The waves began again, showed her shapes now. Two featureless bodies, moving as one, sliding over and over each other, bursting apart. Ayla’s body tingled at the sight. She remembered the tree of her life force exploding inside of her as her physical body seemed to explode with Malachi.
And then, through the Other Sight, she saw it. A tiny, burning red fruit at the base of her tree of life. A small light, furtive, needing protection. But it was there.
“What does this mean?” Her eyes filled with tears. She knew, without the woman telling her.
The woman knew, as well. She turned back toward the sea, gazed out at the serene calm there. “One day, you will return. And so will your daughter.”
And then Ayla woke, still curled in the dark of her cell. And she wept, for in the Other Sight, her daughter was still there.
Torturing the Darkling was not as enjoyable as Garret had hoped. The thing was not evil. It was not wholly good, either. It simply was. Mortal and afraid of pain, it reacted as expected to every gouge and burn.
He had given up hours ago, and now he stood in his new lodgings—the apartment of the Royal Consort, which Mabb had never had use for—stripped to the waist while a lovely young servant sponged the blood and grime of the dungeon off his body.
“I must say,” he told her, reaching to touch a tendril of hair that had escaped her plain little cap, “that this is the most enjoyable bath I have had in a while.”
She said nothing, but her antennae flamed red against her forehead.
“It almost makes me forget the pain of my horrendous loss.” He captured her hand where it held the rag against his abdomen, urged it lower, to slip beneath his trousers. “Almost. Will you help me forget entirely?”
The door scraped open, and the servant jumped back, embarrassment and guilt branding her face. A guard entered. “Guild Master Cedric to see you.”
Cedric. How inconvenient an article he was turning out to be. Garret pulled his robe up and slid his arms into the sleeves. “Yes, quickly. I have other matters to attend to.”
The Guild Master entered, and said, “I have come here to talk to you about the Queene.”
Immediately, Garret wished he had sent him away. “Which one? Mabb, or my mate who killed her?”
Cedric stepped slowly forward. “In truth, I do not believe that Ayla killed your sister.”
“Is that so?” Feigning disinterest, Garret went to the small table beside his bed and lifted the half-empty goblet of wine there. He wondered if he should have more sent, perhaps with a bit of wormwood added to ease his way with the serving maid. “That is odd, considering the number of witnesses who saw my mate enter my sister’s chambers and never leave. Who can swear that she was the last alone with the Queene before her death.”
“Ah, but was she present when the Queene was found?” Cedric did not seem inclined to drop the bone so quickly. “If what they are saying is true, that she was not noticed leaving the Palace all evening, then she must have been present when Mabb was found.”
“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” He was stalling. Cedric would see it, too, and he cursed himself for it.
“Logic. She was not seen leaving, therefore she never left. So she must have been there when the Queene was found. If she was not, then the possibility exists that she left before the Queene was murdered.” Cedric turned to the door. “Think wisely on this matter, Garret. I have seen Ayla since she has returned. Anyone who has used the Other Sight near her knows that she is with child. It would be a shame to murder your heir.”
The door slammed shut, as if in agreement with the denouncement the Guild Master had not been in a place to make.
“If that will be all,” the servant said in a rush, moving quickly past him.
But not quick enough. His hand closed over her arm, too hard, he knew, hard enough to make a bruise. He smiled down into her terrified face, exhilarated by the power her fear gave him. “No. That will most certainly not be all.”
It was the creaking of the cell door that woke Ayla once more. She could not tell if it was morning or night. Only a little over a day in total darkness and she’d lost track of time.
“Get up.” A boot to her side. She’d decided, in the darkness, that she was no longer the wretched thing that had been imprisoned here, but a creature of vengeance incubating, taking stock of every wrong done to her, waiting for the right time to strike back. She stood, looked the guard in the eye.
He did not stagger under the weight of her hatred, and that disappointed her. “The King wants you.”
