by M. A. Grant
Chapter Six
Roark
I’m waist-deep in stacks of ancient books helping me decipher the counter-curse to a Sillan flooding spell when Mother calls. After my assurances a few days ago that I was well, despite the massive loss of glamour which brought her to my side, she stepped back to let me have my space. For her to call now means there’s important news.
I don’t bother to look at the scrying bowl when I answer, more concerned with not losing my train of thought before I finish writing down a particularly tricky phrase.
“The Pantheons have reached a verdict about the recent escalations,” she says.
“That was fast.” Damn, wrong verb tense. I circle the offending word and continue on with the phrase.
“Your actions toward our students the other day was one of the deciding factors.”
A twist in my gut. Train of thought derailed. Fuck. I grimace and set down my pen. “Is it bad?”
“I’d prefer if we could discuss their findings in person. I just finished meeting with the dean. Join me for lunch.”
Refusing clearly isn’t an option, so I close up my work, end the call, and leave the apartment. She and her redcap guard are waiting for me in the small garden outside the dean’s house.
“Roark,” she calls when she spots me.
I wave a greeting, hyperaware of the few people around us. Fortunately, today’s morning classes haven’t finished yet, so I may be able to get her off campus before too many people know we’re here. As much as I love my mother, I’ve worked hard to craft my own identity at university and have no intention of it being eclipsed by her celebrity.
Fortunately, no one dares invade the bubble of space the redcaps form around us as we walk away from the dean’s residence. Mother’s car is in the visitors’ lot, the location all non-students have to park regardless of their dignitary status. It’s not a long walk, but it promises to be uncomfortable, judging from the awed looks other students give us as we pass by.
“You wished to discuss the Pantheons’ verdict,” I finally say when our silence becomes a quaint power struggle I have no issue losing. “How many sanctions did they level against us after they heard about the fight?”
“None.”
The corners of her mouth have turned up slightly. Only on her face could that tiny change scream her approval. Queen Mab does not smile. Or beam.
Although, she also isn’t supposed to be affectionate toward her children. I always was the favorite.
“None?”
“Not against our Court. Our Summer cousins weren’t as fortunate.” Is that an actual smile? I pull my glamour a little tighter over us, protecting us behind an illusion of royal politesse.
She doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she continues, “The Pantheons found them negligent in their enforcement of the Accords. Said they should show the same good faith toward the official judgments that the Unseelie Prince did when disciplining his subjects at Mathers. Apparently one of the Seelie in the crowd shared your behavior with someone on the council. They were suitably impressed.”
Her joy is infectious and I give up fighting my own grin. “Careful, Mother. You’re looking positively smug.”
“A queen is never smug. Proud, perhaps, but that’s my son’s fault, not my own.”
Basking in her praise is juvenile, so I only allow myself a moment’s contentment before asking, “So, is this a celebratory lunch?”
“No, mo leanbh. This is a working lunch. We have much to discuss.”
It’s an ominous opener. “Such as?”
“The Knighthood—” Unfortunate, but not a surprise. She’s been pushing me to take the role for months now. “Your brothers—” Our discussing Sláine and Lugh is yet another miserable family tradition. “But those topics can wait. There have been three incidences on campus despite its being neutral territory. I find that concerning.”
“As do I. That’s why it’s even more important for our subjects if I remain here.”
Her fingers tighten around my arm. “The disrespect for the campus’s laws will only grow. They’ve proven how easily they can reach our people here. What will stop them from coming for you next? Every faerie in the world knows where the true power of our Court’s Triumvirate rests.”
The Triumvirate. The Law of Three. Both the Summer and Winter Courts rely on this balance when the monarchs channel the Court’s raw magick. Dividing it into manageable amounts between three heirs allows the burden to be shared. It keeps any one of us from hoarding the Court’s full strength.
Yet, the truth of the Triumvirate is more complicated. Three is strongest. Remove one and the other two can carry the weight. Although they may suffer for taking on more power than they normally would, the Court will remain stable, especially if a Knight bolsters the king or queen. And if the Court loses all but one heir, it must be the strongest support who remains.
Mother’s gaze is resolute and I have to look away first, crushed by the weight of guilt and duty. I am the strongest in our Court. As High Prince, Sláine may inherit the throne; as the youngest, Lugh may be free to act as leader of the Wild Hunt; but I am the unbreakable pillar that Mother relies on when they vanish.
“They will find you,” she warns. “They will exploit your easy accessibility if necessary. You would be safer in the sídhe.”
I sigh. “Mother, I’m one of the most powerful students on campus. No one is stupid enough to attack me.”
She makes a noise that’s not quite assent. More like acknowledgment. That’s some progress. “Not directly, I agree. But indirectly... There’s also the issue of the human.” Her dark gaze turns to gauge my reaction to the abrupt change of topic. “He’s a complication.” A polite word she’s used for centuries to refer to assassination targets.
“Only because he was remarkable enough for you and Sláine to take a personal interest,” I fire back. “There’s little other choice than to live here and keep an eye on him, after you both broadcasted his worth to all of Faerie.”
Her eyes flash. “Roark Tahm Lyne, be careful how you speak to me.”
