“How can you say that?” Cedric fixed her with a despondent stare. “How can you wish to consort with the creatures of the Darkworld and still claim to care for your race?”
“Because I have seen that all in the Darkworld is not against us. Some living there are simply trying to survive.” She closed her eyes, willed him to feel the desperation she felt to make him understand. “Please, I need to know that Garret cannot harm him.”
After a long moment, Cedric nodded, but he would not meet her eyes. “You should not go to the Darkworld now. Garret will be watching you. But I will be watching him. If he makes any move toward the Darkworld, if he sends anyone for him, it will not go unnoticed.”
“Thank you.” Her tired limbs moved of their own volition toward the bed. As if someone had anticipated her arrival, the bedclothes had been changed and pulled down. As her body settled into the enveloping softness of the featherbed, fear pricked her. She was safe with Cedric, and safe from Garret’s machinations through the actions of the council, but servants could be bought. The servants who prepared her chamber, the servants who would be her ladies-in-waiting. Any one of them could enter as she slept and do Garret’s bidding.
As if he had read her thoughts, Cedric seated himself before the door and resolutely crossed his arms. “Do not worry, Your Majesty. I will not abide another assassination while I am in service to the Faery Court.”
It was all the assurance she needed to fall into a deep sleep.
But her dreams were troubled with thoughts of Malachi, and the unease that grew and wound through her mind.
Nineteen
T he days and nights blended into a stream of pain, rolling fluidly from one agony to the next. Sleep did not offer succor; the pain, a red phantom, lurked behind his eyelids, draining his blood and strength.
His torturer did not return. The coals in the basket whitened and died, but their heat still taunted him in his flesh. His arms ached from the chains, his hands throbbed with emptiness, wanting blood that his body could not force into them, his feet throbbed with fullness, the skin stretched tight and pale over his swollen flesh.
Movement was pain without relief, staying still was another pain altogether.
He thought of her. Did she look for him? Of course she would, but would she find him? If she did not, would he die before he could be subjected to further agonies?
Death had been his life for centuries. Now, a mortal, it held terror and fascination. He wanted it, with every pulse of his wounds, he wanted it. But he wanted more to be free from pain and yet living. He wanted to be in Ayla’s arms, whole and unblemished by the ordeal he’d been subjected to.
But it seemed that the things he truly wanted were out of reach forever, and so he would settle for death. A release from the mortal body that had endured far too much to remain alive, yet clung to hope that did it nothing but disservice.
There was no sound, no light. Even if he’d had the strength to open his eyes, there would be no light.
He kept that close, for he knew that when there was light, it would mean he was free.
When Ayla woke, her body ached as though she’d completed a hundred training exercises. She’d not moved in her sleep, and now her joints were stiff, her body feeling far more fragile and Human than a Faery, even a half Fae, ever should.
Cedric was at her side in an instant, offering her a goblet of water. “Your Majesty, if you have had sufficient time to rest, perhaps now is the appropriate time to present you to the Court?”
Pushing her hair from her eyes, she took the goblet and gulped down the contents. “I cannot face them like this. They will already be waiting to tear me apart.”
Cedric nodded. “Of course, you will have a bath first, and clean clothes. There are a select group of servants in the Palace that I know to be trustworthy. Only they will be allowed access to your private rooms. I assure you, you will be perfectly safe.”
“You are leaving?” She did not mean to sound as accusatory as she did, nor as needy. But Cedric had proved her lone ally in the turmoil of the past days, and the thought of being abandoned by him shot panic through her. “They hate me. How can I appear before them without you?”
“The courtiers are easily swayed by the riches of the Court. Show them that you are strong, confident, and appear before them in the finest gowns and jewelry. They will fight each other to declare allegiance to you.” He straightened and walked to the vanity table where Mabb had sat so recently. “There is one favor I would like to ask of you, Your Majesty.”
“Your help has been indispensable so far. Without you I’d still be in the dungeon.” Ayla shuddered at the thought. “What do you want?”
He opened one of the ornate boxes on the vanity and removed a pendant on a chain. He held it up for only a moment, just long enough for Ayla to see the knotted pattern of the twisted bronze and the shining stone in the center. “I gave this to the Queene.” Cedric closed the pendant in his fist. “I would like it back.”
“Of course.” It was as if his fist had closed around her, squeezing the breath from her. She could watch any amount of physical pain inflicted on a creature. This type of pain that forced Cedric’s mouth into a tight line, pinched the corners of his eyes, this was unbearable to see. “And thank you, for all you have done.”
“I want to see Mabb’s murderer exposed for what he is, just as you do.” The malice in his voice made it clear that the time for avoiding the issue had passed. “I vow that I will not tire in my efforts to promote and support you as Queene.”
After he had gone, leaving Ayla alone with the trustworthy servants he’d once again vouched for her safety with, there was time for his statement to sink in. Cedric believed that Garret had murdered Mabb. If he believed this, then others surely would, as well. Others must suspect him.
