by M. A. Grant
“I’m going home for the weekend. Duty calls.”
My stab of disappointment is impossible to hide. He’s running away from me. “Monday then.” There. If I don’t phrase it as a question, he can’t weasel his way out of it.
I kick off my shoes and strip to my boxers. God, I’m tired. When did I get so tired?
I bump into a desk instead of the bed. Must have gotten turned around somehow. Whatever.
Sliding between the sheets is heaven.
“Smith, what the hell are you doing?”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and bury my face in the pillow. “Not now. Sleep.”
Exhaustion steals color and shape and coherency from the room.
Someone tugs the sheets up over my shoulder. Fingers brush through my hair. Something whispered in a way that makes my chest loosen.
Feels like home—
Chapter Thirteen
Roark
Mother’s guards are nowhere in sight when I arrive at her chambers in the sídhe. I can’t blame them. It’s smart to avoid her in this state. No one would dare threaten her, unless they had a death wish. I don’t, but I’d rather face her than lie in bed, thinking about Smith.
He wants me. Despite our past, despite my family’s behavior, he wants me.
Stop. Don’t think about him. This isn’t the time or place.
I add a few more layers of glamour in an effort to hide my arousal. I have no intention of Mother discovering Smith’s new hold over me. And if she were to discover it, there’s no doubt it would be today. Several servants and guards I passed this morning warned me she was not to be disturbed, that her mood was volatile. As her son, I ignored their warnings, said a quick prayer, and came to find her anyway.
They weren’t exaggerating. I pick my way carefully over the sheet of ice that has crept out from under Mother’s door and knock once. A sharp prick of magick from inside, and the door opens with a gust of wind.
She hasn’t bothered to turn to look at me, still too focused on her scrying mirror. The flawless ice is surrounded by candles which illuminate Mother’s face, but little else in the room. I step farther inside, close the door quietly behind me, and listen intently to the conversation still taking place.
“Your Majesty,” the woman in the mirror continues, “we assure you, we will speak with the other pantheons and express our concerns, but there has been no evidence of corroboration. We would advise you to proceed with caution if you take defensive measures.”
Mother inclines her head, the candlelight reflecting off her ornate silver crown. “My deepest thanks, Mahakali. The Winter Court will obey the Pantheons’ missives.”
A shudder and the scrying ends. I wait, barely daring to breathe, and subtly brace against my glamour, shielding myself.
The explosion of Mother’s magick doesn’t come close to me. Instead, the icy blast of wind snuffs out all the candles in the room, along with her fire. All heat vanishes, and I wince when my eyes and skin frost over as her power seeps through my glamour. A heartbeat later, the frost is gone and I can breathe without fear of freezing my lungs.
Sure her rare outburst is over, I stretch my glamour to the fireplace, summoning a lick of flame, and then move to the candles. I go beyond those near her mirror, working on all in the room. Their wicks snap and pop as they illuminate the space, revealing Mother’s motionless form.
It was an important call for her to have dressed so ornately. She hates the trappings of royalty, yet she chose one of her regalia costumes: a shimmering, fluttering dress of sapphire blue coated in whorls of frost, accented with a wisp of a cape fashioned from stardust. The crown is one I recognize from my childhood. She’s only worn it twice that I can remember, on jubilees she celebrated with her people. The silver is ancient, heavy, handcrafted by Picts who worshipped her in her youth.
She removes it with reverence, setting it carefully on the table beneath the mirror. Without its weight, her body seems to lighten, and she gives me an appraising look. “As delighted as I am to see you, mo leanbh, I didn’t expect you to have time to meet me until later.”
I keep my glamour in place, afraid I’ll inadvertently give away a clue of how flustered Smith made me. “Can’t a son change his plans without provoking his mother’s suspicion?”
“No,” she says, eyes narrowing.
I didn’t think she’d buy it. I sigh and stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “You said we had a great deal to discuss this weekend. I thought we could start early.”
