Queene of Light

by Jennifer Armintrout

  “I could not fly now. Not with wet wings,” Malachi admitted grudgingly. “If I can fly at all.”

  “I don’t see why you couldn’t. I did a bang-up job on those puppies,” the Human puffed as he gained dry ground. “Oh, damn it. Now look, I had to swim after you and now my smokes are all wet.”

  “Your legs will be wet, as well,” Malachi pointed out, trying to be helpful. It appeared the Human wasn’t interested in his brand of help, from the way he swore and kicked the waterproof contraption aside.

  The area they’d ascended to was drier, though their feet and clothing left splashes that soaked into the concrete. The walls of this tunnel were decorated in stark tiles that might have been white beneath the forests of mildew growing on them. From beneath a dying mold colony, a warped paper image of a Human woman holding a piece of Human technology to her ear with a wide grin declared “per minute,” the rest of the words swallowed by the layer of filth. Another set of stairs led up.

  “Does that go to the surface?” How deep could the Humans have dug? Malachi had forgotten how long it had been since the rift spilled his kind onto Earth. Time had been circular to him as an immortal, an infinite loop. It must have been hundreds of years now.

  “No, but we do get a little closer,” Keller called, disappearing behind a column with his wading device folded over one arm. “In fact, we cross that bridge up there, take a turn and we’re in a tunnel with surface vents.”

  “What are you doing? I thought I required the services of a healer.” A drop of cold water dripped from one of the slimy stalactites hanging from the ceiling, and Malachi dodged it. “This place is foul and smells of decay.”

  “Then you should be right at home,” Keller said with a small laugh. “I’m looking for a place to hide my waders. I don’t want someone swiping them, but they’re too heavy to carry.”

  “Hurry up, then.” He wandered around some of the large, square columns with their crowns of mold, but he went cautiously, still shaken by his near drowning. “Tell me more of where we will go.”

  Keller gave a sigh with much suffering melded into it. “The Strip is a neutral zone between the Lightworld and the Darkworld. Stop me if I’m going too fast for you. It’s a place where people from either side can go to do whatever seedy business they’ve got there, and a lot of unaligned types hole up there if they’ve been banished and don’t have ties to either world. Lots of Gypsies and Bio-mechs stay there.”

  “Why not you?”

  Keller heaved another sigh, this time too dramatic to believe. Why anyone would wish to make themselves appear so miserable, Malachi did not know. “Because I take a side. I don’t like living down here. So I’ve got two choices. Do what I’m supposed to do as a loyal Human and stay the fuck out of it—which involves paying the god-awful high rent to live on the Strip—or pick a side keen on ending this whole mess. The Darkworld doesn’t want to destroy the Human race—”

  “And the Lightworld does.” Malachi knew this well enough, from overhearing countless Darkworld assassination plots.

  “And the rent is cheaper,” Keller said. Whatever this rent was, mortals placed much importance on it. Then, the Bio-mech grinned and said, “Well, more like free.”

  “So, this Strip, I will not be harmed there?” Malachi asked, watching as Keller knelt and positioned the waders behind a loose tile.

  He laughed and stood, wiping his hands against each other as though he could clean the dirt and mold from them. “I never said you wouldn’t be harmed. But you won’t be persecuted for being a Darkworlder, either.”

  There was nothing but death and violence in the Underground. This Malachi knew well enough. But when he had been immortal and invisible to nearly all creatures, he had not given danger much thought. He did not think he even knew what a dangerous creature would look like. He had been concerned only with the mortals, and no matter their species they had never been a threat to him.

  Was this how it would always be then? To fear that every step would bring him closer to his death? To lurk about in the dark as Keller did, mumbling and consuming the addictive smoke in an effort to simply keep from becoming insane?

  “Hey, you coming?” Keller’s voice echoed through the space, and Malachi startled. He had not been paying attention, and the Bio-mech had moved ahead without him.

  He followed, unwilling to be left alone in the Darkworld, which now seemed much more intimidating than it ever had before.

