls. Sweat drips down my forehead as I step forward, the flames dancing in circles around my feet. They like weak prey and easy meat, but they’re cowards at heart, Thiago told me, and will retreat if I’m bold.

  “Give it,” one hisses, retreating ha
lfway up the wall.

  “And we’ll grant thee answers three.”

  “But mind you ask carefully.”

  I hurl the flask, and they fight over it, splashing my blood across their faces and lips, greedily sucking it from their pincers.

  “There is a curse upon me,” I tell them very carefully, “that steals my memories every time I return to my mother. I need to know if it can be broken.”

  The Shadowbinder plucks at the threads on her web, halfheartedly spinning something into life. “All curses can be broken.”

  “All contracts can be voided,” says the Threadcutter.

  “All magic can be undone.”

  I’d thought so. There’s always a loophole, and yet it’s a relief to hear it spoken. “How do I break the curse?”

  “End yourself and you end the curse.”

  “Kill the one who cast it.”

  “Seek one who is more powerful to break it.”

  Two of those options are worth exploring. “Who cast the curse?”

  Silence.

  One of them smiles. “The Queen of Thorns.”

  It’s a breathless feeling to hear it spoken aloud. “My mother doesn’t work blood magic. It’s Unseelie magic. It’s forbidden.”

  It’s old, powerful magic that blackens your soul. Every working you perform slowly corrupts you, until you’re the monster in the forest or the witch who needs to be burned.

  “Do you call us liars?” one of the Morai hisses.

  Whatever you do, do not insult them, Thiago had warned.

  “Of course not.” I bow my head, but my mind is reeling. “I spoke from surprise. I would never…. I can’t believe she….”

  But the shock is wearing off. When I think of what Thiago’s told me of our past, I can paint my mother into those memories only too well. I know her heart. I know her soul. Betrayed by her daughter? With her enemy gaining the upper hand upon her? Of course, she’d do it.

  She wouldn’t even flinch.

  “How did my mother learn this sort of curse magic?”

  They quiver and sway.

  “You asked for answers three, and we have given them,” one of the Morai says slyly.

  “I believe I asked two questions,” I say carefully. “The first was a statement of fact. Not a question. I said, ‘I need to know if it can be broken.’ You volunteered the answers.”