“Very well. Do you have the names of the Seelie students yet?”
“I’m working on it. I have to collect them through word of mouth and then verify with their friends or students who were in the same class. It’s taking longer than planned.”
She tilts her head in consideration, and I wonder just how many of my mannerisms were stolen from her without intention. “What have you learned so far?”
I shrug. “So far I can confirm thirty-one students who have left, most of them children of the aristocracy. That’s probably why the high-caste hasn’t thrown any parties in a while and why I’ve received fewer reports from harassed students.”
“Princess Aileen is one who returned home,” Mother says, lifting a single finger and motioning for me to spin around. “Goodfellow delivered the news to me the week after the ball.”
I turn. Aileen retreated back to the Seelie sídhe. That explains why there hasn’t been any follow-up to our discussion. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“Not yet.” Her cool hand clutches the crook of my elbow, so I glance over. I can’t hide my smile when I notice she’s changed back into her familiar garb, a heavy, simple dress designed for comfort over elegance.
“You need to eat,” I chide gently, leading her from her chambers.
The corner of her mouth twitches. “You intend to lecture me, Roark?”
“No, Mother.”
She pats my arm absently. “Let’s eat first. The rest can wait.”
The halls of the sídhe bustle with Unseelie who bow or incline their heads respectfully as we pass before they continue on their way. Normally a small army of hobs, redcaps, and various goblins keep the sídhe running. They wander unobtrusively through the warren of corridors, polite, but focused on not disturbing the royal family. Today, I can’t manage to accurately tally the varied classes of Unseelie we pass.
“It seems...crowded,” I comment as Mother and I narrowly sidestep a tiny, floating lutin who’s focused on plaiting knots into a frost sprite’s hair.
“I’ve invited our subjects to move back to the sídhe in preparation for the Samhain festivities.”
“Of course.” The festivities, while grand, never require the assistance of all the Unseelie host. Mother’s moving her pieces into position. How soon will she start maneuvering me?
“We need to discuss how to extend the same invitation to those living at Mathers,” she warns me.
Amazing how things can devolve so quickly in such a short span of time. I signal one of the hobs walking toward us.
He hurries forward, arms full of freshly laundered and pressed clothes, and bows so low to the ground I fear he’ll dirty the lot. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“My mother and I will be working in the war room today. Please have our meals sent there.”
“Oh, yes, Your Highness. Of course.”
“We’ll need to start with breakfast,” I tell him. “Mulled wine for Her Majesty and tea for me. Ask Bridget to select some. Black, with milk and honey.”
The hob continues to prostrate himself, even as he backs away from me. “As Your Highness commands.”
We continue on toward the war room.
Mother tightens her grip on my arm, but when I check her, her smile is genuine. “Feeling royal, darling?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. We’ll need that decisive attitude today.” Her smile dims and her body tenses when she adds, “It’s time for you to make a decisi
on about the Knighthood.”
* * *
“Roark, you can’t ignore me all evening.”
I glance up, hands frozen mid-cut in the slice of roast I was served for dinner. Mother watches me with concern. The detritus of our planning lies spread on the tables surrounding us, maps and parchments and statistics and reports. Numerous balls of crumpled paper lie in front of the fireplace. Those are about a third of our rejected strategies; the rest actually made it into the fire when I threw them. Meanwhile, only a few scattered pages of notes were good enough to tack to the wall with ice shards.
“I’m not ignoring you,” I say. “I would prefer to finish my meal so we can continue planning a war that may kill all our people.” And me.
Before this disaster with Sláine and his betrayal at the Accords, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d ever seen Mother frown. This year alone, it’s become the most common expression on her face when we meet in private and she’s able to let down some of her guard.
She frowns now and delicately spears a roasted carrot. “We also discussed how to prevent such bloodshed.”
“Mother, for the last time, I have no intention of giving up my position to take on the Knight’s mantle.”
