by Ryan Graudin
“Recharging. The pubs are hard on me. . . . Too much technology, I guess. I was already strained before the Banshee appeared.”
“That’s why you threw up?” Richard glances over at the oily patch in the road. It winks back at us, reflecting the headlamps of a passing cab.
Is it getting worse? I swallow the decay from my mouth. Hard to tell.
“This . . . attack. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it?” The prince appears very grounded and clear-eyed as he thinks this out, all drink evaporated from his system.
“There’ve been a few other incidents,” I admit. “It’s hard to avoid them in the pubs.”
“The blackouts I had . . . that was you?” He examines his hand. The swelling is mostly gone now.
“I do what I must to keep you alive.” I push myself away from the tree. “Period.”
Richard looks like he wants to say something, but the words get caught in his throat. There’s a commotion on the other side of the street. Men with cameras moving down the sidewalk. Seems like the paparazzi finally got tipped off on Richard’s whereabouts. That’s the last thing I need: my photo gracing the front page of The Sun for every Fae to see.
The prince sees them too. “Great,” he mutters, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I think it’s time to go home,” I tell him.
“I think you’re right,” he says, and waves across the street to his bodyguards. “Enough for one night.”
My legs are still shaky, ready to collapse. I reach up toward a tree branch, tangle my fingers into its leaves. A few of them break off into my palm—a piece of nature to take with me into the car that’s now wheeling around, ready for Richard’s quick escape from the paparazzi.
The night feels full of eyes as Richard opens the car door for me. Tonight was too close. If there’d been even one more soul feeder on the prowl, I would have failed. Richard would be dead.
And I don’t even have the choice of backup. Not if I want to keep walking this thin line, this only path.
The leaves fold over and over in my palm, my only comfort as Richard comes in on the other side and shuts the door. The car pulls away, back toward the curling iron gates of Kensington.
Seven
Your presence is requested at Queen Mab’s court. You must leave immediately.
Paleness invades my face as I stare at the words I just unrolled from the sparrow’s leg. The messenger appeared in the last minutes of my shift with Richard, forcing me to rush out of Kensington with little more than a hasty good-bye.
Being called back to the Highlands this early in my detail could mean only two things. There could be a briefing about the ravens. Or it could mean that she knows.
A sickness beyond the machines stirs in my gut. I’d known the risk of staying and showing myself to Richard, but I’d gone through with it anyway. I’d clung to the glimpsing hope I could get away with it.
“What have I done?” The brittle paper collapses to dust in my hand.
The bird’s head turns sideways. A dull black eye blinks at me twice before it swoops down to the gravel drive and starts picking for food.
When Mab summons, I have to go. I’m bound by the oath I gave her so long ago, after she found me roaming the Highlands in all my newborn wildness and gave me a choice. A choice to follow her, to hone my power and contain it, or to continue, raw and aimless, over the moors.
Because I chose her, chose tiers of nobility and order, I now have to face the consequences of what I’ve done. The rule I’ve broken.
There’s still a chance the queen doesn’t know. This request for my presence might have nothing to do with the veiling spell. Helene acted perfectly normal when I handed the prince off to her just a few moments before. But this prospect, a meeting about the prophecy, isn’t much better. The raven’s words spoke of something monumental, something that could change us all.
I swallow my fear and close my eyes, concentrating on that very essential part of me—magic. It seems that I have enough energy to carry me out of the city, which is all I need. Once I’m back in the realms of true nature, the magic will take care of itself.
I take to the skies. London becomes little more than a strange sequence of slanting roofs cut through with a snaking river. I weave in and out of the wispy cirrus clouds, fast and graceful. The city falls behind; the ground below becomes a patchwork of green, yellow, and brown farmland, bordered with hedges and fences.
Minutes become hours and the land grows wilder. Rolling hills with dustings of snow and black-watered lochs replace the towns and their tamed pockets of earth. There’s something in this raw wilderness, tangible and pure, that lifts me up, tugs me to greater heights. I feel as though I could keep flying for years.