The circling redcap guards wisely say nothing, even though Mother has allowed them to remain within the spell she’s cast to muffle our conversation. Silence falls between us, along with mutual regret. My mother and I are close, but my discovery that she’d kidnapped Smith is the only thing that has ever threatened to tear us apart.
She wanted his power, untrained though it may have been, and intended to keep him in our realm permanently until she got it from him. No one told me what was going on. I discovered who was hanging in the torture cell on my own. Sláine, the brother I trusted most, provided the explanation for Mother’s interest, something he knew intimately since he was the one who planned the kidnapping. Mother didn’t realize how serious I was about protecting Smith until she found Sláine beaten to a bloody pulp, face split from eye to chin with a rapier strike. Our familial bond alone spared him the entirety of my wrath. I felt no such hesitation in showing similar mercy to the redcaps working under his orders. I left their corpses beside him as a reminder of my mercy.
The memory of Mother’s face when I returned from dragging Smith out of the sídhe and back to our campus apartment, the confusion and betrayal she accidentally showed, still haunts me. I had never taken another’s side. I had never challenged her rule. She was my dark sun and I was her moon, following her through the years in a predictable orbit.
But that day, I refused her outright, challenged her claim to Smith. Our fight was brutal and bloody. Words were spoken, cruel truths that will never be forgotten by either of us. My scarred palm aches, a phantom pain from the spell I cast that day out of desperation and panic. A spell that, to this day, remains the only reason he’s safe.
As if she knows where my mind has gone, she reaches with her free hand and turns my palm up. Her fingers skate over the long-healed injury and she sniffs. The light catches the rising moisture in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, closing m
y hand around her fingers, hiding the scar from view. “I apologize for my short temper.” I can’t risk forcing her hand. If she thinks—rightly—that Smith is the only thing keeping me on campus, she’ll remove him without hesitation. I need to gain some breathing room, some time. The next words are dust in my mouth. “If you truly need me at Court, I can talk to my professors about completing my degree through distance.”
She halts mid-step, surprising the redcaps, who immediately stop and take up defensive positions around us. Her hands are cool as she holds my face, pulling me down a little to press a gentle kiss on my forehead, just like she has since I was a small child. “No. You’re capable and I know this. Finish your year.”
Gratitude will go a long way to smoothing this awkwardness. “Thank you.”
We continue, comfortable in each other’s presence once more. We pass different buildings, some quiet, others starting to bustle with students going to and from classes. Unseelie we pass bow, an instinctual response. The Seelie quickly look away. One group of flower faeries even halts when they notice us approaching, then shuffle to the opposite side of the street, hiding their faces with their hair and books to avoid any possible recognition from our entourage. The other students, a mixture of Pantheons, stare and whisper as they pass.
I can’t blame them. Public appearances like this are the rare times my mother favors showmanship over practicality. Today’s dress is understated in its elegance, its draped black fabrics accentuating her waist. She forwent all jewelry, so the only sparkle to draw the eye is her crown: delicate spears of ice woven into the dark mass of hair pulled up on her head. It’s a symbol of how comfortable she is in her power: almost an afterthought, and reliant on her constant use of glamour to maintain its form. Even if her guards weren’t milling about us, I doubt anyone would dare approach.
We skirt the commons to reach her car. It would be simple enough to walk through the crowd, to watch them part before us, but we leave such drama to our Summer cousins. The lot is quiet and fairly empty. I wave off a redcap and open the rear door, helping Mother inside.
The first moment possible, she pulls her hand free of mine. Too much affectionate contact, apparently. She makes up for it by asking, “Where would you like to eat?” before the door even closes fully behind me.
“I’m not too hungry—” I begin, only to trail off when a familiar form exits Crowley Hall.
He pauses for a moment on the steps of the building, chatting with a passing sprite. The sun falls on his lightly tanned skin, the bruise fading on one cheekbone, the flash of teeth when his head tilts back and he laughs.
Phineas Smith is beautiful and I want him so much it feels like an open wound.
Frost curls over the glass and puffs of steam cloud my vision for a moment when I deliberately turn my head away from him back toward my mother. Fury and sadness mingle on her porcelain features, though, and something strangely like shame or regret wells up in me at the nakedness of my need.
I drop my gaze from hers, but not before her admonishment comes.
“Next time, let him go.”
Her callousness is an iron spear to the chest. Let him go? Let him destroy himself when he channels raw energy to stand up to me and what he assumes is an abuse of power. Let the ley line burn through him and leave him nothing but ash. Let my spell end and erase all we could have been.
I clench my fists and the crackle of freezing glass echoes like a gunshot in the space between us. “Don’t ask that of me.”
Mother reaches for me, a dramatic and unexpected surrender. “Roark, I didn’t mean—”
I move my hand out of her reach. “It’s fine.”
A blatant lie. Her directive lies between us like a shroud.
“It’s fine,” I repeat at last. “Would you prefer to discuss the Knighthood or my brothers first?” I reach forward to tap the slowly thawing divider.
