by Melissa Marr
“Irial. My regards to your better halves.”
He laughed. “Oh, but if they are both my better halves, they’ve fulfilled all the good I could be. Does that leave me nothing but wickedness?”
“If memory serves, that always was a particular gift of yours.” Siobhan stepped closer and allowed his familiar embrace, knowing well that he was harmless to her. No one who knew him would be surprised that he dipped her for a kiss.
While Irial’s kiss was fairly chaste, it undoubtedly looked otherwise, and the wink he gave her made clear that he intended as much.
Siobhan bit back a smile as Tavish jerked her away from Irial.
“Why are you here?” Tavish asked. “I have no record of a meeting.”
Irial grinned. “Niall kicked me out of the house for being ‘absurdly cheerful,’ so I thought I’d visit the other courts.” He looked around expectantly. “Is the queen around? I’d like to pay my respects.”
“On behalf of . . .” Tavish prompted.
“Chaos, it is what I am,” Irial answered with a cheeriness that was slightly out of character. “Why else would I possibly be here?”
“Are you drunk?” Siobhan asked softly.
Irial laughed gleefully and said, “Not yet, my dear. A glass of Summer Wine wouldn’t go amiss, though. Would you fetch me one?”
“Siobhan is not a cocktail maid. She is an advisor to Her Majesty, Aislinn, Queen of the Summer Court and—"
“I was asking you, Tavish.” Irial looked at Siobhan’s counterpart with an innocent smile that was about as convincing as kelpie claiming to be vegetarian. The innocence fled after a moment, and there instead was a faery to fear. Taunting. Powerful. Far too proud to back down, despite—or perhaps because of—centuries of encounters.
“Summer Wine is for those of our court.” Tavish glared, eyes as black as Irial’s now. The two could be brothers, opposing twins: Tavish spun-silver hair and Irial shadow-dark strands.
“I belong to all courts,” Irial stated.
“Or none.” Tavish held Irial’s gaze and added, “Our queen is busy. One makes an appointment, requests a convenient time—"
“Are you refusing me access to the Summer Queen?”
“No.”
“To the Summer Wine, then?” Irial taunted. “Are you afraid I’ll become drunken and difficult, Tavish? Afraid that I cannot control myself? Surely, you are not worried for my well-being.”
“You are not of our court,” Tavish said, not backing down at all. “Summer Wine is the drink of the court of light. You are a thing of shadows.”
If Siobhan didn’t know him so well, she would’ve missed the rage in his form and voice. Even then, however, she would not miss the accusations in his voice. The history between the courts was tense, and Tavish saw no beauty in the Dark.
But while the Dark Court was never a place of sparkling light and joyous laughter, Siobhan knew well that it wasn’t evil. She had many fond memories of nights in black sheets with the shadows touching her skin. There was joy there, too, as in her own court.
She looked between the two faeries. Whatever grudges they had meant that this could turn ugly.
“Perhaps, we could—”
“Why would the Dark King want sunlight?” Tavish bit off, speaking over her.
“I am no longer the Dark King, old boy. Your liquid sunlight is no longer deadly to me.” Irial held his arms wide. “Let us drink and be friends. I am no longer a creature that must fear sunlight.”
“You are still him,” Tavish said. “The past is unchanged. Call yourself something else, but you are still monstrous. I remember the countless nights Niall wept. I remember the laughter when my king was bound and weakened. You are still that monster.”
“No forgiveness, then?”
Her co-advisor ignored the question and said only, “My queen is not without obligation. She may be indisposed or--”
“Come now, Tavish. I know Seth is not due back from Faerie for several days.” Irial’s casual drawl barely disguised his growing temper. “And I am in rather immediate need of seeing Aislinn. You have no grounds to refuse me audience . . . or drink, for that matter. There are laws. Surely, you aren’t going to ignore them, old boy.”
“As you will,” Tavish said.