Here, in this tangle of mountains and narrow lakes, Mab holds her court. I manage an unpracticed landing on the highest peak, half tumbling through remains of snow, now melting with the summer’s creeping heat. The mountaintop appears empty, but I know better. I stare at the sheer rock face only a few feet away. To the lone, mortal climber, it seems like many of the other mountainsides in the area. Only a Fae can sense otherwise.
The gateway to Mab’s court lies between two discreet boulders—as it always has. Its hidden door swings wide as soon as the opening spell leaves my lips. I step into the heart of the mountain and pause.
“Lady Emrys.”
A woman with hair of glistening sterling, all svelte and towering, waits at the tunnel entrance. It’s Duchess Titania, one of the older Fae whose essence can’t stand the presence of technology. As far back as my memories go, she’s held a high position in the ranks of Mab’s court, directing scouts and spearheading hunting parties. She’s also one of the few Fae who openly resents the promotions and favors Mab has often granted me. Under her eyes I feel inspected, torn apart—treated like a child for my age and ignored for my experience.
I must smile and bear it, because that’s the way of our kind. She is older. Therefore I must respect her.
Titania’s lips are pulled tight in obvious displeasure. “Come with me, youngling.” This term digs, makes me tense. “Queen Mab wishes to see you immediately.”
She waves me on and starts down through the tunnel. Mab’s court is deep in the mountain’s core—crouching under many layers of dirt and stone. Our path winds down through the hill, as if it’s been drilled through with a corkscrew. Faery lights shine faint from pockets in the tunnel wall, giving the earth a ghastly, underwater glow. Their shadows lick the space between Titania and me.
I’ve walked this path hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Returning from scouting expeditions off the plunging coast of the North Sea or the craggy peaks of Aviemore, reporting on the latest uprising or disease that rocked the mortals’ primitive world, sloping down, down, down these halls to give Mab the worst news of all: how Mordred’s blade found the smallest crack in Arthur Pendragon’s armor. How the very first king under our protection fell victim to death.
This time the walk feels different. I don’t know what it is. There’s a tension in the air, clinging to everything: the walls, the duchess, the morning glories which coat the ceilings.
Titania doesn’t look back. She charges down, spurred by this anxiety. I struggle not to think of what’s waiting below, but Titania’s agitation gives me hope. She wouldn’t be so irritated in the face of my demise.
Despite being underground, Mab’s court—like everything else our queen prizes—is a thing of beauty. Roots drop like chandeliers from the cavern ceiling; pastel Faery lights smolder on their ends. Walls burst, full of bluebells, rhododendrons, and wild heather, their sapphire and violet petals fed by magic instead of sunlight. Messenger birds dive in and out of the vine-draped walls.
The queen and all of her highest officials are waiting. Duchesses, countesses, and ladies, all the loftiest titles in the ranks of our world, line a long oaken table still rough with bark. Like everything else, they are stunning beneath the moon-washed light, hardly a fla
w in their polished faces. Worlds apart from the pretty, wearied visages of the Guard. The wildness of this place glows just under their skin. It’s a wonder they even bother keeping human form at all. The reason, of course, is Mab. It was her love of the humans’ tamed form, her desire to perfect it, which led us to take up these bodies in the first place. The older ones tell me she was the first. (All of this was long before me. Back when humans caught their earliest glimpse of Britain’s white cliffs, standing at the bows of their crude wooden boats.) Other Fae followed.
Stepping close to these nobility, I feel lesser. More like the humans I’ve spent the past few days with than these older, power-filled Fae.
The council stares, faces void of emotion, as I gather my tattered skirts and take a seat. Queen Mab is seated far from me, at the very head of the table.
The Faery queen. She is power and more than a hint of ruthlessness. She has to be, to lead so many creatures with magic of their own. No spirits ever feel completely at ease in her presence.
