The Mad Queen (The Fae War Chronicles Book 5)

by Jocelyn Fox

“And what is it that needed to be done?” Vivian asked, her voice loud in her ears but steady. Commanding, even, she thought in mild surprise.

  “Your little pet has such confidence,” Corsica said to Tyr. “She speaks because you cannot. What a lovely pair.” She smiled again. “We once made a lovely pair. I spoke when you could not.” Her eyes flashed angrily though her smile remained in place. “I convinced the others to let you live after we were thrust into this world.”

  Tyr shrugged, as though to say he didn’t quite believe Corsica’s words. She hissed at him. Vivian glimpsed movement in the shadows, another slender figure moving forward.

  Someone else over to the left, she said quickly to Tyr. He gave no outward sign but she knew he’d heard her.

  “We have nothing but time,” said Corsica. “Nothing but time, my doomed pretty creatures. Nothing but time.” She tilted her head and looked at Ross, her black-gloved fingers moving through the air as though she heard a song that the rest of them did not. She smiled her sharp-toothed smile. “What needed to be done was to feed and protect a loathsome creature, so that a weapon against the Queens could be forged.”

  The shadowy figure slid into a pool of light. At first glance Vivian didn’t recognize the woman. Clad in a flowing black skirt and a sleeveless vest just this side of a corset, she moved with boneless grace, gliding forward so smoothly that it seemed as if she didn’t touch the ground. Scarlet lines starkly marked her white skin, covering every visible inch, foreign designs that reminded Vivian of ancient warriors and blood sacrifice. She remembered the face of the bone sorcerer with its similar red tattoos. At the woman’s throat, a polished black stone hung on a leather cord, the stone contained in a delicate silver cage. When Vivian looked at the face of the strange woman with loose dark hair, she realized with a nasty jolt that it was Molly. And instead of the cat-like hazel gaze that she remembered, Molly stared at them with eyes as red as blood.

  “You know the prophecy,” said Corsica in a low voice, her pale eyes alight with possessive pride as she watched Molly glide toward Tyr. “The half-mortal girl who will wield a weapon against the darkness.”

  “The fendhionne brought the Bearer into Faeortalam,” said Niall, his voice tight. He was back on his feet but pale beneath his tawny Seelie complexion. “The Lady Bearer fought the dark of Malravenar with the Iron Sword.”

  “Who is to say what weapon, and when?” replied Corsica. “What weapon and when, and what darkness?” Her eyes flashed with maniacal fervor. “I have fulfilled the prophecy. I will bring the fendhionne as a weapon against the Queens who rule our world with such injustice.”

  “And what after you overthrow the queens, if you can?” asked Niall.

  “Then the only ruler of our people will be the desires of their hearts,” replied Molly. Her voice sounded unchanged, and to hear it coming from the scarlet-marked visage of the woman who looked like a priestess of some terrible bloody tribe raised goose bumps on Vivian’s skin.

  “What about the desire of your heart?” Vivian asked, gesturing to Ramel with the hand that held the spell-orb. Perhaps if she could entice Corsica and Molly forward, she could use the spell-orb without risking Ross and Ramel. She began running through her runes in her mind, envisioning each one and flipping to the next with her mental flash cards, searching for one that she might be able to use.

  “There are always sacrifices,” Molly said. Vivian noticed that her lips were drained of color, almost blue. “He will understand. No others should have to endure what we have endured.”

  Another flicker of movement, this time up near the great beams that stretched across the ceiling, caught Vivian’s eye. A silver birdcage, its bars woven with delicate iron chains, hung from the crossbeam behind Ramel and Ross, swaying gently as its captives moved within it. Vivian clenched her jaw as she saw Farin’s small fierce face pressed to one of the gaps between the bars and the iron chains.

  The sight of the Glasidhe in the birdcage kindled a hard anger within Vivian, more than the sight of Ramel and Ross bound to the pillar, more than the sight of Molly with the strange stone at her throat and her scarlet eyes, more than Corsica’s condescension and unhinged vehemence. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  Corsica laughed. “Have you been training your little pet, Tyr? Have you found one that finally intrigues you?”

  “Come and find out,” said Vivian through gritted teeth. This anger felt new and heady. Adrenaline coursed through her as Corsica prowled toward her. She drew her sword.