The King. Mabb was barely dead and already Garret’s ambition showed. How had she not seen it herself?
She had not seen it, she realized as the guard bound her hands and dragged her from the cell, because she had no similar drive to treachery in herself. To have assumed from the beginning that Garret would revel in his sister’s death, that he would be so greedy as to snatch the throne from her not-yet-cold hands was to have imagined doing so herself. If she had truly imagined the Queene’s death, she would have been horrified. If her reaction had been to rejoice at what she would gain from it, she would have been able to see Garret with a clarity so sharp as to put the Other Sight to shame.
When she had been arrested and brought to the dungeon, her captors had fitted a hood over her head, presumably so that she could not find her way out. This one did not bother.
Perhaps she was not meant to come back.
“I will not die a traitor’s death,” she said, lifting her chin. She did not look at the guard. The Queene would not look at her guard.
The corridors were long and winding, the walls not concrete, but raw, brown earth that Mabb had ordered cleared for her royal dungeons.
Perhaps if she did not have so many enemies, she would not need so large a prison, some cold, unkind voice prodded from the back of Ayla’s mind. In the past, she would have carefully examined her thoughts and found sympathy for the Queene, the good Queene who had done so much for all of the Fae races. Now, having seen past the lies and idol worship the Guild had forced down her throat, she let the thought stand. It was a lesson, she reasoned. If she did not make any enemies, she would not have to worry about meeting the same end as selfish, paranoid Mabb had.
It was then that she realized for the first time that she intended to be Queene. Not just for these few moments before what was sure to be her execution awaiting her, but for as long as she lived.
And she did not envision ruling beside Garret.
When they reached a large set of doors at the end of the hall, Ayla was surprised to find they did not open onto the Palace courtyard, where executions took place for jeering spectators. Instead she recognized the gleaming floors and tapestried walls of the Palace. She opened her mouth to question the guard and then, remembering her earlier resolution to not acknowledge him, followed him into the Palace proper.
No one was about. Ayla wondered if it were the hour, or the collective mourning for Mabb that kept the courtiers at bay. She imagined them falling over the dead Queene’s bier, each vying to seem the most devoted, the most grief-stricken.
She would not tolerate such foolishness.
They passed the Guild halls, the great halls and the throne room. Just when Ayla began to wonder if the guard would lead her to the courtyard after all, he stopped before a single door set inconspicuously at the side of a dead-end corridor. He rapped on it, looked nervously down the hall, and when it opened, shoved her unceremoniously inside.
It was a bright room, lit with the light of the Humans above, the buzzing tubes overhead fed from the large, rusting metal boxes on the wall. A long table—probably left over from the Humans, as well—dominated the floor, and at the table sat six Faeries she’d never seen before, all dressed in matching robes, and two she had seen before: Cedric and Garret.
“Sit down, Ayla,” Cedric invited her, smiling kindly. “Guard, untie her, she is no threat to us.”
“As she was no threat to my sister?” Garret muttere
d, and one of the robed Faeries nodded in agreement.
The Guild Master’s face creased with momentary annoyance. “We agreed to a civil meeting, Your Majesty.”
The guard slipped the ropes from Ayla’s hands grudgingly, jerking the rough cord against her bruised wrists. She winced and gingerly rubbed her skin, but then her mind turned to her appearance. The fine robes Garret wore called attention to her shabby dress, the heavy rings on his fingers cast her bloodied, filthy hands in an unfavorable light. She pushed ineffectively at her matted hair and shrank down in her chair, then, remembering her position, sat up tall and fixed each of the Faeries with a haughty glare.
“Your Majesty,” Cedric began, addressing Ayla now, “the Faeries before you are members of the late Queene’s private council. It is at their request that you have been released from imprisonment and returned to the Palace until such a time as Mabb’s death can be more fully investigated.”
Blinking, Ayla turned to Garret. Before she could speak, he waved a hand lazily and looked away. “Do not presume to thank me. It was my wish that you should stay in the dungeon like a common murderer.”