The servants arranged a bath for her. The exhaustion of the past days melted into the water, rubbed away with the grime and evaporated with the scent of the rich oils slathered on her skin. By the time she’d been dressed—in a gown of gold cloth that must have been Mabb’s, for the back laced tightly and covered her wings—and the tangles combed from her hair, she began to feel a bit of her former confidence coming back to her. Confidence that had been strangely lacking since she’d accepted Garret’s proposal.
Confidence that fled at the door to the throne room.
“Courage, Your Majesty,” one of the young Faeries behind her whispered, and Ayla was glad that Cedric had chosen her. She held her head high as the doors opened.
The Queene’s door was situated behind the dais on which the throne was perched. A young guard, hardly old enough to serve, ran from his post beside the entrance to the herald who stood beside the dais.
“Her Majesty, Queene Ayla,” the herald’s voice boomed, like the blow of the executioner’s sword.
Rustles and murmurs ran through the assembly like the rushing of water, growing louder and louder, became cries of outrage and cruel laughter. Ayla’s step faltered, only for a moment, until she saw Garret.
Seated in an ornate chair at the edge of the dais, his mouth twisted in wry approval of the Court’s reaction, he looked every bit the smug villain that Ayla knew him to be. And it was his satisfaction that spurred her to continue, passing him with barely a glance, to ascend to the throne.
Someone in the gathering could not contain themselves and cried out, “Murderer!” but a guard removed them, creating a scuffle that attracted the crowd’s attention long enough for Ayla to regain her composure. When the hall fell silent, when every pair of eyes—Garret’s included, though she would not look at him—were fixed on her, she stood, and spoke.
If her voice trembled, she did not hear it. And though she’d given no thought at all to what she would say, and though she rarely spoke to anyone, somehow she found the words without faltering.
“Fellow…Fae.” She settled on that simple word, and saw a glint of approval in the eyes of some of the courtiers. “I do not remember a time when our race was
not confined underground. I have never fought in historic battles. I have lived my life in service to the Lightworld as an Assassin, and the battles I have fought were not honorable, but they did promote the safety of each of you. As Queene, I swear I will protect our race with ten times the fervor I have ever displayed when dispatching an enemy.
“Too long our race has been underground, longing to reclaim our proper home and place, but living more like the Humans who dared to confine us. Too long we have stagnated, growing more and more adapted to our squalid existence. I vow to you today that I will work, for centuries, if I must, to bring all of the Lightworld into the Upworld, and to take back the lives that the Humans have stolen.
“In return, I do not ask for your adulation, your trust or even your respect. I only ask that you reserve your judgment of me until I have been given the chance to prove to you that my devotion, and my love for our race is true.”
With the conclusion of her speech, it was as if all of her strength had left her with her words. She sat back down, the weight of the silence in the hall pressing down like an oppressive hand.
Then, it was broken, like a crack beginning in a block of ice, the smattering of unsure applause spreading and splitting the silence, growing until the air in the hall was torn asunder by the roar of approval emanating from each of the courtiers.
Now Ayla looked at Garret, to make sure the satisfaction was gone from his expression. He glared at her, at the assembly, then stood and stormed from the hall, through the door to his chambers.
Ayla motioned to the servant who stood beside her throne. The Faery came forward and bowed her head.
“Is there an entrance from the King’s chambers to the Queene’s?” she whispered, and the girl nodded. “Ask that it be guarded, until it can be sealed up.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
When it seemed the adulation of the crowd would never end, Ayla left the hall. Cedric’s estimation of the Court had been correct, but Ayla wished to believe that they had seen the truth behind her words, and that perhaps she could be a Queene after all.
“I must give her credit,” Garret said with a laugh, not addressing anyone in particular, though there were servants all around him. “She spoke well. Cedric had a hand in it, I’m sure, but her performance was good. They believe she can be Queene.”
No one answered him. It didn’t matter. The servants in his chamber were busy setting things back to right, after he’d upset everything he could reach. He’d been enraged, but now, that rage gave way to careful consideration. All was not lost. She was still under suspicion of regicide, whether she’d stirred the hearts of the Court or not.
And he had her Darkling. If she felt for him enough to risk her life returning to the Darkworld for him, she may be willing to bargain for his life.
“Guard.” He motioned to the one at the door. There were two on the inside, two on the outside. If he were in Ayla’s position and she in his, he would kill her outright. He was leaving her no chance. “There is a prisoner in the dungeon, a Darkling. Bring him to me. Let no one see what you are doing.”
Perhaps Ayla would no longer challenge him, once she realized all that was at stake.
It was near midnight when Cedric knocked on the doors of Ayla’s chamber. She was in bed, but not sleeping, though the day had exhausted her.
“The Royal Consort wishes to meet with you,” he said gravely. “Right away.”
Drawing the blankets around her, she sat up. “I will meet with him in the morning. I am his mate now only in name. He cannot call for me in the middle of the night as though I—”
“He has your Darkling.”
The words brought a mixture of elation and dread through her. Malachi was here, in the Palace, but Garret’s prisoner. Then, another possibility occurred to her, and she felt as though she’d received a blow to the stomach. “Is he alive?”
Cedric nodded. “But barely. I must warn Your Majesty that he is in pitiable condition. He may not live.”
