by Sage, May
Mostly revelry.
Caim inclined his head as he passed by Cassian, his kin, a man he detested nearly as much as any other member of the gentry. Nearly.
"Cousin. What do you suppose our uncle is discussing over there?"
The regents of each circle sat around an octagonal table, where only one seat remained vacant: the throne. Upon a large dais cut from one single tree trunk, carved by pompous and meticulous artists—who'd made it overly complicated and, no doubt, hard to dust—it was garish and outdated.
Though they were close, none of their words could be heard, not even by those blessed with the power of reading minds. Their council was shielded by dozens of spells. Caim couldn't say he cared either way. Let them talk. He knew that what they discussed was of no consequence.
Nothing ever changed in Sidhe. He'd opened his eyes three hundred years ago and in all his life, there had been nothing new, exciting, or interesting. It would be another thousand years ere the lords implemented any reforms in their world.
"Starting a Regent’s Day, no doubt," he replied. "Uncle Theron is fond of hearing himself talk of...well, himself, I suppose."
Cassian laughed good-heartedly.
"Come. We must talk. It has been long since we've conversed. How is the capital?"
Caim lived with Theron in Argentas. Both orphaned before reaching maturity, he and Cassian had been raised by the regent together, though when they'd come of age two hundred years ago, his cousin had been quick to return to his land in the south, as far from the authority of Theron as possible.
While Caim understood that impulse, he had too much ambition for returning to shadows. The keep he’d inherited to the west was quiet and irrelevant. He remained by Theron's side, serving him in all things. In the last two centuries, Caim had made himself indispensable, his eyes fixed on the ultimate prize.
His uncle preferred the company of men to that of women, which meant he wouldn’t father a natural child. He wouldn't live forever; the old goat was on his twelve hundredth birthday, and the lord sitting on the regent's chair seldom saw a new moon without having to spit out poison or avoid the sharp angle of a blade. Caim may be Theron's successor after the lord of Silver passed into legend. He was the best choice. The only logical choice. He had to believe he would be named heir.
And then, things would change in the circle.
Things would change in all of Sidhe.
Cassian led him to the closest banquet table and filled his horn with thick purple wine, while eloquently blathering on about his domain, his flowers, his lakes, and his women.
Caim smiled and pretended to laugh when he was obliged to in order to appear civil. Cassian was an idiot, yet his company was still preferable to anyone else's here.
Caim's eyes fell on a familiar man. He'd arrived fashionably late, to ensure he was noticed by all. Golden hair, pearl-white skin, and eyes the color of the setting sun—Lyr was still as charming and magnetic as ever. To those dumb enough to be enraptured by him. One of the nephews of Echterion Gaios, lord of the Iron Circle, he was Caim’s equal in station. Caim was known as an advisor, Lyr, as a warrior. Both were ruthless to their foes, but only one of them had a reputation for being treacherous to his friends.
Caim stiffened.
The day of the tithe was uncommon for various reasons; one of them being that no lord was permitted to fight—drawing blood here would mean forfeiting their lives.
Watching the smug, wretched, deceitful bastard parade about always made Caim wonder if the punishment would be worth it, just to see that swine croak at his feet.
The lords of Sidhe were continually at war, outside of the day of the tithe. During the last open battle between Ironers and Silverfolks, Lyr had been the one who'd murdered Caim's family. Not only his father and mother—lethal generals. That, Caim would have understood, accepted. But Lyr had also claimed his sister's life, although at twenty-five, Nera had been little more than a youth. Caim shuddered as he thought of the horrors she must have lived through in the Iron Circle. Among the Aos Si, they were known to be the cruelest, the most twisted. She would not have been given a quick death.
"Ah. Yes. Our friend is as popular as always."
And he was. Women swooned as he blew them kisses, and men converged at his side, begging for attention.
Lyr attended each of Sidhe’s festivities, ordered that sweet wine flow down public fountains on summer days, held tournaments and entertainments every other week. He was seen as a man of the folk.
There was no king. There would be no king of Sidhe again. No one was foolish enough to pay the price attached to their crown. But if it had been up to the people, they would have chosen that prancing peacock out of love. Or they may have elect Caim to be high king of Sidhe, though if they did so, it would be out of fear.
