by Elle Cross
“Mellikor, what are you doing here?” I ask, not bothering to contain my irritation.
I suppose he is technically a courtier, and therefore allowed in the throne room, but not even serving members of the court are allowed to wander about the royal chambers willy-nilly. Especially not when I’m in the middle of matters of state. He damned well knows better, knows he should have had himself properly announced and waited to enter until he was officially granted an audience. But he thinks our past gives him latitude in such matters.
It really is time to disabuse him of this notion.
His emerald eyes gleam. “You’re receiving a royal entourage. I should be at your side.”
Another thing Mellikor knows perfectly well is that the entire purpose of the visit is to ascertain whether Prince Avan and I might make a strong wedding match. It’s unusual for royals from different courts to wed, but gossip among the courtiers is that the prince is desperate to keep his throne and needs strong allies. Whether this is true or not remains to be seen, of course, but regardless, Mellikor’s presence could threaten my leverage.
“Now is not the time,” I warn him.
“But your majesty,” he protests. “Do you not see the wisdom of having me on your arm? It would warn the incoming prince that you have other suitors, other choices. That you are not desperate for his alliance.”
I feel my gaze turn sharp. “Mellikor, did you just imply that I am desperate? You no more belong at my side than shit belongs on my shoe. Now begone from my sight before I pluck out your eyes and gift them to the prince.”
Some of my courtiers might not yet take my rule seriously, but having spent time in my bed, albeit nearly fifteen years ago, Mellikor knows better than most how ruthless I can be when the mood strikes.
His lower lip trembles its way into a full pout. How did I ever, ever find him even slightly attractive?
“I only wish to offer you my support, Queen Sitara,” he says.
“If and when I need your support, I shall demand it,” I say. “Until then, do not enter my throne room uninvited ever again.”
“My queen,” he begins, ready to launch into a full protest.
I lean forward, eyes narrowed and voice like a blade. “Mellikor. You are not my consort, my lover, or my friend. You have no place at my side, and henceforth, you are stripped of your status as royal courtier. Do you understand? You are no longer welcome in my throne room, and if you disobey me again, you’ll be banished from this court entirely. I will say this once and only once: Leave me the fuck alone. Forever.”
His green eyes go wide and startled, but he nods and turns, scuttling away.
“Fare thee well,” Azibat purrs at his retreating back, earning her a searing glare. She only laughs. She enjoys being my favorite, savors trumpeting her status about court. Perhaps I should reprimand her for it, but the truth is, I find it amusing as well. Azibat is cunning and deadly, but there’s no doubt of her loyalty to me.
“Men,” I mutter. “Who has time to soothe their egos?”
Azibat glances at the door. “I’d offer to seduce and distract Mellikor for you, but he loathes me. As I do him. Still, we might have a bit of fun if I thought I could persuade him. There must be something appealing about his body, hmm?” She gives me a knowing look and I sigh.
“His ego is bigger than his cock. I don’t know what I was thinking. Stop throwing my past mistakes in my face.”
She raises a freshly honed claw to the light, studying its point. “Do you want me to kill him? That, I know I can manage.”
I laugh. “Not right now. I have enough to deal with without adding a corpse to the mix. But I’ll keep it in mind for the future.”
“You might have to,” she says. “You didn’t just hurt his ego, you stomped it into the ground and set it on fire. He may decide to hurt you back. You’re two for two today.”
“If he does, you have my leave to scratch his eyes out.”
She grins. “Can I cut his balls off too?”
“Azibat, dear, if he comes after me, you can dismember him any way you choose.”
We’re both laughing as a man enters the room once more, though this one is far more tolerable: Lyser, captain of the royal guard. If Galog and Mellikor are two of the more detestable men in my court, Lyser is their opposite. He’s nearly as tall as the throne itself, and despite the weight of his armor, he moves with more grace than even catlike Azibat, courtesy of muscles honed by centuries of battle.
He has the face of a storybook prince, his dark hair and tawny skin designed to set off the haunting lilac of his eyes. Whereas Galog is some sort of fae abomination and Azibat may well be half feline, Lyser is all things masculine beauty, a faerie noble who chose to become a warrior instead of a courtier. He is loyal, honorable, and, when he chooses, utterly menacing.
Is it any wonder he warms my bed most nights?
“My queen,” he says with a bow. “The delegation from the Court of Fog has arrived. Should I have them disarmed before entering?”
I drum my fingers against my throne, thinking. Disarming them is the safest bet, but if there’s any hope of building an alliance between the two courts, I have to give a show of faith. I have no reason to believe they wish me harm. They’re here for my help, after all.
“No. Let them enter unmolested. But do not leave my side, Lyser.”
“Of course.” He nods. “Though you know what Galog would say.”
“Galog be damned,” I mutter. I’ve only been on this throne for a little more than four hundred years, and I am well aware that doubt about my ability to rule runs thick through my court. Each time I make an unusual decision, the whispers increase. So many of my people are just waiting for me to make a mistake…a fatal one.
I may be young. I may be untested. But I am also a queen and I will not be cowed.