  Eight

  A t the appointed hour, Ayla left Sanctuary for Garret’s home outside the Palace walls. The only place in the Underground with living trees, Sanctuary was the gem of the Lightworld. So much so that it was under constant guard, lest an unworthy Darkworlder stepped on its sacred soil. Submerged in the crystalline waters of Sanctuary’s springs, Ayla felt her Fae blood so deeply she could almost believe it was all that ran through her veins. That nothing so lowly as Human tainted her.

  The effect did not last once she left the place. Her heart hung as heavy as the sword strapped to her back. She would not normally carry it, but Sar, a Pixie who slept at the end of the bed row, had been eyeing it a bit too covetously for her to be foolish enough to leave it. Besides, Garret might give her the assignment he’d received for her, and she might need it. It would give her a chance to evade his relentless questioning and wait until the situation with the Darkling faded from memory. If she told him, he would blame it on her Human blood, and shame her for it.

  This doubt is Garret’s doing, an inner voice scolded her, and she pushed it aside. Garret did openly disdain her Human half, but with good reason. Weren’t Humans the enemy that had driven the Faeries to the Underground? Wasn’t it a Human who’d wielded his sword against the Harpy Queen, cursing the Darkworld to chaos? Ayla thanked the Gods it was not Mabb who’d fallen in the battle. The lawlessness of the Darkworld would have been unbearable for the Faeries, who thrived on ritual and courtly manners.

  Ayla passed by the Palace doors. As always, the corridor before them was crowded with Lightworlders, all waiting in their makeshift living quarters for their appointment to see the Queene. It was a difficult thing, for someone outside the Court to gain audience. More difficult still for someone not living or working in one of the Guilds. It was nearly impossible for any creature outside the Palace walls to gain Mabb’s attention, and they traveled miles, sometimes for days through dangerous tunnels, to wait. Upon arrival, a guard would take their names and business, then mark out a plot of space with chalk on the breaking cement and ask the traveler to kindly wait for the next available audience. It was not as simple as it sounded. In her short five years living at Court, Ayla had seen countless pilgrims arrive begging a word with the Queene, yet none had ever been admitted. Some died waiting. More were born to take their place. When someone wished to speak with the Queene, they would wait forever.

  Ayla kept her head high, her gaze straight ahead as she cut through the teeming throng. This was a journey Garret made every day, or so he’d told her. Ayla had heard rumors of secret passages from the Palace so that Mabb could travel unmolested to other areas of the Lightworld. It seemed unlikely that if such passages existed, Garret would be denied access to them, so Ayla did not believe his claim. No one would take such a depressing path if they were given another choice.

  A baby cried somewhere, a babe no doubt not only born, but conceived in the line to see the Queene. Do not waste your lives waiting to venerate such an idle monarch, Ayla raged silently. Mabb cares only for your praise and your coin.

  A hand closed around her ankle, nearly tripping her. She looked down, made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the unhappy wretch that had grabbed her.

  “Please,” the Faery rasped through a mouth missing many teeth. This was not a true Fae, but she must have had some Fae blood, no matter how watered the bloodline might be, to be a citizen of the Lightworld. “You have the mark of a Guild member. Can you take me to see the Queene?”

  A chorus of voices raised up around Ayla as Fae
creatures swarmed her. “What does she look like?” “Is she in good health?” “Will she be receiving us soon?” Then the voices shattered into panic as Mabb’s guard cut a swath through them, clearing the way so that Ayla might escape.

  How, she wondered, had Garret turned out so kind and generous when his sister was vain and spoiled? Were the roles of the Queene and the Male Heir so vastly different?

  They must be, she decided as she passed through the Palace doors and into the common streets of the Lightworld. Stalls lined the tunnel leading to the Palace, all selling wares emblazoned with Mabb’s image or name. Tired from your long journey through the Lightworld? Use Queene Mabb’s Restorative Potion! Used signet rings! Gain an audience faster with documents stamped by Mabb’s own seal!

  Garret did not crave the kind of fame that Mabb had encouraged. It was a shame that only a female heir could ascend to the throne. He would not have abided such folly.