Caim was Lyr's opposite in every way. Physically, for one. Caim had dark hair, a honey-gold complexion, and eyes cold as ice, marking him as Silver to the core. But that wasn’t what they feared. Caim was Theron's first advisor, and his counsel more often than not was, “Burn the traitors. Skin them alive, publicly, so that they may serve as examples. When they deserve it, take everything they hold dear and force them to live with no hope.” He was merciless and had little patience for politics. Though he understood politics well enough, kissing babies had never been a priority for Caim. He was a true unseelie lord, unapologetic about his nature. The seelie like Lyr pretended they were something else, lying with every smile since they couldn't do it with their words.
It was no wonder that, when the octagonal table where their lords were talking exploded into a billion pieces, all eyes turned to Caim.
Although Lyr was the one who smiled.
King of Ruin is available now.
Epilogue
The immortal city woke to a red dawn, and though no one called for a rally, all meandered uptown to the inner city that morning. Full of questions, apprehension, confusion.
Yesterday, the bells signaled war, invasion. Now the gates were open. Yesterday, they'd all felt the shift in the energy around them, the deep knowledge that something had changed. And some had seen the golden walls disappear far offshore.
The orcs that had landed on their northern beaches had been pushed back by the armies—all-inclusive armies, elves and fae and scions. As one folk of the Isle.
And now the walls were back. And now the Court of Crystal shone with a blue light, beckoning them. And when they reached the gates of the inner city, they found them open.
The crowd was thick by the time the gates of the royal keep opened, in front of a dozen fae, scions, elves, and gods. The king's son Aurelius and his fae mate, with their child. The bastard prince of the unseelie realm. Others that weren't recognized on sight.
Ahead of them, a woman in battered, burned leather gear, with a fyriron cloak around her shoulders, and two silver armbands around her wrists.
Then they didn't have questions anymore. They knelt to the overqueen.
Elden had never called himself sentimental and it wasn't going to start now. He hated waste. Waste of time, waste of resources, waste of lives were all equally evil notions.
He shouldn't be wasting his time here on the battlefield littered with corpses. Anyone alive had already returned to their camp, or made their way to the immortal city. He should be there, gloating over his daughter's triumph.
Overqueen.
Even he hadn't seen it coming. He wondered whether Shea had. Annoyed when he realized this might all have been her plan all along, he started to turn, when he heard it.
A heartbeat. Faint but distinctive in the silent mile-wide grave.
Elden followed his hearing, trying to trace the muted beat. He heard it right at his feet, coming from an orc corpse. Elden pushed it with the tip of his boot. Underneath, there was a short, redheaded fae female with dark golden skin and beautiful markings on her arms. He glanced at her wound. Her stomach had been pierced by the blade of a lance still lodged inside.
Not prett
y. She should already have been dead. Elden should pull his sword and end her suffering. Letting her bleed out like this was cruel, and Elden was never cruel. Brutal, cold, yes. Cruelty was the toy of boys, not the weapon of kings.
He remained on his feet, towering over her, listening to her heartbeat. It should be slowing down. Fading.
It didn't.
"What's your name, little fighter?" he asked.
He didn't expect her to reply. Her eyes were hazy, almost hollow. He didn't think she saw him at all.
"Ji—" she tried. Then she coughed up blood. "Jiya."
Elden remained where he stood a little longer, telling himself she'd be dead in an hour at most. She wasn't worth his time, or energy. She certainly wasn't worth soiling his clothes over. He liked his silken shirt.
Still he got to his knees and carried her all the same.
"If you die after ruining my clothes, I will curse your name till the end of days."
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The End
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Rook's story will continue in King Under the Mountain, a standalone, in 2020.
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To stay in Ertia, look out for the tales of Álfheimr: Into The Fae Woods and Noblesse Oblige. Due autumn 2019.
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May Sage juggles multiple series and prioritizes those which are well reviewed.
The potential future stories in the Court of Sin series include Kal’s, Devin’s, Elden’s, and even Kelina’s. But as they’re all standalones, they aren’t currently set in stone. If you want to ensure those stories get written, don’t forget to review the series!