“My appearance?” I trust these two more than anyone else in my House to evaluate me. I must convey beauty, power, strength, and welcome all at once. To that end, I’m wearing my hair bound in a loose updo, curls spilling forth, with a simple pearl circlet at my brow. My gown is an iridescent midnight blue, regal without being showy. I’ve topped it with my coronation robe, made from the deepest shade of pewter velvet and embroidered with indigo thread.
Azibat and Lyser both cast a critical eye before nodding in unison. “You look like a true queen,” Lyser says, with only the barest hint of reverence in his voice.
Azibat smirks. “You look confident, which is much more useful.”
I grin at both of them and take one final glance around my throne room.
The faerie lights flicker invitingly, casting everything in an appealing pinkish-golden glow. The audience chairs directly in front of me were polished until they sparkled; now they twinkle in the light. Couches large and small ring the outskirts of the room, their pillows fluffed and welcoming. Interspersed among them are slim, intricately carved tables, piled with jugs of wine and bunches of grapes. Platters with other fat fruits—golden peaches, gleaming apples, succulent plums—float about in the hands of invisible pixies. Fresh incense plumes out of the braziers, scenting everything with seductive jasmine, and the fountains splash merrily.
It is as pleasant as I can make it.
“Bring in the courtiers,” I tell Lyser.
He nods and opens a door at the back of the room, where the members of my court await. They file in and take their seats, bringing life to the otherwise still room.
The members of my court are elegant, unusual, each beautiful in his or her own way. They are people in their own right, of course, but at the moment, they are also a display. A representation of me and my throne.
They sit quietly, expectantly. Well-trained and waiting. I nod, pleased.
“Show the Court of Fog in,” I tell Azibat.
She strides out, only to return a moment later, throwing the doors wide. Behind her trails the delegation in their characteristic shades of gray. In the center walks the prince, a tall figure with hair the sla
te color of a stormy sky and pale eyes like the mist. A heavy silver band encircles his brow. He is the very personification of fog.
Before me, the delegation fans out in regimented lines, keeping the prince in the middle. All but he drop to a knee, and I realize they’ve arranged themselves in the shape of a star.
“Queen Sitara,” says the prince. “I am Avan, ruler of the Court of Fog. Blessings be upon you.”
At this, the traditional greeting, I rise from my throne. “And on you. Please, I bid you all welcome.”
He smiles at my greeting, a pleasant expression that remains wholly on the lower half of his face, his gray eyes sober. It is this, this bland reaction, that interests me more than anything else. I know a bit of the prince; he has held the throne for more years than one might expect, given that he is not a king.
I do not believe that it would be possible to do that if he were truly as non-threatening as he appears, and besides, I’ve heard of some of his bloodier endeavors. He once beheaded twelve prisoners because he felt the way they bowed before him lacked proper respect.
Thus, it would seem that he has decided to approach this meeting carefully. Some, particularly fae nobility, would burst in here with confidence and fire, eager to brag about their exploits and prove their use in an alliance.
But not Avan. He is cautious, unwilling to tip his hand. I respect this approach more than the other. Besides, I’ve had enough male ego today.
“I trust your journey was without incident?” I ask. Of the thirteen courts in Inara, the Court of Fog is the nearest to my own. We share a border; he and his entourage would not have had to travel more than a day to reach us.
Perhaps it’s odd, given our proximity, that this is our first meeting. But like me, he seems content to remain in his own land, disinterested in squabbling with the rest of the courts—and other things—that make the realm of Inara their home.
“Quite. It seems that we are equally competent at keeping our borders secure and safe. The trip here was most uneventful.”
Hmm. “I’m most pleased to hear it.”
We could remain here, each attempting to out-bland the other, but there are perhaps other ways to get to know this prince. Ways that involve vats of sweet wine and loose tongues. “Please. Stand and join me for a feast.” As his entourage rises, I take the prince’s elbow and lead him from the room—but not before ensuring Lyser is at my back.
I take my seat at the head of the table, with Prince Avan at my right and Azibat at my left. Lyser stands behind me, as ever, and I presume Galog is somewhere at the far end of the table, mixed in with the rest of the courtiers of our two Houses. I don’t bother looking for him. Pixies and brownies from the kitchen staff serve us, and as we eat, I do my best to learn more about my guest.
He is the brother of a long-dead king who hasn’t yet undergone a full coronation, which is why he’s here. He needs an alliance of power as much as I do—with my backing, he could easily force the issue and become king of his court. And with his help, I would be more secure on my throne, protected from any potential coup that might be brewing. But why now? He’s been on his throne longer than I’ve sat on mine, so clearly, not being a king has not provided much of an impediment to his rule. So what has changed his mind and caused him to seek me out?
Avan is physically appealing, of course, but that’s no surprise—most faeries are. Like Lyser and myself, his bloodline doesn’t seem to be mixed with that of any other creatures, yet another sign of nobility. His looks are of little importance, though. I’m far more interested in his mind: Is he devious? Strategic? Honorable? Is he a warrior or a thinker? Or both? Measured or impulsive? Is his reputation valid or merely a well-crafted rumor?
And most importantly: What can he offer me?
