The Shattered Dark

by Sandy Williams

  We reach the pond just after Shane and Brenth. The gate is just a blur in the atmosphere to the fae’s left. Brenth turns to it, then scoops up a handful of water. The water is necessary to connect with the gate, and the fissure opens gradually, the stream of water turning into a stream of white light as it pours between his fingers. A second later, a deep rumble signals the connection to the In-Between. He hands an anchor-stone to Shane, then Shane grips the fae’s forearm, and they disappear into the light.

  It takes an effort to wrench my gaze away from the shadows the fissure leaves behind, but Aren takes my hand and leads me to the blur at the edge of the pond. He presses an anchor-stone into my palm. He can fissure to locations he’s memorized without it, but if I want to go along with him, I need it. Otherwise, I’d become lost in the In-Between.

  Aren reaches into the pond, opening his own gated-fissure. Before he pulls me into it, his hand tightens around mine, and he says, “I’ve missed you, McKenzie.”

  Then he finishes the kiss Brenth interrupted.

  THREE

  I’M BREATHLESS WHEN we step out of the fissure. That’s probably the In-Between’s fault, but I’m blaming Aren. He kissed me until his chaos lusters slid into my skin, making me forget everything but him. Then, just when the lightning built to a level where I swear I was seconds away from losing control, he pulled me into the In-Between.

  The icy In-Between.

  Going from hot to cold like that was both divine and torturous.

  As soon as I’m able to stand without swaying, I glare at him. He gives me a maddening grin in return.

  My hand is still in his, the anchor-stone still pressed between our palms. The lightning darting between our clasped fingers is white in this world, not blue, and it originates from me. Even so, it’s as hot and tantalizing as his is on Earth.

  I slip my hand free before the lightning builds further—it’s already difficult enough not to press my lips to his again—then scan the cobblestoned area outside Corrist’s silver wall. Brenth must have taken Shane back to Vegas because they’re not here. No one else is, either, and that makes me uneasy. Two weeks ago, this place was filled with fae haggling and making purchases in the shops to my left.

  We call the thirty-foot buffer zone between those shops and the silver wall a moat even though it’s level with the rest of the city and not filled with water. Kyol and the Court fae fissured me to this area hundreds of times over the last ten years, but it’s never felt so wrong to stand here. The pale yellow stone of the shops facing the silver wall is usually tinted blue at night, but no one has lit the orbs topping the streetlights, and I’m pretty sure most of the buildings are deserted.

  Deserted by the merchants, at least. Remnants have used the abandoned buildings for cover during their attacks. Some of the shops are two or three stories tall, and from down here on the ground, there’s no way of knowing if a fae is hiding on a tiled rooftop or behind closed curtains.

  “Any later and you would be dead, Jorreb,” someone shouts in Fae from the silver wall, using Aren’s family name.

  “Then my timing is perfect!” Aren shouts back, turning his grin on whoever’s watching us from one of the spy holes above the lowered portcullis.

  I clench my teeth together. Since the remnants have been launching random attacks on the wall, Lena’s issued an order not to wait to identify the fae who step out of opening fissures; the guards on the wall are to shoot immediately except at the “safe” fissure locations. Those locations change every half hour. Lena and Kyol devised a rotating pattern, a code of sorts, that only the people they trust the most know.

  “Let us in,” Aren says.

  We duck under the rising portcullis. It’s made of pure silver. The metal doesn’t prevent fae from using their magic inside the wall—it only prevents them from fissuring in or out, or around inside the Inner City and the palace. Necessary of course, to keep us safe from attack, but it’s a significant handicap given that the fae are so used to being able to appear and disappear at will. Aren looks completely at ease, though, when he crosses to the other side.

  Two swordsmen emerge from an opening in the wall. More are on watch inside, I presume. The wall is eight feet wide and hollow between the stone blocks that support the heavy silver plating. Wooden stairs and narrow platforms allow the fae to stand guard inside the wall. I’ve stood guard inside it recently as well, making sure no one hidden by illusion was attempting to enter the Inner City.