The queen’s face is as immovable as stone, just like the others, but something in her shifting opal eyes speaks of worry.
“I need everyone’s full attention,” she says firmly. “I’ve summoned you all here to inform you of some alarming developments our scouts uncovered in the north.”
Stale breath, some of it held for hours, leaks from my lips. Mab knows nothing of my liberties with Richard after all. I’m safe from judgment, from the condemnation of so many aged Fae. For now. Looking at their row of profiles, so severe and marble-carved, I wonder if any of them ever had trouble holding up a veiling spell.
Probably not.
“As many of you are aware, the ravens have received a rather troubling vision. As soon as I received the Guard’s message, I deployed scouts to investigate. Over the past few days, these scouts have detected traces of abnormal spells throughout the kingdom. All of them point to a single, malevolent source—a quite powerful one. If it’s a Fae, then she’s old, possibly even older than me.”
Murmurs erupt along the table, surprise stirring to life.
“That’s not possible.” Duchess Titania’s voice soars above the others. “All of the Old Ones are unmade. We were more than thorough.”
“It’s possible we overlooked one or two of them,” Mab offers, although her words harbor the same incredulous doubt that the others in her court feel.
“How could they stay undetected for so long? It’s been over a century since we had to put the last one down. They were so sick they could barely control their magic for a day, much less one hundred years.” Grim lines carve trenches in Titania’s face. She, like the rest of us, prefers not to dwell on the memory of the deluded ancient sisters we had to destroy. That very dark period in our ever-evolving history.
“I don’t have any answers for you,” the Faery queen says, “but according to the ravens, this force poses a threat to the crown and the royal blood, which is our utmost concern. Therefore I propose heightened security measures for the Guard and an increase in scouting patrols. We need to glean all the information we can.” Mab’s fingers lace together, seamless, as she looks over the council. “Are there any thoughts?”
The table is silent. Mab’s new intelligence falls heavy on the room. And it should—the revelation that our enemy is ancient is hardly comforting. Magic, like wine, ripens with age. A spirit older than Mab would be potent, powerful, and extremely dangerous.
“If I may, Your Majesty.” I raise my hand slightly and try to keep the shake out of my voice. Addressing so many older Fae at once sets my nerves alight. Mab nods for me to continue. “The Guard isn’t prepared to deal with this. We’re all young—but a lot of the Frithemaeg are only a few hundred years old. They’d have no chance against one of the Old Ones.”
Every face around the table spoils with grimace. Compared to their thousands of years, Breena and I are hardly more than children. The other London-based Fae are nothing but babes.
“And yet we have no choice in the matter. Breena is the oldest Frithemaeg who can handle the city. . . . The rest of us are too old. If only all of our younglings could be as gifted as you, Lady Emrys.” The queen sighs and her brow furrows. “If it’s an Old One we’re dealing with, then she’s survived this long by not approaching civilization. The royals and the Guard should be safe from her powers as long as they remain inside the city.”
A whirring noise pulls everyone’s attention away from the table. There, winging though the colorful subterranean flowers, is a sparrow. It’s a London bird, I can tell from the dinginess of its feathers. The flighty creature must have left only minutes after me; I can feel a special spell meant for speed woven into its stubby wing feathers. Its message must be urgent.
All is silent when the tiny bird tumbles onto the table. It steadies itself and ruffles its feathers, oblivious to the many piercing eyes of the Fae around it. I know, even without seeing the script, that its message is grave.
Mab is unflinching as she winds the parchment back into a tight coil. She looks straight at me as she speaks her next, unthinkable words.
“Emrys, you must return to London immediately. The king is dead.”
Eight
By the time I reach London, the city is hardly recognizable. Sirens and flashing blue lights appear every few blocks. Tearful citizens wander the streets, their many shuffling feet gathering at the same place: Buckingham. The palace’s gilt gates are crowded by thousands of frantic mourners. Compared to the pressing crowd, the palace courtyard is eerily still; the only movement over its gravel is the occasional group of policemen and their bright sapphire lights.