  But he had not lived a life with such restrictions as Mabb had, either. Mabb had not been free to pursue her own interests, as Garret had. And she had to keep her wings hidden, by some royal edict that her parents had passed long before they had died, long before the destruction of the Astral plane.

  Turning from the main tunnel onto a slender byway, Ayla avoided further exposure to the Palace market. Garret made his home in a more quiet—and exclusive—part of the Lightworld, near enough to the Palace to be convenient, far enough to keep him away from the tourists and pilgrims. The tunnel widened slightly, ending in a long concrete staircase. Ayla opened her wings and drifted down, the weight of the sword dragging some of the grace from her flight. It was good to be in the open, away from the stifling rooms of the Palace. Though the training areas of the Guild had plenty of space for aerial sparring, there was nothing like being able to simply open your wings and fly without thinking of defensive combat.

  She envied Garret his life outside the Palace. His existence did not hinge on the Queene’s whim. He did not even need to work for his wages, if he chose not to. Being the son of a Queene might not merit a crown, but it did earn a reasonable allowance from the Palace treasury. Ayla had asked Garret once why he continued to work at the Guild. His answer had been, “For you, Ayla. Always for you.” The answer had unnerved her, and she had not dared to ask it again.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a tunnel, accessible through a hole with a ladder. Ayla folded her wings carefully and slipped into the hole, dropping down to land hard on both feet. A shock rippled up her ankles; she thought belatedly that she should have used the ladder. But it was good to be doing something physical, testing her body just a bit before going on whatever assignment Garret had for her.

  Garret’s apartment was one of four in this small, square tunnel. There were two on either side, stacked atop each other. One end of the tunnel branched off on a path leading deeper into the Lightworld. The other ended in a wall of water-stained concrete, and climbing ivy grew there, carefully trimmed around a stained stone fountain that leaked a trickle of rusty water. It was one of the nicest dwelling areas Ayla had ever seen, though she hadn’t had much reason to explore the homes of the Lightworld.

  Garret lived in one of the second-level apartments. There were no stairs. These were exclusively Faery dwellings. Ayla opened her wings and raised herself up, grasping the polished metal bar beside the door. She knocked, and when Garret opened the door to admit her, she used the bar to swing herself inside as she folded her wings.

  Garret’s apartment was a wonder to her after sleeping in the barracks for so long. The space was L-shaped, the sleeping area hidden from the door by the bend. There was a low, flat table with cushions all around for entertaining—a luxury many Faeries could not afford—and a brick oven set into the wall for heating and cooking. Garret had well-stocked cupboards and a fine collection of wooden dishes, all of which seemed to be on display on the square table in the center of the room.

  Ayla hesitated, one hand still on the door. “Am I…have I interrupted your supper?”

  Garret smiled and held out his arms, and she allowed him to embrace her, but it turned out as awkward as it ever did. “No, this is for you, Ayla. I have something I wish to speak to you about. Sit down, please.”

  He guided her to a cushion and took the sword from her, propping it against the wall by the door. He gestured to the table, laid out with fat, round loaves of bread, a bowl of sweet cream and strawberries, a very rare delicacy that grew only in the Upworld. “Please, help yourself.”

  Sinking to her knees beside the table, she viewed the fare uneasily. “Garret, what is this about?”

  “I have had a wonderful day, Ayla.” Instead of sitting across the table from her, Garret took a seat beside her, almost too close.

  She inched away a bit, tearing off a chunk of bread to focus her attention on instead of Garret’s unusual nearness. “A good day? Then you must have heard better news than I gave you this morning.”

  She chanced a look at his face then, and saw a shadow flicker across it. But he smiled, a bit forced, and held out one of the berries for her. “I must talk to Cedric about that, still. But you and I have much more pleasant business to discuss tonight. My sister, the Queene, has granted my petition.”

  “Your petition?” She opened her mouth and let him slip the berry inside.

  “Yes. I asked her permission to make you my mate.”