Though she was sure her voice would creak like the hinge on a weathered door, she spat at him, “Has your love for me disappeared so completely then? When only days ago you pursued me relentlessly?”
Garret stood, pounding the arms of his chair, eyes blazing with fury.
“Ah, this is the Garret I know!” Ayla stood as well, a hysterical laugh welling in her chest. It exploded from her, filled with hate. “See the proof of his affection on my cheek!”
“Sit down, the both of you!” Cedric roared, and then, remembering his place, bowed. “I am sorry, Your Majesties, forgive me. But this is a delicate situation, and we must keep our tempers from becoming involved.”
“Delicate situation? What is delicate about being wrongfully charged with regicide?” Ayla gasped. Her earlier bravado abandoned her, and her limbs trembled.
One of the council members spoke up, a stiff-faced female who appeared disgusted by the display she’d just witnessed. “The Faery Court cannot be without a Queene. Mabb was our banner, and as word of her death spreads, so, too, does the threat we face from the other races in the Lightworld who wish to command the whole. We have no other female heir to the throne.”
“Grania is right, we have no recourse but to release the Queene and let her take the throne,” another put in, a round, red-faced male who wiped at his brow with the hem of his sleeve.
“No other recourse?” Garret once again pounded the arm of his chair. “Why should I not be King? Mabb’s blood flows through my veins, not hers!”
“She is your mate,” Cedric pointed out quietly. “If you did not envision that she might someday become Queene, that was a lack of foresight on your part.”
A council member spoke up. Her crystal-blue eyes flashed from her white skin, her antennae twitched and quivered with intelligence. She seemed no more than a child, but she spoke with a confidence that surprised Ayla. “The Faery Court must have a Queene. The prophecy of succession is quite clear that the one who rules must also be capable of producing an heir from her body.”
“Mabb was incapable of producing an heir from her body, but you kept her on the throne for centuries,” Garret raged. “Besides, this…creature has lain with a Darkling! The validity of any heir she produces must always be under suspicion!”
“Better a dubious heir than no heir at all,” the first Faery put in, fixing her shrewd gaze on her King. “You must agree with that, in your position.”
“Is it agreed, then, that Ayla should rule for the time being? That she is the true and rightful Queene, and all charges of treason are to be dropped until an unbiased investigation can be conducted?” Cedric looked to each of the council members as he spoke, as if he could bend them to his will with his eyes.
“We are not in unanimous agreement,” a voice rose over the murmured approval. It was the Faery seated beside Garret, a thin thing like the blade of a sword, with a large, pointed nose and hair so black and greasy it appeared to be made of wet ink. He cast Ayla a snide glance and addressed the council. “If these…rumors of the new Queene’s infidelity are true, then I move she should be kept under house arrest in the Palace. We cannot risk her further tarnishing the reputation of the Lightworld.”
“I agree with Llewellyn.” The voice belonged to the small, wise Faery who had argued with Garret before. “Not for identical reasons, but as long as we face attack from the other races of the Lightworld, our new Queene should not leave the Palace.”
The room erupted into argument, starting off with a few isolated grumblings and rising in volume and intensity until Ayla wanted to put her hands over her ears and scream for them to stop.
Instead it was Cedric who called for them to quiet, his deep voice echoing off the cement walls. “It is agreed, then. The Queene shall stay here, in the Palace, under house arrest for her own safety, and resume her proper place beside her Royal Consort.”
“If she’d known her proper place she wouldn’t have spread her legs for a Darkling,” Garret muttered.
The look Cedric gave him was murderous, but he could say nothing that would not be grossly disrespectful. “We are adjourned, then.”
Ayla sat in stunned silence as the council filed out. The childlike Faery gave her a curious look-over, her wise eyes seemingly absorbing every detail about the new Queene. Then, they were gone, and Ayla forced herself to her feet as Garret strode to the door.