Siobhan stared at Tavish. There was something off in the way he spoke the queen’s name, the sheer weight of it was strange.
Irial caught her eye and looked at her as if daring her to speak.
When she didn’t, he said, “Then will one of you please tell the queen that I request an audience, and”—he stared at Tavish then—“that I am here waiting? I will be here until she has the time to speak with me.”
“I will wait with Irial,” Siobhan offered. “Perhaps you could see if Aislinn is available. . .?”
“As you say.” Tavish gave a curt nod and left.
His disdain could not be any more obvious if he screamed the words, and Siobhan wanted to follow him, to explain that she was not being disloyal to their court or queen. The queen herself welcomed Chaos to the table regularly. He might not be welcome at their revels, but Siobhan thought that might be as much the decision of the current Dark King as anything else.
Siobhan motioned for the guards to leave the room. “Wait outside the door. I am at no risk from him.”
Once they departed, Irial’s demeanor shifted. He wasn’t as languid or seductive as he had once been with her, but he visibly relaxed. “You always were a clever one.”
Siobhan glanced at him from the corner of her eye, emboldened by his trust, and said, “It may be presumptuous, but I do believe, after all this time, that I am safe in your presence.”
“You always were. Well”—he gave her a wicked smile that once promised more—“as safe as you wanted to be. You’re not as tame as some faeries.”
She motioned to a seat, not taking up that thread, but Irial remained where he was. “Tavish seems increasingly stern. Is he considering a transition to the High Court? Niall has spoken to him of it, but would not reveal his thoughts. Should I press the queen on it? Despite what they think, I do not wish danger to your queen. I never have. If Tavish is not adept--”
“He is fine.” Siobhan looked to where the silver haired faery had vanished. “Tavish is not without Summer’s passion. He simply hides it well for reasons that are his own.”
“So that’s how it is.” Irial plucked at a tendril of her hair. “Are you pining, love? Or are you helping him kindle that passion?”
She sighed. “I fear he sees me as a fool . . . or worse.”
Siobhan pushed aside a drape of flowering vines, behind which was an inset bar. She gestured to the cut glass decanters and assorted bottles of wines, whiskies, and liqueurs. “We have drinks that are more to your usual interest.”
“No. I want sunlight. I want to understand it.” Irial walked over to stand next to her at the hidden sideboard and poured himself a generous drink of the liquid sunshine that was the drink of the Summer Court. His hand trembled slightly.
If Siobhan hadn’t seen it herself, she’d never have believed it. Whatever his business with the queen, Irial was not nearly as calm as he pretended—or perhaps it was the fear of burning up if he was not, in fact, safe from the sunlight.
“Irial? Are you . . . well?”
“Shush, Siobhan. A little fear makes us alive,” Irial whispered.
“The Dark King might think so, but you . . . are no longer that.” Siobhan reached out and squeezed his arm. “If it does not endanger my queen, I am still your friend.”
He nodded, and then a moment later, his grin returned. “Mustn’t let your beau realize I’m not nearly as awful as he thinks . . . or perhaps we should.”
“I care for him, Irial,” she warned.
“I see, but”--he tilted his head and stared into the distance as if pondering-- “I’m afraid I’m about to upset Tavish’s entire apple cart.”
“His apple cart?” she echoed.
“I’m a father,”
he whispered. “I’ve come to share my news.”
“With my queen? What . . . Leslie is with ch—"
“No. Not her. Not yet.” He sighed, and Siobhan suddenly missed the shadows that used to undulate next to him when he was the Dark King.
“Irial . . .”
He took her hand as if they were, in fact, simply old friends, and in a way, she supposed that was as fitting a label as any for their history. Then he told her, “I have learned that I am a father, and I have a great-grandchild, too.”
“And that child is of interest to this court,” Siobhan filled in.
“Clever woman,” he said.
“You do make me nervous.”
“Chaos, love. It’s what I am.” He lifted his glass. “To family!”