After all, he is a mere prince. Beyond an alliance with his court, how can he help me further my own power?
“Tell me of yourself,” I say.
The prince meets my gaze, his stare intent. “My brother was the last king of our court. He died in battle long ago, leaving no heirs. I’m one of the few remaining members of the royal line.”
I know all of this. The death of the last king is common knowledge, though it happened long before my birth. “Why have you not yet had a coronation?”
He sighs. “I have tried. But the court wants me to prove my worth. We are Fog. I must show that I am capable of creeping like mist, of observing as silently as a cloud, of blending into the shadows. They require feats of cunning and displays of power—but I have had no true opportunities to prove myself.”
I ponder this. It’s true that our realm has enjoyed a period of relative peace over the past eleven or twelve centuries. Still, the Dark courts—Thorns, Blood, Lies, and the like—have a tendency to scheme and scuffle. Surely Avan could have taken advantage of that. And then there are the creatures that live in the shadows of our world, beings of primordial darkness: the autochthones. They are governed by no faerie’s rules, by no moral compass; they do as they please. Avan could have perhaps proved his cunning by dealing with them.
Perhaps Avan simply isn’t wily or shrewd. It could explain why he’s not yet king. And if that’s the case, I have absolutely no use for him.
“No chance at all to prove yourself, not in all these years?”
If my question upsets him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, one corner of his mouth turns up lazily. “Mmmm, perhaps I’ve had an opportunity or two. Maybe I just haven’t felt the need.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why now, then?”
He stares back. “Why not?” he counters.
I lean back in my chair. “You intrigue me, sir. You have had more than a millennia to prove yourself to your court and claim an official crown, yet you have not done so. You have ruled the other side of my border for all that time but never once indicated an interest in meeting me. Despite what you say, it seems you have had no trouble keeping your throne. So why come to me now?”
“One can’t ignore one’s neighbors forever. It’s impolite.”
I smirk. “Funny. You don’t strike me as the type to care about what’s polite.”
He laughs and takes a long swallow of his drink. “Do you question my manners, majesty?”
“Not at all. Only your motives.”
“May I ask you a question?”
I nod in assent.
“Do you possess the gift of foresight?”
Of all the things he might have asked me, this question did not make the list. What an odd thing to say.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if you do, it may well provide the answers you seek.”
“Indulge me. Please.”
He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging my wish. “Foresight happens to be a particular gift of mine. That and the ability to see what cannot be seen. For some time now, I have sensed a darkness around Inara, a toxic cloud that is slowly enveloping us all. I do not know what it is or from where it comes, but I know that it’s real. And it’s coming. And the time for lazing about is past.
“I need power. You need it too. We all do, if we are to survive what’s coming.”
His gaze is steady on my face, those implacable gray eyes shining like mirrors into my own future. Something about the way he speaks, the timbre of his voice, suggests prophecy. This is not some rehearsed speech, some strange bid to win my favor.
A feeling like ice water drips down my spine, and I know it for what it is—unwavering belief that he speaks the truth. And that I should be afraid.
“But you do not know what it is?”
“Not in so many words,” he says. “I sense death, bloodshed, pandemonium. Irreversible change. A world undone. I cannot be more specific than that.”
Thank the gods. That’s plenty specific to have me worried. “And you’ve come to warn me?”
He leans closer, his voice dropping in both volume and tone, sending an entirely different sort of shiver through me. Whatever else he may be, he’s attractive on a chemical le
vel, and my body responds to that.
“In a sense, yes. I need allies. I need power. As do you. We share a border, so it makes sense to come to you first. But it’s more than that. I keep my ear to the ground and my senses well-tuned. From what I hear, you are a compassionate queen, fair in more ways than one. But ruthless when the occasion calls for it. Or is the infamous Tale of the Five Eunuchs merely a rumor?”
I smile ruefully. “Not a rumor. Nor my finest hour.”
He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But it tells me what I need to know about you. Enough that I’m willing to trust you with this.”
“You would trust so easily?”
That lazy half-grin returns. “There’s nothing easy about it, majesty. But I am utterly certain that you are the lesser of two evils.”
“Indeed,” I say, both intrigued and frustrated by the tidbits he’s revealed. Deep down, I believe him. But I’m not certain I trust my own instincts. He could well be lying.
“There’s one more thing,” he says. “Whatever’s going to happen...it will be soon. And it will be much worse for you than it will for me.”
We feast late into the night, drinking cup after cup of sweet bramble wine. Though Avan and I maintain our conversation, neither of us reveals anything else useful. I don’t know whether I should have faith in his second sight or whether to think this entire visit is a waste of time. True, the things he divulged have left me unsettled, but that might well have been his intention. Either way, I won’t be making my decision about him before morning.
When I’ve had my fill, I stand, signaling the end of the meal. The royal guards show our guests to their quarters and I stroll to my own chamber, sated and sleepy, Lyser at my heels. He joins me in my chamber, both to keep me safe and to heat my bed. He is, after all, a fine specimen, lithe and strong.
He’s more than just beautiful, though. He touches something within me, understands me in a way few others could. What I feel for him is beyond mere attraction, though I’m loath to find a word for it.