  I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in what little warmth I have left, while Aren exchanges a few words with the shorter of the two fae swordsmen. The taller fae is carrying a jaedric cuirass and a cloak. He hands them both to Aren, who brings them to me. He helps me slide the cuirass on over my head, then tightens the bindings on the sides.

  I’m more thankful for the cloak than the armor, and not just because I’m cold. The chaos lusters are bright on my skin. Supposedly, the fae who have remained in the Inner City support Lena or are neutral in this war, but it’s not like we’ve had time to interview every individual to see if that’s really true. Without the cloak, the lightning would draw too much attention, so I pull it on over my cuirass and adjust the hood so that my face is hidden beneath it.

  “One more thing,” Aren says, holding a third item I didn’t see before. He takes the two ends of the long strap in his hands, then buckles them around my waist, under the cloak. “Think you can keep up with this one?”

  I reach behind my back, feel the hard jaedric casing that, I’m assuming, holds a dagger. It’s about the length of my hand and sheathed so that the weapon is almost parallel with the ground.

  I can grab the dagger’s hilt with my right hand relatively easily.

  “Don’t trust me with a sword?” I tease.

  “They didn’t have a spare,” he returns, a small smile playing across his lips. And that’s all it takes, that slight curve of his mouth, to make warm, tingling happiness flare through me. I’ve missed our playful disagreements.

  We don’t take a direct route to the palace. Instead, one of the swordsmen leads us to a narrow passageway between the buildings to the west of the Cavith e’Sidhe, the Avenue of the Descendants. Aren stays at my side, his gait more a saunter than a walk. If his hand wasn’t casually resting on the hilt of his sword, I’d say he wasn’t worried at all about a possible attack. But the hand is there, and his head is cocked slightly to the side as if he’s listening for an extra set of footfalls or the soft scrape of a blade sliding free of a scabbard.

  My stomach tightens with unease. My hearing isn’t nearly as good as a fae’s, but I’m listening and watching for an attack, too.

  Moss and red-flowered plants grow out of cracks in the stone walls on both sides of us. On Earth, that would be a sign that this part of the city isn’t well taken care of, but here in the Realm, it adds a certain beauty and exoticness to the twisting passageway.

  The Inner City is where the wealthiest fae live and where the high nobles have their secondary residences away from their provincial estates. We reach one of those residences soon. Kyol pointed it out to me once before, saying it belonged to Lord Kaeth, elder of Ravir and the high noble of Beshryn Province, one of the fae we have to convince to support Lena. The gardens surrounding his home are still green despite it being late fall here.

  We turn right at the edge of a meticulously trimmed hedge, then left when we reach the avenue of the Descendants. Blue light from the magic-lit lampposts makes it easy to see the cobblestones beneath our feet. They’re level except for the parallel indentions where cirikith-drawn carts have weathered away the stone. None of the beasts, which look like a thin version of a stegosaurus with horselike hooves and haunches, are out now. When the sun goes down, they fall into a minihibernation. It takes a hell of a lot of effort to keep them awake through that, and even if you do, the cirikiths move so sluggishly it’s hardly worth the effort.

  Despite how well this is going so far, goose bumps break out on my arms, and the nape
of my neck tingles. Out here on the avenue, there are plenty of places for the remnants to hide.

  “Relax,” Aren says beside me. “They’ll come after me before they do you.”

  I pull my cloak more tightly around me. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

  “It would have been a few weeks ago.” My hood is too far forward for me to see him, but I can imagine the amusement in his eyes. That’s just like him, shrugging off the fact that people want to kill him, but I hate that he’s a target. I might be trying to take our relationship slow, but losing him would devastate me.

  The avenue curves to the left, and now I have goose bumps for a completely different reason. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve walked up this road, the view at its end is still staggering.

