by Sage, May
Instead of leading to the Wicked Court, the seat of power Nyx held, she'd made them converge on Whitecroft.
I think back at the book that had so fascinated me. I think back at the powerful and power-hungry girl who'd written it.
She would have dearly desired increasing her strength, but she didn't.
I'd loved and admired the girl because the one thing I've read between her elegant lines was unconditional dedication to the unseelie folk. She'd been frustrated by her mother because she valued strength; the strength to protect her people, to stand between them and any enemy, should they be the seelie realm or the other courts.
Nyx wasn’t quite good, or evil. Something in between. She played by a different set of rules, and what mattered to her wasn’t propriety. It was results.
Suddenly, I understand. I don't need to read it. I know why she united the courts.
And I know what we need to do next. "Is there any paper?"
Familiar with the war room, Alven finds a roll of parchment I fold in two, again and again, before ripping the corners until I have eight uneven pieces.
On one, I write Whitecroft and hand it to the knights. "Can you copy it five times?"
I don't stop to see if they've complied, writing the sixth note to my family, and the seventh to the Court of Sunlight. They ought to know strangers are trampling their land—that's assuming they haven't given them the go-ahead.
The last, I hack in two, and address one to a friend, the other to a quasi-stranger.
That's the best I can do. I don't let myself believe that it's not enough.
"Can you send these to the courts?" I ask Drusk, pointing to the seven identical words.
He lifts the hand that's not holding his side, and the pieces of paper disappear in a poof of thick smoke. While he makes it look easy, his wince betrays the effort it costs him now, because of his wound.
Knowing I'll need him again, I press my hand to his, and let go of as much energy as I can spare. Pain slices me, making me stumble dizzily. I've never been this weak.
Drusk moves to help, but Alven is faster.
My grandfather holds me up. "That was foolish. Careful, child."
"I am," I reply.
I know better than to try to give more than this. I am a Void, empty without my power. If I give too much of myself, I'll die.
"You don't understand. You have to save your strength. You could be the last of your blood left, if your mother was taken."
I glance up to him.
He knows. He knows I haven't saved the royal family—my family, and his.
And he doesn't seem to judge me for it.
I decide to process that later, shoving it down along with any other feelings I don't have time for right now. "Are there ravens, eagles? Something that can carry messages."
Drusk steps forward. "I could—"
I hand him the note for my family. "You can send that to the Court of Mist. For these two, I can't use magic."
Alven whistles low, holding an arm up.
Within moments, I see a dark bird approach in the distance. A raven with all-knowing, clever eyes I’ve seen before.
I'd always assumed it was one of Morgana's familiars, but if it had been, it would have died along with her.
It lands on Alven's shoulders, talons digging into his flesh.
"Tell him where he needs to go. He'll reach them, or die trying."
Hopefully the former.
I help Alven attach my messages to his bird, and hope flies out of the keep.
Then, we run.
Child of the Blood
The court and the rest of Hardrock have made it to the summer palace when we emerge from the cavernous halls.
Alven, Drusk, and I look back to the castle as one, each one of us feeling the same thing: a wave of fury and strength approaching us with a roar.
The immortals have freed themselves from the dungeons. "What now?"
I look at the ocean in the distance, dark and violent, just as dangerous as the enemy behind us.
We don't have a choice.
I turn back to the keep, lifting my sword.
Alven shakes his head, and hands me his. "If we're to meet our end here, let it be said that the last queen had a decent weapon, at least."
We don't need a grand coronation to know that the crown has passed on to the next heir of Morgana.
I hiss, "My mother is queen, Grandfather."
Ciera is alive. She has to be. I'd know it otherwise; I'd feel it.
Alven shrugs it off, as though his daughter's life doesn't matter. As though nothing matters.
He's lost much today, but I can't forgive him his indifference. I need him to care. I need every single one of the fae standing at my side to care enough to give the folk behind us time to get away. I don't have the strength to shoulder this burden alone, not now, after using so much of my energy.
I'm just a pixie, small and ephemeral.
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I glance to my left. Drusk smiles at me. It's not a nice smile; there's something absolutely wicked about it.
He smiles as though we're about to play. As though he can't wait for the fight to come. It's just a game, and he intends to win it.
To my shock, I smile right back.
"You're insane. Both of you." The male knight hadn't said a thing until now.
I wonder who he is. If he's about to die next to us, I should know his name at least.
I'm about to ask, but the immortals are upon us.
There are only three of them. That's enough. It was enough to annihilate the court. It was enough to burn my grandmother alive, along with all her present children.
The first immortal is a colossal man with long dark hair, dressed in thick layers of silk and velvet. He has the bearing of a king.
No, not a king.
A god.
Part of me wants to run. I ground myself, jaw tightening. This is my land, and we don't worship any god but death here.
At his side stand one man and one woman, each almost as terrifying as their leader. The woman is smirking, her eyes fixed on me. To my shock, I realize she's not just one of them. The elegant curve of her ears and something in her violet eyes betrays her. She's one of us. Not just a fae—a descendant of Nyx.