She sighs, but doesn’t engage. She simply looks out her window, leaving me to my thoughts. I should focus on Court matters, take advantage of the time I have with Mother. I should focus on my responsibilities. On my future, the real future I face, not the fantasy I indulge.
Instead, I steal one last view of Smith as we drive away.
* * *
At my request, Mother drops me by the university’s entrance rather than driving through campus. I want to walk, using the time alone to mull over our conversation without getting distracted by my roommates or Unseelie who are coming to me for help. Mostly, I want to process the shift in Mother’s attitude.
She didn’t lecture me over my foolish decision to protect Smith from himself the other day. She didn’t push for me to move off campus. She didn’t push for me to take on the Winter Knight’s position. She praised me and told me to handle issues on campus as I saw fit, unless I thought her council was directly needed. Instead of tightening my bonds, she loosed them. Not knowing the long game she’s playing sets my teeth on edge.
There must be a reason...
“Prince Lyne, may I join you?”
The soft, lilting voice drifting over the lawn gives me pause. Princess Aileen of the Seelie Court has risen from a shaded bench, although she’s made no move to close the distance between us.
I doubt she’s been waiting for me long. She has plenty of Seelie courtiers to keep her apprised of the movements of anyone on campus who holds her interest. Still, her deference is intriguing enough that I nod and wait for her to join me.
The second daughter of King Oberon and Queen Titania, Aileen had the same freedom I did to attend Mathers and shore up the Summer Court’s political alliances. She’s done a decent job at it, mostly focusing on improving ties with the Greek Pantheons, whose muses have rich connections to the human entertainment industry. The Summer Court’s need to be fawned over and recognized meshes well with humanity’s obscene obsession with beauty, youth, and celebrity.
Aileen is a perfect liaison. Her flawless skin is the color of newly opened dogwood blossoms, but manages to keep a warm, golden glow. She favors bohemian hairstyles that plait her white-blond hair away from her face, and like many of the Seelie at Mathers, she’s also adopted the modern fashions of humanity. If she wanted, she could stay outside the Seelie sídhe and win over the world as a model or actress, or find employment with another pantheon as a designer. In spite of all her potential, she is relegated to obscurity.
If I were capable of pity, I might feel it for her. Her eldest sister, the High Princess Aoife, is known throughout the Pantheons for her cruelty and narcissism. Aoife views Aileen’s success as a personal affront to her own legacy. It’s safer for Aileen to remain on the edge of the spotlight. Such sibling rivalry is something I’m only beginning to understand. My brothers and I were taught the importance of balance and holding firm to our own roles with the Court. I’ll always be grateful to Sláine for protecting me during my childhood. Not once in those early years did I question his love for me. Perhaps the sudden loss of that love and support is what made his defection to the Summer Court so bitterly painful.
Aileen has spent her entire life in Aoife’s shadow. Her every move has been carefully orchestrated to bring glory to her father’s Court, while not overshadowing Aoife’s talents. The new sanctions will reduce the Seelie Court’s appeal to other pantheons, undoing the only real work she’s been allowed to do. It makes sense that she would seek me out on campus in an effort to limit the damage. She’ll probably ask me to give her a warning of potential publicity disasters, or some other favor equally simple to deny.
My arrogance leaves me completely unprepared when she asks, “Would our Winter cousins be interested in a parley?”
“A parley,” I repeat, shocked at the implication of Aileen engaging in a serious political negotiation.
She gives me a sideways glance. “Yes, Prince Lyne. A simple conversation between royal spares to see if any common ground exists.”
We’ve both raised our glamour to shield our conversation, although no one is nearby, and I reach out to
press against her magick, checking for any hint of trickery or falsity. I find none.
“It would depend on the purpose.”
“One of my courtiers witnessed your devotion to justice the other day. I thought a man so concerned with protecting an innocent may desire to ensure the safety of other innocents.” Her tone is cordial, her expression charming and friendly, but there’s a steel core to her words. “For a small price, of course.”
“Of course.” The safety of my Unseelie subjects for an unspecified cost. She must have valuable information if she believes she can tempt me into this political game.
She draws to a halt and offers me a sweet smile. “Is that purpose enough, cousin?”
This isn’t a verbal contract. She hasn’t laid out terms or agreements yet. She’s simply arranging a time for us to meet to discuss the fine details. While we’re on the neutral ground of Mathers. Right after the Pantheons leveled heavy sanctions against the Seelie Court.
Even if my gut instinct is to tell her and her convenient offer to fuck off, I doubt Mother would walk away. She’d be curious what prompted Aileen to approach me in the first place. She’d want to know if the Summer Court was also feeling the strain of the recent months, if cracks were beginning to form in their leadership. Where there’s weakness, there’s opportunity.
So I swallow my misgivings, channel my mother’s most diplomatic smile, and say, “I believe so. And if a parley were to occur, I assume it would take place at...”
“Tomorrow night’s ball. If all the Pantheons are in attendance, it would be difficult for loyalists to claim treasonous behavior took place, don’t you think?”
“How interesting. Perhaps I’ll stop at the festivities tomorrow then.”
“Do.” She brushes her fingers lightly over my shoulder, but it’s a calculated touch for witnesses rather than one of deeper meaning. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night.”