  The Silver Palace is more like Neushweinstein Castle than an impenetrable fortress. It’s impractical for defensive purposes, but aesthetically? Aesthetically, it’s freaking beautiful. Six blackwood turrets, all lit by the fae’s magic, rise into the night sky. The palace is built against the base of the Corrist Mountains, so the silver-edged spires in the back reach higher than those in the front. The Sidhe Cabred, the Ancestors’ Garden that only a few privileged fae were allowed to enter under King Atroth’s rule, climbs up the steep cliffs marking the mountains’ southern edge.

  We reach the end of the avenue and step onto the huge, tiled promenade in front of the castle’s main gate. The palace has three entrances, but this one is the most impressive. The slate blue stone that makes up its walls is imported from a province in the southeast, so the lighter color stands out dramatically against the deep red-brown of the mountain behind it.

  We don’t enter through the carved blackwood gate—it’s gargantuan and takes forever to open and close—we enter through a nondescript door to its left, and I relax a little. The palace is filled with fae loyal to Lena. Only a few watch from their posts in this chamber, but somewhere above us, archers stand guard, ready to kill and raise an alarm if the remnants attempt another attack.

  I pull my hood back. As soon as I do, I see two fae heading our way. One is a rebel swordsman whose skin, despite the chilly air, glistens with sweat. The other is the impeccably dressed assistant to Lord Kaeth, the high noble whose home we passed. Their accents are thick and, when they reach us, they both start speaking at once. I can’t decipher what they say. I began learning their language only a little more than a month ago, and while I’m picking it up quickly, I struggle when fae speak too quickly or if I’m distracted by other things.

  Aren holds up a hand. “Not now.”

  The swordsman swallows his words, then respectfully bows his head before he retreats.

  The assistant isn’t as easily dismissed. “Shall I tell Lord Kaeth you’re with the human?”

  That, I do understand, but there must be more meaning in the words or the fae’s tone because Aren stiffens.

  “You can tell Lord Kaeth I’m with the queen.” His response is way too calm, but the fae doesn’t seem to notice.

  “She isn’t the queen,” he says. Then, with a disdainful glance in my direction, he turns on his heel and walks away.

  Aren’s eyes don’t leave Lord Kaeth’s assistant, not until he takes my arm to lead me down a side corridor.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he answers.

  “Aren.”

  He squeezes my hand, keeps walking. “It’s nothing, McKenzie.”

  Which means it’s definitely something, and I’m 99.9 percent sure I know what it is. Lena and the rebels might have won control of the palace, but that doesn’t mean everyone in the Realm is suddenly okay with our races being together. King Atroth forbade relationships between humans and fae. That was something that always held Kyol back, but it hasn’t deterred Aren. He and the rebels are much more accepting of humans than the Court fae ever were. The problem is, the rebels don’t make up the majority of the population. Most fae still think humans and human culture damage the Realm’s magic.

  Aren looks at me. He must see that I’ve figured it out because he says, “I’m not him. I won’t pretend I don’t have feelings for you.”

  Him. Kyol. I spent the last decade pretending I didn’t have feelings for him in front of the Court fae. It was a ridiculously long time to stay in love with a guy who put the Realm and his king’s wishes before me.

  I don’t respond to Aren; I just keep pace next to him as we step into the palace’s sculpture garden. It must be late—maybe close to the middle of the night—because only a few fae are gathered here. This is a serene place that reminds me of a movie version of a Roman forum, a beautiful, open space adorned with carved-stone statues and vibrant green plants, where people can meet and talk. Some of the fae watch us with curious expressions as we pass through its center. Their looks say they want us to stop, to answer questions or provide information or gossip, but nobody actually calls out to us.

  The huge, gilded doors to the king’s hall are shut. Or is it the queen’s hall now? Lena’s made very few changes these last two weeks. She’s waiting until the high nobles confirm her lineage and approve her taking the throne so that her decrees will be considered official. Nobody knows when—or if—that vote will happen, though.

  A guard—one of Lena’s rebels—opens a smaller door that blends into the larger one’s design. I follow Aren in, and we walk side by side down the plush blue carpet. It’s only after Aren curses under his breath that I notice no swordsmen or archers are in here. Just Lena. She’s sitting with her shoulders slumped on the top step of the silver dais at the end of the hall, not on the silver throne that crowns it. It’s a constant battle, trying to get Lena to act like a queen.