  Her breath hitched. She choked on the berry.

  Garret slapped her back until her spasms passed, and gave a dry chuckle. “That was not the reaction I had hoped for.”

  “I am sorry.” Ayla fumbled for a cup on the table and sucked down the honeyed wine within. “You surprised me.”

  “It should not come as so great a surprise, Ayla. You have known for some time how much I’ve wanted you.” His words ended on a desperate whisper, raw and a little frightening.

  Ayla looked away from the intensity on his face, the pleading in his words. There had to be a way to remove herself from the situation with grace. But when she opened her mouth, the words, “But why?” came out, and she felt the current in the air change. She glanced up at him, at the antennae laying against his hair, fluttering in irritation. He could put on all the charm in the world now, and she would know it false. She had angered him.

  The beginnings of many tentative smiles twitched his mouth as he tried to find sincerity. “There are many women at Court who would throw themselves on such a change, Ayla. To be mated to the Queene’s brother…it could one day mean a throne.”

  It could, if the Queene were to die. And among their mortal race, death occurred only in battle. Or assassination. She pushed the evil thought aside. What she needed was time to think, to weigh the benefits against the risks in this battle. “I do not mean to offend. You’ve taken me by surprise.”

  His demeanor softened in earnest then, and he rubbed a comforting—at least, it was meant to be comforting—hand down her arm. “What have I been thinking? Here you are, worried about your position in the Guild with your recent transgression looming over your head, and I make you a silly offer, thinking only of myself.”

  Ayla swallowed. Had she been unsettled by the consequences of her experience with the Darkling, or by the experience itself?

  Garret rambled on. “Only, think of what this means. Ayla, if you were my mate, you wouldn’t need to worry about your future in the Guild.” He paused to let the point sink in. “Your future would be secure.”

  So, he was not above playing his wealth and status as an incentive. And why should he be? Ayla had lived at Court long enough to know that wealth purchased many opportunities. Were she to ally herself with Garret, despite her lack of passion for him, she would purchase a life away from the barracks, more leniency within the Guild. Perhaps, even greater favor with the Queene, though Garret already said his sister held her in high esteem. All of these things would make her way easier. Why choose the difficult road, when a clear path lay before her?

  Garret pushed her braid from her shoulder
, brushing elegant fingers across her skin. She shuddered, and hoped he would mistake it for more than it was. He did not disgust her, but he made her uneasy. It was not a thing she would overcome quickly. Guild training had taught her to disguise her emotions in battle, and she called on it now as he pressed his lips to her neck.

  “Say yes,” he murmured against her skin, tracing the line of her Guild tattoo with his tongue. The pattern burned into her memory under his hot, wet mouth. She would never again need a mirror to recall what the mark looked like. “Say yes,” he urged, and his palm curved over the top of her thigh, stroking upward as though nothing separated his flesh from hers. Her body, not aware of the emotional distance between them, urged her closer, craving more touch to feed the aftershocks of touches already received.

  Her rational mind broke in with a jolt of memory. The rolled parchment clutched in Garret’s hand. “I thought you were inviting me here to discuss my next assignment.”

  He went still at her side and pulled back, his face serene, but his antennae betraying his agitation with a florid display. “Yes, well, had I not spoken with my sister on your account, there might not have been another assignment.”

  As he rose, Ayla scooted around to watch him stalk to the chest at the end of his bed. In the Astral, Faeries had slept on mossy banks or in the crooks of trees. At least, that was what the stories spoke of. At the Guild, Ayla slept on dank blankets piled atop a wooden plank bunk. Garret had a real mattress, imported from the surface, with funny metal coils that made the whole contraption shift and bounce. That kind of comfort was hard to come by, and Ayla added it to her list of reasons to accept Garret’s proposal. But she did not answer him now, while he still silently fumed with agitation. “Was the Queene very upset with me?”

  “More than you know,” he replied, but it seemed more for himself than for her. “I must meet with her again tomorrow morning. That will give us the night, if you’ll have it, and you’ll be able to set out on this in the morning.”