  “You will let your plaything die while you watch?” Corsica’s pointed teeth gleamed as she flashed a nearly coquettish glance at Tyr. “This will be more sport than I’ve had in a century.” Two long daggers appeared in her gloved hands. She twirled them almost lazily as she advanced on Vivian.

  Vivian took three steady, long strides backward. She glanced at Duke and Niall, but they were already edging forward, ready to run for Ramel and Ross. She couldn’t see Tyr. They’d have to deal with Molly. She wrenched her attention back to Corsica.

  “Once I kill you,” said Corsica conversationally, “I will kill the Seelie man. We need one more with power to open the Gate.”

  “Not gonna happen,” said Vivian, “since you’re not gonna kill me.” She glanced quickly around her immediate area, taking in the orientation of the room and any trip hazards. She’d expected the confrontation to be quick and violent, but Corsica seemed unconcerned, playing with them as a cat plays with a mouse. She gripped her sword and settled her weight into her fighting stance.

  It hadn’t been quick, but it was about to be violent. The rest of the world fell away and she felt every second tick by as she took one more breath. Corsica leapt at her. Vivian brought up her sword and countered the blow, jumping to the side to avoid the brunt of Corsica’s force. The Exiled woman snarled and Vivian felt a line of fire flash across her left arm. She stumbled and then steadied herself. Her arm stung sharply but she flexed her fingers experimentally around the spell-orb and her hand moved as she commanded.

  Corsica whirled, the gems in her hair and at her throat flashing in the light of the lanterns. The Exiled woman clearly expected Vivian to dance away from her attacks, try to avoid her at all costs. In the bare second after that first attack, Vivian decided to do exactly the opposite of what Corsica expected. She crouched and leapt at Corsica, slashing diagonally with her sword. Farin would have made her repeat the maneuver and chastised her for her sloppiness, but the gamble paid off. Corsica brought her knives up too late. Still cat-quick, the silver-haired Fae threw herself backward, the tip of Vivian’s blade sinking into her shoulder just below the collarbone and scoring her crosswise from shoulder to navel. In a rare moment of clumsiness, Corsica staggered, her shriek of rage ringing in Vivian’s ears.

  Do not allow her a moment to collect herself, Tyr said in her head.

  Vivian saw him out of the corner of her eye, locked in a silent battle with Molly, their hands tracing complex patterns in the air. Flashes of color burst against invisible shields, the room tense now with power. She gathered herself and followed his instructions, hefting her blade and closing the distance to Corsica at a run.

  Corsica snarled, the slash in her tunic glistening darkly with blood. Vivian blocked the sweeping downward arc of one knife and arched her body to avoid the vicious cut at her belly, thrusting her own blade toward Corsica after the two blows. Corsica hit Vivian’s blade with her daggers with such force that Vivian nearly lost her grip, the shock of the blow vibrating up her arm into her shoulder. Quick as a striking snake, Corsica grabbed her by the throat and threw her.

  Vivian crashed into a carved stone sphinx with bruising force, her sword clattering to the ground. Her head swam but she scrabbled for her rune stick. Corsica had thrown her away from the others, toward the entrance of the warehouse. Her numb fingers closed around her rune stick and she drew the rune on the top of her other hand with a speed she hadn’t thought possible. She struggled to her feet, the stone sphinx hard
and cool, waist-high behind her. The edges of her vision wavered but she could see Corsica advancing on her with that same prowling stride, still playing with her. Still not thinking she was a threat.

  “Last mistake you’ll ever make, bitch,” growled Vivian. She grasped at her taebramh. It was hard to find it, with her body aching and her head swimming, but with a grunt of effort she caught it and called it down her arm into the rune on her hand.

  Corsica raised her knives with a snarl. Vivian threw the spell-orb and brought up her hand with the shield-rune, pouring her taebramh into it. She threw herself over the stone sphinx, but the blast caught her in the air. She wasn’t sure if it was the shield-rune or shock, but she didn’t feel any heat or pain, just an immense force that pummeled her and threw her down to the ground.