He stopped, barely an inch from her face, and hissed, “We both know that bastard you carry does not belong to me.”
It had all changed so quickly. Days ago, Garret had been the one person in all of the Underground who’d cared for her. The only one who had ever professed to love her.
Now, that face that had once held only pride and deep affection for her twisted in rage, and though she knew all the treacherous things he’d done, it stung just the same.
“Just as we both know that I did not wield the knife that killed your sister.”
She managed to stay on her feet long enough for him to raise his fist, and then, glaring at Cedric, storm out. Once the door closed behind him, Ayla collapsed.
Cedric was at her side in an instant. “Let me take you to your chambers, Your Majesty.”
They did not go through the entrance to the Queene’s apartments. “I do not wish for you to make your first appearance as Queene bedraggled from prison,” Cedric explained as he led her to the secret passage and pushed it aside, then deftly replaced it once they were inside.
It became more clear to Ayla then what the passage had been for. “How many others know of this way?”
Cedric did not meet her eyes. “Only those who need know it. We could have it sealed, if you wish.”
“I will decide later.” When she’d had time to decide if it would be of use. When she’d had time to understand her new position and all it entailed.
“Cedric?” She put a hand on his shoulder to stop him before they reached the end of the passage. “Could I…If I wished…can I pardon an enemy of the Lightworld?”
He hesitated, his face frozen in a mixture of horror and indecision. Wetting his lips, he replied nervously, “While it is certainly in Her Majesty’s power, it would be…unwise to make any pronouncements without the full support of the council—and the King—behind you. Especially in your current position.”
“My position,” she echoed with a wry smile. “And I have you to thank for that. If I should thank you at all.”
Cedric shook his head. “Do not thank me. I do not wish for your mate to rule any more than you do.”
Her mate. She supposed Garret was still that, no matter how they felt about each other now. Perhaps they had set some record for their kind, falling out of love so quickly.
If she’d ever loved him at all. Now, when she thought of Malachi, she wondered if she’d felt love for Garret.
“I apologize, Your Majesty.” Cedric bowed quic
kly, his expression full of concern.
Somehow, this disheartened Ayla more. “Yesterday you were my superior. Today you feel speaking plainly to me is improper. I had judged you to be a smarter man.”
A smile touched the corners of Cedric’s mouth. “You are tired, Ayla. Perhaps now is not a time for judgment, but quiet reflection.”
This was the Cedric Ayla knew. He helped her through the doorway into the Queene’s chambers. The feeling of walking through a ghost burned over Ayla’s skin. Not the ghost of Mabb, so recently murdered there, but the ghost of what Ayla had been when she’d last stood in that room, confused, perhaps frightened, clashing against what she was now.
“I have something I must do.” She turned to Cedric, aware of how she must look with her tattered shirt and matted hair, dirt streaking her skin. But she feared what Garret would do in retaliation, feared that Malachi would not be safe for long. “I must go into the Darkworld. There is someone there who is in danger. I do not trust Garret to let him live peacefully there.”
Cedric looked as though she had struck him. “So, it is true then?”
For a moment, she panicked. He would take her to Garret and the council now, tell them that she had confessed. In Garret’s fervor to have her destroyed, he would convince them to believe that her guilt in lying with a Darkling implicated her guilt in Mabb’s assassination. Her neck would fall under the sword before Garret held his evening audience.
But Cedric had been loyal to Mabb, despite her sins, and somehow Ayla knew that he would show this same loyalty to her, as well. His head dropped in defeat. “I did not want to believe it.”
She put her hand on his shoulder, afraid he would recoil from her. He did not. “It is difficult to explain all that has happened to lead me here, but you must know that I have not wished to betray the Lightworld. I broke my geis when I failed to kill the Darkling, that is true. I do not make excuses for that. But I cannot kill him. Not now. What I feel for him does not change the fact that I am now, as I have ever been, loyal to our race.”
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