She waves a hand at me, as if the fluttering napkin in her grasp somehow cancels out my protest. “It wouldn’t be for long, darling. I don’t understand your reluctance.”
“It doesn’t matter how long I serve as the Knight,” I say, setting down my fork and reaching for my wine. I force myself to remain calm, aloof, in control. It’s difficult. “You used to tell us stories of how quickly the Seelie Court fell after they perverted their power. They’ve never recovered from it.”
“They were cautionary tales. You and your brothers needed to learn the importance of strength.”
“It seems to have worked well. Sláine abandons us, Lugh forgets us, and I, alone, remain by your side.”
“We are nothing like them. The Summer Court fell because their princes were weak.” She lifts her wine to me in a quiet toast. “You are not.”
“Yes, me. I am loyal,” I argue, desperation seeping into the words no matter how I fight it.
The instant a blood relation to the faerie ruler takes on the Knighthood, the magick begins ripping them apart. The magick will dismantle my body, destroying me from the inside, before it starts working on my mind. My personality, my will, my memory, all sacrificed to the Knight’s power. Whatever damage is done during the course of my Knighthood will remain for the rest of my life, however short that is.
Mother reaches across the table and rests her fingers over my clenched hand. “I know, mo leanbh. That is why I chose you. You’ll last the longest.”
My throat is too tight for me to take another sip of wine. The aching burn in my eyes makes it hard to see where I’m setting down the glass. Her hand is a cool weight over mine, her glamour steady and calm, unchanged despite her callous admission.
I pull away from her touch and pick up my knife and fork. The bitter rage churning in my gut is so strong I can barely choke down another bite of the roast.
Mother has the grace to let me struggle through a few more bites before she says, “The public ceremony can be delayed for a short time. The transfer of power does not rely on the ceremony. We could complete it tonight, if you prefer.”
What little desire I had left to eat vanishes. Alcohol is the better choice. “How fortunate. We may as well start now, so we can be finished before dessert. Should I eat this course slower so you have time to go change into the proper mourning garments?”
Mother’s sharp inhalation echoes around the room, but I take only detached notice of her pain. I’m too focused on drowning my own sorrow with wine and wishing it were something stronger.
We continue to eat and drink in silence. Family meals have always been like this. Worse, if my brothers are home. None of us can seem to sit together for more than a few minutes before testing each other’s armor so we can land the swiftest injury. A family’s love always cuts the deepest. Our bonds are nothing like those in the stories I overhear Smith sharing when he returns home from the holidays.
Listening through the door of my room while he and the satyr talk, there’s always a strange jealousy when he shares what his mother’s cooked, or what chores he helped his father with. There’s much affection and appreciation in his voice when he speaks of them. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a few pathetic fantasies of what it would be like to go home with him for a break, to introduce myself to them, to be welcomed into their perfect little family.
I’m nearly done with the second bottle of wine, mulling over how contradictory Smith and I are. There’s no common ground between us, not really, so I never should have fallen for him as I have. And, oh, how I have. Tumbled from that precipice with a smile on my face for the ground rushing up to meet me. Ice and fire, darkness and light, drawn and tied to him like a shadow to its caster.
As if she knows the direction my traitorous mind has turned yet again, my mother points at me with her knife. “Since we’ve already given up on civility, there is one more issue we need to discuss.”
“Oh?”
“The human has been found out.”
I’m dumbfounded. I barely manage to maintain my glamour, and my voice wavers a bit when I ask, “Found out? What is there to learn? That he’s an idiot with spells?”
“Goodfellow brought rumors from the Summer Court. They know he protected our people at the ball.”
I don’t dare to meet her gaze while my brain rapidly reviews the careful lies I’ve told her already. “Of course they know he used his power as a shield. They were the ones attacking us.”
“Our fair cousins are curious about this newfound control.”