  Vivian landed in a pile of treasure, skidding across the table, gold coins flying through the air and priceless artifacts crashing to the floor. She rolled and fell onto a lush carpet, the scattered coins hard beneath her. Her body didn’t respond to her commands, so she lay gasping, blackness pressing in on her, more exhausted than when she’d finished her first and only marathon.

  When she heard approaching footsteps, she managed to grab the knife from the sheath at her calf. She wouldn’t let Corsica gut her like a fish without trying to defend herself. She rolled and brought the dagger up, baring her teeth with a broken snarl.

  Ross put her hands up, relief and anger warring in her eyes. Angry red lines bracketed her mouth where the gag had bitten into her skin and blood trailed from her nose.

  Vivian stared up at her friend. “Did I get her?” she said hoarsely.

  Ross nodded grimly. “Your aim has improved.” She offered Vivian a hand. “And your fighting skills.”

  Vivian took Ross’s hand and bit back a sound of pain as Ross levered her upright. She staggered but managed to stay on her feet.

  “Nice throw,” said Duke, half-dragging Ramel. “Time for us to go.”

  “What?” said Vivian, resisting as Ross took her arm and tried to move her in the same direction.

  “Tyr an’ Niall are gonna take care of Molly an’ the bone sorcerer,” said Duke. “Said to get you two out.”

  “Tyr didn’t say that,” said Vivian, pulling her arm from Ross’s grasp. “I’m not leaving them.”

  “You took out Corsica, and that’s more than enough,” Ross snapped.

  “No.” Vivian shook her head, immediately regretting the movement as pain shot down her neck. “Take Ramel to the truck. You guys go.”

  She started as Farin leapt from Ross’s shoulder. She hadn’t even seen the Glasidhe. A crash made her glance over her shoulder. Niall was down, Molly advancing on him. Where was Tyr? Her chest tightened.

  Ross caught Farin as the Glasidhe’s wings failed to function. She pressed her mouth into a thin line. “You’re in no shape to fly, Farin, you know that.”

  Farin stood in Ross’s palm, steadying herself with a grip on her thumb. “I wish to stay! It is only right!”

  “Look, do what you need to do,” Vivian said quickly to Ross. “You need to get out of here. I can’t leave them.” She slid her dagger back into the sheath at her calf and didn’t wait for an answer, running back toward the sound of the melee, smoke and the scent of burning things wafting over her as she bent to fetch her sword. A charred mound lay within a blackened ring where Corsica had last stood, but Vivian forced her eyes away as she felt nausea swirling in her stomach.

  Her blade in her hand, she ran toward Niall and Molly. Despite the aching of her body and the sharp pain of the wound on her arm, her blood sang and her heart swelled. She had doubted herself before, but after today no one would be able to deny the fact that she was a Paladin.

  She was a Paladin, a defender of the mortal world and the Fae alike, and she brought up her blade, a fierce joy filling her chest as she leapt to rejoin the fight.

  Chapter 38

  Tess pressed close to Finnead as Nehalim thundered through the White City. The rage and grief that bound them both together drowned out any awkwardness or embarrassment that she may have once felt at his nearness. The Sword’s power whirled in her chest, her war-markings blazing with such fierce light that she turned her face away. The thunder of Nehalim’s hooves echoed against the magnificent buildings towering on either side of them. Despite the cool wind that smelled of the forest, the scent of smoke still crept into the air as they passed a charred crater.

  Fleet shadows rippled over them as they approached the cathedral. Tess glanced up and saw the magnificent silhouettes of the Valkyrie who had flown to defend the Vyldgard. Sorrow and rage rose in her throat, threatening to choke her, as she forced herself not to count the number of winged faehal. No matter how many had set out, she knew there was at least one who had not returned.

  Finnead guided Nehalim to the front of the cathedral. Tess tightened her grip around his waist as she felt the white warhorse’s hindquarters coil beneath her. Nehalim sprang up the grand flight of stone steps that led to the great doors of the cathedral, his leaps smooth and sailing through the air, almost making Tess believe that he, too, had wings. His hooves clattered on the marble floor as he cantered through the doors, and he showed no sign of slowing as Finnead gave him subtle directions through the corridors of the Vyldgard stronghold.