  She straightens as we approach, but it’s a weak attempt to look strong and alert. Her normally perfect, glowing complexion is marred by the dark circles under her eyes, and her long, blond hair doesn’t seem as silky as usual. She’s wearing a white tunic that fits snug around her slender frame, and something that I can only describe as half of a long skirt is tied around her hips. The lean muscles in her outer left thigh are visible, but her entire right leg is hidden under the skirt’s thick layers of blue and white feathers. Lena’s father, the elder of Zarrak, was the high noble of Adaris, one of the provinces King Atroth dissolved to gain the throne, so she usually dresses like she’s highborn, but this has to be the most ornate and impractical thing I’ve ever seen her wear.

  “No one’s in here,” she says defensively.

  “That’s the other problem.” Aren stops at the foot of the dais. “There should be. Where are your guards?”

  “I sent them to the veligh.” Her expression is stony, as if she’s daring him to question her decision.

  Beside me, Aren stiffens. “The remnants?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  Veligh translates into waterfront. Most of the buildings of the Inner City are to the south and west of the palace. To the east, there are no homes or stores, just a sliver of land before you reach the silver wall. The Imyth Sea is on its other side, and because that part of the wall and palace would be so difficult to penetrate, Lena’s kept only a minimal guard on watch. Apparently, the remnants decided to take advantage of that.

  “Their numbers are growing, not shrinking,” Lena says, directing an empty stare at one of the tall, arched windows lining the wall to the left of the throne.

  My gut tightens. The remnants haven’t met with much success these last two weeks. Sure, they’ve hurt and killed a good number of us, but we’ve hurt and killed a good number of them, too. They should be losing support, especially since Lena wants to make changes that will benefit the majority of the Realm. She’s promised to do away with Atroth’s unpopularly high gate taxes, and there will be no more special exemptions and favors for the fae who kiss noble ass—my words, not Lena’s. Fae will no longer have to worry about swordsmen invading their homes on hunches, and they will no longer be required to register their magics. I honestly don’t understand why
the remnants are willing to kill to keep Lena from the throne.

  “Do you think they’ve found another Descendant?” I ask as I take off my cloak. A Descendant with a traceable bloodline back to the Tar Sidhe, the fae who ruled the Realm centuries ago, might have a stronger claim to the throne than Lena. I might—might—be able to understand their behavior if that’s what has happened.

  The palace archivist showed me Lena’s heritage after the king was killed. It confirmed that she’s a Descendant, and that she and her brother, Sethan, would have been high nobles if their parents weren’t murdered and their province dissolved.

  Lena turns away from the window, but before she can respond, another voice answers my question.

  “If they had a Descendant, they would have told the high nobles by now.”

  It’s Kyol. His voice still affects me, sending a warm, anxious tingle through my body. It’s impossible to ignore his presence. Even without turning, I know where he is. It’s like the air itself recognizes his authority, and it’s difficult to describe what I’m feeling. Kyol is the man I loved for a decade, and what we had together didn’t just disappear overnight. I still care deeply for him, but I haven’t seen him in two weeks, mostly because I’ve been avoiding him. Or we’ve been avoiding each other. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, and I’m worried that seeing me, especially seeing me with Aren, will do just that.

  But it will be obvious I’m uncomfortable if I don’t acknowledge his presence, so after setting my cloak down on the lowest step of the dais, I finally turn and see him striding toward us. His dark hair lies damp with sweat against his forehead, and there’s a smudge of dirt or ash on his left cheek. Jaedric covers his shoulders and torso, his forearms, thighs, and calves, and even though it’s obvious he’s been fighting the remnants, he’s almost more presentable than Aren, whose jaedric armor is slipshod in comparison. Aren would be the first to receive a new, well-oiled set of armor if he wanted it, but he chooses to wear these patched-together pieces.