And with that, the once-Dark King downed an entire glass of Summer Wine.
Aislinn paused in her perusal of the latest reports. There were advisors, merchants, and managers employed to handle the court’s business—as there had been for centuries--but the Summer Queen had taken a keen interest in the business of providing for her court.
Learning to control the full weight of unfettered summer wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped—especially as a former human. The Summer Court was volatile by design, and the weight of so much power was still hard to control after several years. She’d taken up courses, managing the accounts, and a number of other hobbies to try to practice focus.
She’d taken courses at the college and read books on a variety of marketing and investing plans. These may not be the normal purview of faery queens, but Aislinn Foy had been mortal first. She would and often did let summer’s essence fill her, and she did frolic as a proper Summer Queen should when the time was right—but she would also be a decision-making party when it came to her court’s financial and business interests. Eternity was a very long time, and the practicalities of providing for a court could be expensive.
“Aislinn?” Tavish suddenly stood there, drawing her attention to him with the power of something greater than magic. He moved like moonlight sometimes, present suddenly and beautifully, and rather intense without realizing it. “My queen . . .”
“That look never seems to be a harbinger of joy, Tavish.”
She stood and went to the faery who had been her guide and strength in her new role as queen. He’d become her family, as much as many of the faeries she counted on in her new life as a queen, but Tavish was more. He was the brother she had never had.
Embracing him, she asked, “What can I do to cheer you, brother? Summer isn’t meant for such gloom.”
Tavish had finally relented to her insistence on calling him “brother,” but he only agreed to that if there were no witnesses. Hearing it—according to him—allowed her to let him know they were alone.
“Not gloom. Wishes of a bit of lightning to toss…”
Aislinn laughed and teased, “Shall I smite someone for you?”
“I would enjoy that,” he said, lighter by a few degrees. “Alas, it would cause complications. You have a guest.”
“With that expression, let me guess . . . Donia? Devlin? Irial?” She paused on the last name as Tavish nodded curtly.
“He is not our enemy, brother. Chaos is--”
“The self-same faery who once cursed this court.” Tavish punched a section of wall. Here, without witnesses, he would reveal the side of himself that was more summerlike than anyone seemed to expect. Temper flared, and he glowed with a hot internal light.
Aislinn waited.
“Centuries, Ash. Centuries of futile searching, and he did not suffer. Our court. Our faeries. All of the mortals remade as faery. Keenan.” He sighed. “You. So much pain, and for what?”
She reached out and squeezed his wrist. “I shall meet with him without you at my side. Go, find an outlet for this. Summer may rage, but we are a court of joy, brother.”
“As you command.”
“As you need,” she corrected. There was little else she could say or do.
Tavish wasn’t wrong, but she couldn’t refuse Irial’s visit. He was, these days, an entity that was welcome in all courts. The last embodiment of Chaos was only with the Dark, and that had led to hunger for power. Chaos had become War, and in doing so, Death had been summoned.
Aislinn had no desire to see such bloodshed again. She would have peace. Summer was for joy, for pleasure, for languid days and drunken mornings. Violence lurked, and she could feel that impulse. It was why she invited other regents to her table, broke bread and shared drinks with them as the long-dead Summer King Miach had done. Unity and balance were what let the world thrive.
“I will meet with Irial,” she said. “The past is a thing we must set aside.”
Tavish’s expression made quite clear that he did not agree—but this was why her court was benefitted by her relative youth. Barely in her twenties, Aislinn had only a heartbeat of time in their world. No centuries’ old grudges to sway her. No near-eternity of suppressed rage.
Tavish dipped his head in a bow. His calm exterior seemed as if it reformed like a great wall around the storm she knew he felt inside. “Ash?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask that we have a revel? I have needs that are interfering with my duties.” Tavish held her gaze. “If I do not address them, I fear that working with Siobhan will be impossible soon.”