The glass in my hand frosts over. I turn it this way and that, pretending to admire the pattern of hoarfrost, while I frantically think up an excuse. “Attempted, more like. He’s still hopeless. Powerful, but lacking control. He’d be as likely to burn down the sídhe as defend it.”
“They say he protected you.” The dancing lilt of her voice doesn’t ease the punch of her words.
More glamour to muffle the rapid beat of my heart and the faint click of the glass’s stem flexing in my hand. Keep Smith safe. “There’s nothing there, Mother.”
“Are you so sure, my son?”
She never calls me that. This is not a battle I’m prepared for. Not when my mind’s a web tangled around memories of Smith’s kisses and smiles and jagged reminders of how I’m not allowed to keep them. Mother’s lashing out in an effort to redirect her own pain, and I’m too tired to play her whipping boy.
“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” I announce, setting down my glass and wiping my lips with a napkin. “My spell holds.”
It’s a bold statement to make to her, a reminder of a fight our relationship still hasn’t recovered from. A thin layer of clear ice curls over the edges of her plate.
Her eyes narrow at my warning and her smile is razor-sharp. “Then perhaps it’s best that I step in. I wouldn’t want our rivals to steal him away.”
A crack as the flash-frozen wine in my glass splits its delicate shell.
“That may be inadvisable, as he’s come to me for help in learning to control his powers,” I state blandly as I can manage. How much can I give away? “I doubt he’s at risk while he’s in such close proximity to me. Surely we should wait a little longer before deciding his fate.”
“Sláine’s defection has nearly destroyed the balance of our Court.” Her words are blunt, hard, and cold. “The human is our greatest threat. Should the Seelie claim him, we would not survive.”
“The Seelie have shown no interest in him yet.” I lean forward across the table. “If we try to kidnap him again, they will know he’s a linchpin and will make an all-out assault to claim him. Leave him alone, Mother. The war is inevitable. Don’t drag him into it now.”
“Then give me a reason not to.”
I think I unde
rstand the difference between Smith and me and why our lives seem so entwined. He wins by fighting on, driven by selflessness and the struggle to master his magick. I’ll win by surrendering, taken over by the Knighthood and lost to everything but the power of the Winter Court. This goes beyond us. Balance. The payment of life for life.
“You need assurance that our Court will be safe? Fine. On Samhain, I’ll take on the mantle.”
I’m not sure how long we watch each other. Her glamour presses against mine, inspecting me for any crack, any weakness that would allow her to see my true face. I’ve woven it too tightly.
“Mother,” I murmur, “you know why I do this. Leave him in peace and you’ll have your Knight.”
She may not trust my glamour, but she trusts the hopelessness of my love. That crushing, icy pressure finally relents, and sweat beads my brow as she backs off.
“Very well. The ceremony will occur on Samhain. In the meantime, you can begin training our newest army recruits this week. I’m sure you’ll want to settle in tomorrow before you begin—”
“I won’t be training the new recruits yet,” I inform her. “I won’t be moving into the sídhe tomorrow either.”
She stills, surprised at my defiance. “Why not?”
“You have my promise. The Knighthood on Samhain. Until then, life continues as it has. I live at Mathers. I report to you.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I’m not finished. She may kill me for my impertinence, but the risk is low now that she has what she wants.
“We can’t tip our hand to the Seelie yet. My absence would be seen as a prelude to immediate war.”
She frowns but doesn’t reply. Good. That means she heard what I said.
“Mother, let me stay these last few weeks. We’ll withdraw our people from campus, we’ll finish gathering supplies, and come Samhain, I’ll reside permanently in the sídhe. What are a few weeks to our immortality?”
“I fear the day you decide to rise up against me,” she says quietly, but I know it’s a compliment. And a surrender.
I have a few last weeks of freedom before my fate is sealed. A few last weeks to help Smith. I fought for his life and won, but also set the end of our time together. I can’t pretend to enjoy my hollow victory.