Family.
It hits me. Lily. If Lily was a human changeling brought to the queen, it meant that the queen had sent her daughter to the human realm. The child of the blood has come to reclaim what belongs to her.
I start to understand why the royals were burned. They hope to replace our ruler with her—the immortal's pawn.
Over my dead body.
Which is probably the plan.
The man on the left resembles the leader; he must be a son or a brother.
I don't know enough about them. I don't know enough about the world as a whole. I want to scream at myself for letting everyone, everything, shove me in a little box where I wasn't allowed to be noticed, wasn't allowed to ask questions or see the rest of the world. I'm utterly unprepared to face them, because I know none of their weaknesses.
Drusk steps forward, intending to lunge, but I grab his arm, pulling him back. He looks down at me. "Not now. This is a game of patience."
We have to buy as much time as possible. I don't say it out loud, for fear of the enemy overhearing us. If they did, they could attack right now to avoid giving us what we need.
He nods, and steps back closer to me.
I redirect my attention to the trio. They've slowed down.
"Well, it seems we have another one." The dark-haired immortal speaks low, his thunderous voice cruel. "Where were you when we burned your loved ones, cockroach? Hiding, I'd wager."
I have to fight a grin.
Wherever they're from, leaders love to hear themselves talk; especially when they've won. He wants to give a speech, and I cannot say how much that pleases me.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Speak, speak, speak. I have to goad him into tel
ling us all his evil little plans.
"I am the emperor of Álfheimr, child. For too long has your little forest rebelled against our rule. You steal men and women who belong to us. You keep the resources and magic of our lands for your own uses. You will bow to our rule." He glances to the girl at his side. "Not you personally, perhaps."
No, he intends for me to be buried deep underground or washed away by the sea first.
"I still haven’t heard a name."
The son, or brother, doesn't like my tone: his lips bare a set of white, sharp teeth. The self-proclaimed emperor doesn't seem to mind. "I am Kraver Vikus."
He seems smug about it, as though the name itself should have me quivering in fear. And perhaps it would have, if I'd had any idea of the history of his land, his rule. Instead, those two words evoke nothing in me. They're simply the name of my enemy. I commit it to memory. Enemies define us just as much as our friends and lovers. More, sometimes.
When I don't react, the emperor narrows his eyes dangerously. I can tell the time for speeches is over. He starts to move, and I brace myself.
Just a little more strength. Just a little more energy. Just a little more time. I can do this. I think it over and over, as though hexing myself.
Before Kraver attacks, a horn sounds in the distance.
Now, I laugh, relief crashing into me so hard it almost knocks me off balance.
The others glance back, but I don't need to; I sense the ships' approach. I feel the storm rage harder, pushing them toward our shores.
"How in the name of Nyx have you managed—"
"A pirate or two owed me." I shrug. "And now, I owe the Sea Lands."
Bargains and oaths have always been my currency of choice. I admit, I didn't think we'd get a response this fast, but with the Sea Lands’ help, any ship could have crossed the ocean in a matter of instants.
Sending Lind a message was almost an impulse, driven by despair, but I’d guessed he would have been our best chance. He’d meant it when he said he wanted alliances. And he’s apparently not against an alliance with me.
The girl at the emperor's side screams obscenities, pointing to the ships. Kraver doesn't seem to care. "We'll kill them regardless," his carelessness seems to say.
I grant he might, but we have hope, and I refuse to let go of it. I don't know the extent of his powers. There's a chance he might not be strong enough to kill us—all of us.
I look at Drusk, first, then my grandfather, and the two knights. "Hold this line."
From the corners of my eyes, I see them all nod.
Whatever the cost, the immortals aren't going through until the folk are safely ensconced on the dozen ships.
It is only three of them. We can do this.
Kraver waves his hand.
The ground beneath my feet shakes and roars—I'm propelled feet backward, hitting my head as I fall.
I try to get back to my feet and am squashed down again, so hard I feel blood in my mouth.
The four others at my side don't seem to fare any better, and Kraver advances, smug and infinitely powerful. He doesn't even seem to strain under the effort.
Drusk reaches out to his Myst; thick fog coats the ground around the three immortals, starting to engulf them.
My eyes barely catch the movement, but the man next to Kraver leaps in the air, and lands right on top of Drusk's wrist, crushing it to the ground.
The emperor and his pawn keep walking to the shores, ignoring it.
Drusk screams as the bones break, then screams again when the immortal kicks his head. He draws his wings out—great and dark, with a powerful span—and blocks the third kick, wincing. With great effort, he manages to get to his feet, and calls to his power again.
The immortal groans as the Myst attacks his body, eating at his flesh like acid. For one wild, wonderful second, I think Drusk has gotten the better of him.
Then the god leaps in the air, breaking out of the dark shadows around him, and lands right on top of Drusk, pinning him under his booted foot. A malevolent smile crawls on the corner of his lips. He’s enjoying this. Pain. Causing it—even receiving it.