If he were anyone else or perhaps if they were any other court, Aislinn would laugh, but this was the Summer Court. Pleasure was as much a joy as a duty.
“Of course! Seth will return soon and—"
“I would beg your leave that we do not wait that long.” Tavish looked toward the room. “Seeing Irial embrace her did much to wear my last thread of control.”
The Summer Queen nodded. Her advisor asked little for himself, so there was no chance she’d refuse. “You could speak to her, Tavish. I have no objection to my two advisors enjoying--”
“No. If she wasn’t your advisor in opposition to me, perhaps . . .” Tavish frowned. “But this is the happiest she’s been, Ash. I would not risk that to satisfy my own carnal interest in her.”
Aislinn nodded. She already feared losing him to the High or Winter Court. If he could not find joy here, she would. There had to be a solution that meant keeping both of her advisors—and Tavish finding happiness. If not, she’d lose him.
Aislinn watched the former Dark King walk into her aviary alone in surprise. Although Tavish hadn’t mentioned anyone else, Aislinn had thought there must be someone else here with him. Leslie visited with Irial, typically, and though the two weren’t as close as Aislinn would like, she wasn’t sure what sort of thing would necessitate a visit from Irial alone. Dark Court business was a thing he absented himself from these days—at least ostensibly. No one who saw the way the former king watched Niall had any doubts of his allegiance.
Worry flooded Aislinn, and the weather around her reacted. A small storm cloud appeared as she asked, “Is Leslie well?”
“She is.” Irial seemed unconcerned with the brief burst of rain that filled the room and drenched him. “As is Niall.”
“Good.” She waited, figuring out by now that there was no way to rush the fey when they were of a mind to stall.
“How are you?” Irial stared at her in a way that was wholly unfamiliar, as if he was studying her face for clues of . . . something. Odder still, he approached her, instead of keeping his usual distance.
Vines sprung up, lashing together in a fence of sorts between them.
“Close enough,” she said.
Irial simply stood there, leaning into the fence, pausing to sniff a flower that sprouted near him. “Tell me of your mother. Your grandmother. What were they like when you were younger?”
“My . . .what?”
“Your family.” Irial made a careless gesture in the air. “Tell me of them.”
“Why?”
“Is it so hard to believe I’m curious?” His tone was light, and his smile was hard to resist.
Aislinn tried to resist the answering smile she felt threatening. “Without a reason? Yes.”
“I do not know you well enough.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. There was something irrepressible about Irial—to the point that Seth had grown oddly fond of him and Aislinn couldn’t help but find Irial charming.
“You’re being peculiar.” She gestured and a chair woven of ivy and flowers appeared as she sat.
“May I?” Irial held up a cigarette.
“Around my plants? No.” With a flick of her hand, another such seat lifted next to Irial.
“Nerves,” he said.
Aislinn paused. Although faeries—especially Irial—lied by omission and misdirection, they could not lie outright. Further, Irial sounded sincere.
“Are you well?” she asked.
He sat without replying. After a moment, Irial leaned forward. “Shall I tell you the grand news, my dear?”
At Aislinn’s will, a table rose between them. Fashioned of tree branches twisted into an infinite loop of Celtic knots, it provided the illusion of a barrier. She’d been working on it as a meditation piece.
“May I call you ‘dear’?”
“Irial—"
“Was there an affectionate name you would have liked as a child?” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Or a pet? There is a beautiful lioness that I saw when I was in—”
“Irial!”
“Mmm?” He stared at her in a way that she would almost call besotted, but for the fact that she knew without a doubt that he had never shown any genuine interest in her romantically.
“What are you here to tell me?”
“Oh,” he said, “I’m a father.”
“Leslie is—”
“No. A hundred or so years ago, I met a lovely woman. We had children, Aislinn.” He looked both joyous and forlorn in a matter of moments. “I’ve forgotten for years, by my own design, as my Thelma was fated to be . . . well, you.” He gestured around the room. “This.”