Breena is shaking when I find her on the borders of Saint James’s Park, where nature bleeds back into ordered city blocks.
“What happened?” I crouch close to the earth. My fingertips dig into the mulch beneath the oak Breena is slouched against.
“He’s dead. I don’t know when—Ferrin summoned me as soon as she discovered him. She went to relieve Muriel and found him slouched over his desk. It was just after you left for Mab’s court. The mortals think he had a stroke. That’s what it looks like anyway.”
I’ve never seen Breena quite like this: every part of her body filled with shiver and tremors. Everything except her eyes. Those are dead still, set straight ahead at the palace.
“Muriel . . . Muriel’s gone.” It takes a very long time for my friend to say this. “We can’t find her.”
The same dreadful stupor which has seized Breena begins washing over me. This was no accidental death, no oversight of the king’s health. King Edward was murdered. Death by magic.
I let my body fall the rest of the way to the ground. “What happened to Muriel? Was she unmade?”
Breena shakes her head. “None of the traces are there. Either she was taken, or she fled on her own. There are signs of a fight . . . but it’s very possible they were staged. No way of knowing.”
“Treason or kidnapping,” I mutter, and stare back at Buckingham Palace. The mortals keep pressing against its iron fence, their rows of heads growing thicker. Their arms curling around the bars and stretching toward the palace. Red-coated guards stand beyond the clamoring crowd, their bodies stiff and their stares as unyielding as Breena’s.
“I never thought an assassination would actually happen.” Tears roll clear down Breena’s cheeks. “Not on my watch. I should have put the Guard on double duty as soon as the raven warned us. If there’d been another Fae with Muriel, then—”
“Then she would be missing too,” I interrupt. “This isn’t your fault, Breena. Whoever’s behind this is smart and resourceful. Mab and the council think it’s an Old One.”
Breena’s eyes widen. For the first time in a long while, I see fear behind them. “An Old One? How?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but that’s what the leftover spells point to.”
Stray wind rips through the park, tearing leaves from their branches. They swirl down, ballerinas in a full pirouette, joining th
e carpet of vegetation and decay at our feet. Breena keeps trembling. Her hand slips over, touches mine.
“We have to protect Richard and Anabelle. You know that, right? We can’t leave them alone with the younglings. Not with an Old One out for their blood. We’re the most experienced—it has to be you and me. We’ll put the younglings on perimeter patrol.”
I open my mouth to protest. I should tell her about the breach in my veiling spell. I should confess how I’ve let Richard see. How I’m not fit to be a Frithemaeg any longer.
But I see the look, the nearness of failure and death in her expression, and I can’t. She needs me. My years of experience, the idea of my magic behind her. I can’t fail her now.
“We’ll keep them safe,” I say.
I find Richard with the rest of his family in Buckingham Palace’s private apartments. The family sits in a tight ring by the fireplace. The room feels too bright, too full of towering mirrors and gold moldings to have any room for sorrow. But it’s here. Heads are buried in their hands, shreds of tissues pressed to damp faces. Anabelle sits only an inch or two away from her brother, smearing tears across her cheek with a curled fist. Her other hand has found Richard’s—their fingers locked and bloodless.
On the other side of the circle, untouched, sits their mother. Her hands are folded over her coral-pink skirt, no tissue crumpled between them. In some ways she reminds me of Mab: her shoulders and back are rigid from years of posture training, lips drawn thin, like a cobweb ready to snap. Only by reading her aura, the deepest feelings of her soul, do I know that she is really, truly devastated.
Richard stares straight past his mother, into nothing. The shock is setting in, glazing his eyes and sapping his skin. He looks almost like a corpse himself.
Though I’m sure he won’t notice me, I keep the veiling spell strong and solid between us. As long as other Fae are in the room, I’ll try my hardest to keep up the charade, even if it means refreshing my enchantments every ten minutes.