The immortal takes his sword in two hands, and draws it back, ready to swing it.
I don’t know how, but I manage to force myself to dig into my already-exhausted magic, and drain him of as much life force as I can steal.
Feeling the violation, the immortal stops mid-swing, turning the full extent of his wrath on me, his face contorted in a mask of pain and fury.
Dragging his sword behind him, he advances leisurely toward where I'm still lying on the ground, mere feet away.
I barely notice him, my mind foggy, confused.
Moments ago, I couldn’t hope to stand. All I had was bravado. Now my limbs feel weightless, the pain I'd felt when I'd taken on the wounds of others a distant memory.
I look at the smug immortal closing in, rising to a crouch and then standing to face him.
His grin tells me he loved kicking Drusk and he's going to delight in what he plans to do to me. I’m his favorite kind of prey; small, dainty, female. Weak, to him. He plants his sword deep in the ground, eager to make the torture last.
He doesn't understand I'm not the victim here. He is.
When he's close, he grabs me by the throat, lifting me in the air, and I let him. I want him close, easy to reach. "You're nothing, compared to us."
I could laugh. He means it as an insult, but I have been nothing my entire life. That is my normal. It is in my nature, as a Void. Hold no power, no good or evil.
I am what I take.
"What does that make you, handsome?" I whisper to him, before shoving my hands right at his face, and sucking every last drop of strength from him.
I feel him writhe. His hand leaves my throat to battle against my arms, but I'm holding on to his soul, not his flesh. And I am ingesting it.
The man screeches, finding his effort pointless.
Behind me, I feel the immortals approach, but I don't fear their immense power, not anymore.
I have it.
I only let go of the first immortal when he's nothing but an empty shell. He falls at my feet, lifeless.
The two others lunge at me, and I lift both hands, beaming.
I start to suck on them, too. Why stop at one, when I can be three of them? When I can be a god.
I'll never again have to be irrelevant, or invisible.
I take, and take, and take.
I feel my hair against my cheek, dark and lush purple to the roots, as it was always meant to be.
Now it's my turn to bare my teeth, claws extended.
"Nevlaria!" My name sounds like a faraway echo. Why would I pay attention to Alven? He is nothing now. "Their army is coming. We have to go!"
Let them come. I'll destroy them. I'll absorb them all.
"You're going to succumb to madness if you don't let go now. Voids are dangerous because of it. The power is addictive. Please, Vlari. Let go!"
He just wants to control me. Use me. I extend my hold to start absorbing my grandfather, too. I'll never let go of the power. I need it more than I need to live.
More than I need anything at all.
"Vlari."
I pause, glancing back.
Drusk is struggling to stand, using his sword as a walking cane.
He's hurt. Badly hurt.
"The ships will leave. Come on."
I can't let go. He doesn't understand, and he should. He should be on my side.
He reaches out with one hand coated with his dried blood.
He almost died today; not once, but twice—at least.
And he needs my help. So I let go of my three victims, slowly, detaching myself from their life force.
When I've severed the connection, I stand there, stunned at what I'd just done—what I would have done if I hadn't let go.
I can't understand it. And I don't have time to try.
I rush to Drusk, placing my palms either side of his head and healing
every crack, the internal bleeding, the wound I couldn't entirely close before. I need to let go of this energy. All of it. Before it consumes me.
On the ground, the emperor and the girl I am related to are barely breathing, struggling to recover from what I've done to them. The emperor's hair has lost all its shine. It's white now; silver-white. The girl is something close to a corpse.
But they're two immortals and one gentry of the folk. They'll recover.
Part of me wants to ends this. Shove a sword through both of their chests and be done with it.
I don't. Maybe because of what I've just done, maybe because I know that if I kill the ruler of Álfheimr now, we'll always be at war, until the blood of all the folk has been spent.
I run to the ship, avoiding the eyes of my companion.
I don't understand what happened tonight.
I don't recognize what I've become.
A sea-worn kul with blue-green shining skin and long knotted tresses helps me on the closest ship. "That was some magic, lass!" He laughs, good-humored. I don't read any judgment from him; I shouldn't be surprised. Grogan is a water spirit known for their cunning, wickedness, and malevolence.
He's unseelie, just like me.
"Where to now?"
There is only one place where we can go. "Whitecroft."
Dreams and Nightmares
We sail peacefully along the river. I remain on the deck, watching the coast for any sign of the immortals following. None do. They're recovering, assessing their next move, no doubt.
I'm not naive enough to think that a little display of power on my part has sent them running back home—though that would be awfully convenient.
Their army came from the east, and they've managed to take the Wicked Court in the west, too. I've only saved half of Hardrock, at best.
They're here to stay, until we push them back.
The white stone building appears in the distance. I didn't think I'd ever return. I certainly didn't think I'd smile, seeing it again.
Drusk comes to stand next to me, and my smile falters.