  Tess focused on keeping her seat as Nehalim nimbly swerved and turned, the echo of his hooves staccato in her ears. Within moments, Nehalim clattered to a halt in front of the wolf tapestry that marked the entrance to Vell’s quarters. The air already hummed with power. Luca stood beside the tapestry. Nehalim snorted companionably at Kianryk, who yawned at the big warhorse.

  Luca closed the distance with two huge strides, and then his hands were warm around Tess’s waist as he lifted her from Nehalim’s back. She wanted to tell him that she could dismount perfectly fine on her own, but they both already knew that, and his touch felt so good after the terror and smoke of the Unseelie attack. Just his nearness made her feel safer. He set Tess on her feet with infinite gentleness and tipped her chin upward, giving her a brisk, firm kiss that ignited a fire within her belly that twined with the anger and sorrow in her chest. She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder, suddenly aware that she smelled strongly of smoke and charred flesh. Fire and death.

  “The Vyldretning is waiting,” said Finnead.

  Luca slid his hand behind her neck and kissed her again. She wasn’t sure if it was in reply to Finnead’s words or just because he wanted to; it was probably a bit of both, and she didn’t care. His touch helped chase away the cold feeling that had begun to seep into her bones. The Sword dug its claws into her ribs. She tensed and drew back from Luca’s embrace, motioning with one hand to the Sword.

  “Gods, but I’m glad to see you,” Luca said, his pale wolf-eyes shining.

  Tess smiled. “Me too. It was touch and go there for a bit. Explosions and stuff.” Her heart skipped a beat at his half-smile.

  The Caedbranr rattled its scabbard on her back. Finnead had already disappeared through the tapestry. Tess sighed and touched the hilt of the Sword.

  One moment isn’t going to make a difference, she told it firmly.

  I beg to differ, it replied in its many-layered, androgynous voice. This is a moment that will determine the course of this world.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered. She glanced at Luca. “Coming?”

  He shook his head. “There is more than enough power in that room. This is business for the High Queen, not her ulfdrengr.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll want me to stay,” Tess said.

  “I will wait,” Luca said calmly, putting a hand on Nehalim’s neck. The white faehal who had once borne Queen Titania into battle shook his head, snorted and lipped the wolf-warrior’s ear affectionately.

  Tess smiled and then turned to the tapestry. The Vyldretning’s power washed over her as she stepped through the entrance into the High Queen’s quarters. The Sword’s power strained against its bonds,
even as she tried to soothe the Caedbranr into something at least resembling calm. The Sword hadn’t been this agitated and excited since the battle at the Dark Keep.

  When her vision cleared, Tess took in the tableau of the High Queen’s quarters. Her eyes traveled first to the long table, cleared of its usual plates of bread and cheese and pot of khal for those taking counsel with the Queen. A silvery cloth covered the table, and on this pale expanse laid the Unseelie Princess. Her slender form appeared small on the long plane, her dark dress pooled about her as though she floated in a still pond. Tess’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Princess’s face. Black scars raked across Andraste’s cheekbones, as though some savage animal had set its claws just below her eyes and shredded the skin down to her jaw. Tess thought of the ropes of scars across Finnead’s back. Even beneath the scars, she could see the similarity to Mab in the Princess’s face. But for the slight rise and fall of Andraste’s chest, she lay so motionless that she could have been dead.

  Vell stood on the other side of the table, wearing plain black trousers and a white shirt, her dark hair bound up in its typical braid about her head and her golden circlet gleaming on her brow. The air around her wavered with power.

  To the Vyldretning’s left stood Liam, Finnead and Calliea, arrayed like three pieces of a matching set, Liam and Calliea’s golden hair contrasting Finnead’s dark head. Tess caught Calliea’s eyes, and the sorrow and rage of her friend’s gaze matched her own. She realized that Calliea had become one of Vell’s Three, and she wished that Calliea’s triumph would not have been at the expense of Gray’s death.

  To the Vyldretning’s right stood an Unseelie man that Tess vaguely recognized, but she couldn’t be sure. He looked younger than most of her acquaintances from Mab’s Court. His clothes were caked in places with dried blood and he was pale, but he stood steadily, his eyes fixed on the unmoving Princess. Beside him stood Merrick and Guinna, both of whom were smeared with ash and dirt. Tess felt vaguely glad that Guinna had been able to join the fight.