She snatched her robe from the end of the bed and pulled it on. “What do you mean, he may not live? Has Garret harmed him?”
“Yes.” He paused when she stopped, one foot out of the bed. “You must come.”
The walk through her chamber to Garret’s was the longest Ayla could remember. She wanted to take Cedric’s hand and squeeze it in hers, but he did not walk beside her. He walked behind her, in front of the two guards that accompanied her, murmuring directions when she appeared to not know the way.
When they reached the door to Garret’s chamber, Cedric approached her more closely and whispered, “I must warn you, Garret has tortured this Darkling. You have seen terrible things as an Assassin. Think on them as you prepare yourself.”
She had seen terrible things. She’d done terrible things. She would know in an instant what terrible things Garret had done to Malachi.
The guards in Garret’s chambers scowled at her, some whispered as she passed. Cedric had been right in carefully choosing her servants for her.
Ayla had never seen the Royal Consort’s chambers. She hadn’t realized such rooms existed. They were not as large as the Queene’s rooms, but they were no less grand. Though they had never been used, they were well maintained, with fine furniture from the Upworld that did not accommodate Faery bodies. In the antechamber, things were arranged as neatly as if Mabb had overseen the preparations herself.
They continued through the room, into another chamber, led by one of Garret’s guards.
“Stay close to me,” Cedric whispered to her, and she nodded, though she feared she would appear weak, relying on the strength of the Guild Master.
The next room was not so fine as the first. It was not fine at all. The walls were not covered in tapestries, and there was no furniture. Slumped in a corner, shackled by his ankles to a thick iron loop on the concrete floor, Malachi lay motionless. And Garret stood beside him, his head held high and proud, his triumph barely concealed in his expression.
Close, but not too close, Ayla noted, judging the gap between Garret and his prisoner. That meant Malachi was still alive, at least, enough to frighten Garret.
“I have come, as you have summoned me,” Ayla spat. Her fingers clutched into fists and she hid her hands at her side, in the folds of her robe, so that Garret would not see how the sight affected her. “What was so important that it could not wait until my morning audience.”
“Ayla.” Garret said her name as though he were speaking to a child. The way he used to speak to her when she’d grown frustrated with training or the lack of assignments. Now, he did it with such pleasure that she imagined reaching out and snapping his neck. He walked slowly closer, a grin splitting his smug face. “Would you really have wanted the Court to have seen proof of your little indiscretion?”
“I see no proof of anything,” Cedric said calmly. “Only a Darkling you’ve smuggled over our border and tortured nearly to death.”
Garret’s rage was sudden, and as violent as the storms of the Upworld. “I did not address you! You will not speak to your King as though you are equals!”
“He will speak any way he pleases!” Ayla fixed Garret with her most angry stare. “You will remember that you are not a King. You are the Queene’s Royal Consort, in the presence of the Queene, and you will hold your temper.”
“The presence of the Queene?” Garret laughed, looked about as if expecting his guards to laugh with him. They dared not. “You are only Queene because I made you so! You were nothing but a half-breed Assassin until I made the mistake of aligning myself with you.
“And you.” He turned his ruthless gaze to Cedric. “You would never have gotten so far in the Court if you hadn’t been my sister’s little pet. Do you really think you would have ended up the Master of the Assassins’ Guild without her intervention?”
Cedric nodded. “Yes. I do.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Ayla interrupted their argument. There was a more important task at hand: removing Malachi
from Garret’s custody. “Guards,” she called, then, “My guards,” she clarified. “Take the prisoner to the dungeon. And find the healers.”
“Halt.” Garret motioned to his guards. “Do not let them near him.”
For a moment, panic rose in Ayla’s chest. If Garret wished to prevent them from taking Malachi, he would succeed. They had only the two guards who’d accompanied them. She knew well the advantage an opponent had in their own domain.
“You cannot hold a prisoner the Queene wishes freed,” Cedric said, sounding almost bored. “Your guard must stand down or you will be charged with treason.”
In the tense moment that Garret’s face colored, his eyes and nostrils flared wide, his antennae quivered with his rage, Ayla felt relief such as she’d never known. Garret would not risk an open display of defiance, not of this magnitude.
“Guards,” Cedric said coolly, then with a nod of his head in deference, “Unless Your Majesty objects?”
“No, I do not.” Her voice did not shake. She showed not a sliver of the emotions she felt. And she was proud and grateful for that.
When the guards lifted Malachi off the floor, he seemed to rouse. He lifted his head for a moment, matched his gaze to Ayla’s with the one eye that was not swollen shut, but there was no recognition there. Then his head lolled on his neck and his body sagged between the two guards supporting him. They staggered under his weight, but they did not drop him as they moved for the door.
“Your Majesty,” Cedric said with a bow to Garret.
He did not respond, but turned to Ayla and bowed stiffly. “Your Majesty.”
Ayla turned her back on him and followed the guards from the room.
When they had left the antechamber, when she was sure that Garret’s servants could not hear, Ayla halted the guards holding Malachi.
“You will not take him to the dungeon. I wish for him to be kept in comfort, in my private rooms.” She turned to Cedric. “There are spaces in my private rooms where this can be achieved discreetly?”
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