Swallowing Darkness (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DOYLE BORROWED A NONMAGICAL DAGGER FROM SHOLTO, WHO
had several weapons stashed around the office. I wondered if his bedroom was similarly armed, and figured that it probably was. It showed a lack of arrogance and a caution that I found commendable in a sidhe warrior, and outrageously attractive in a king. Tonight, we were trying to survive and flee, and extra weapons that weren’t major artifacts of power seemed like a very good idea.

Doyle used the dagger to contact Rhys. Most of faerie used mirrors, but some of the first reflection magic had been with one of the few reflected surfaces that all of us had carried. Even nonwarriors had carried a blade to cut food or do chores. A knife was useful for many things besides killing. You just needed a body fluid to paint across the blade. For whatever reason, mirrors didn’t need that extra personal touch, which was probably why we’d gone to mirrors.

Doyle made a small cut on his finger and painted his blood across the side of the dagger. Then he leaned close and called for Rhys.

I sat in Sholto’s big office chair, my feet curled up underneath me. The living crown had unraveled and gone to wherever it went. Sholto’s hair was also bare once more. Apparently, the power had made its point.

I wasn’t certain if it was the retreat of such major magic, or the events finally catching up with me, but I was cold. It was a cold that had little to do with the constant temperature of the faerie mound. Some types of cold have nothing to do with skin and blankets, but are a cold of heart and soul.

The sword Aben-dul lay on the clean surface of Sholto’s big desk. The images that had appeared on its hilt were still there, frozen in whatever the hilt was made of. It felt like bone, but not quite. There was a woman’s nude body frozen in a miniature attitude of pain and horror, her face melting into the leg of the man above her.

The hand of flesh was one of the most terrible magics that the sidhe possessed. I’d used it only twice, and each time haunted me. If I’d used it on humans it might have been less awful, for they would have died if you turned them inside out. The sidhe did not die. You had to find another way to bring them death while they screamed, and their internal organs glistened in the lights. Their heart beat in the open air, still attached by blood vessels and other bits and pieces.

The last person to wield the hand of flesh had been my father. But the sword on the desk had not reappeared to him. It had come to me. Why?

Mistral stepped between me and the desk, pushing the chair back with his hands on its arms. The chair rolled smoothly back, and I looked up at him where he bent over me.

“Princess Meredith, you look haunted.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, then finally said, “I’m cold.”

He smiled, but his eyes were serious as he turned to Sholto. “The princess is cold.”

Sholto simply nodded, and opened the door to speak to the guards waiting outside. He was a king, and simply assumed that the guards would be there, and that one of them would be all too happy to fetch a servant, who would in turn fetch a blanket or a coat. It was the arrogance of the nobility. I’d never had enough servants who listened to me to acquire the habit. Though maybe my father had planned it that way. He’d been a man who thought far ahead. Maybe he’d understood that without that arrogance I would be more fair. Faerie was overdue for a little fairness.

Mistral knelt in front of me, and he was tall enough that he still blocked my view of the desk. The sword was not the only thing on the desk. His spear lay there too. It was no longer a shining, silver-white thing, but looked like some pale wood, though it was carved with runes and language so old that I could not read it all. I wondered if Mistral could, but I did not wonder enough to ask. There were other things that I needed to know more.

“Why did the sword not come to my father’s hand? He held the hand of flesh.”

Doyle answered from behind us. “He also held the hand of fire.”

I did not look behind, but answered. “And I have the hand of blood. What does one thing have to do with another? Aben-dul is made for anyone who holds the hand of flesh. Why me, and not my father?”

“The artifacts of power had not begun to return when Prince Essus was alive,” Doyle said.

Mistral asked, “Did you reach Rhys?”

“Yes.” Doyle came to stand on my right side. He took my hand in his, the hand that had allowed me to touch a sword that without a matching magic would have turned me inside out, and I would have died, just like that.

He kissed the palm of my hand, and I tried to pull away from him, but he held me. “You carry a great power, Meredith. There is nothing wrong or evil in it.”

I pulled harder on my hand, and he finally let me go rather than fight about it. “I know that a magic is not evil in and of itself, but because of what it does, Doyle. You’ve seen what it does. It is the most horrible magic I have ever seen.”

“Did the prince never demonstrate the power for you?” Mistral asked.

“I saw the enemy who the queen keeps in a trunk in her bedroom. I know my father made him into the…ball of flesh that he is.”

“Prince Essus did not agree with what the queen chose to do with…it,” Doyle said.

“Not it,” Sholto said. “Him. If it hadn’t been a him do you really think the queen would have gotten him out of his trunk?”

We all looked at him. Mistral’s look was not a happy one. “We’re trying to make her feel better, not worse.”

“The queen took pride in letting Meredith see just how terrible she could be.”

I nodded. “He’s right. I saw the…what was left of the prisoner. I saw him in her bed, and was told to put him back in his trunk.”

“I did not know,” Doyle said.

“Nor I,” Mistral said.

“Did you really think the queen spared the princess anything?”

“Andais spared her the worst of our humiliations,” Mistral said, “because Meredith had never seen her torture us as she did the night the princess saved us.” He took one of my hands in his, and gave me the look that I had earned at last. It was a look of respect, gratitude, and hope. It had been Mistral’s eyes that night, his glance at me, that had given me the courage to risk death to save them all from the queen. His eyes that night had said clearly that I was just another useless royal. I had done my best to prove him wrong.

I wondered if he knew that, and something moved me to tell him. “It was your eyes that night, Mistral, that made me risk death at the queen’s hands.”

He frowned. “You barely knew me then.”

“True, but you looked at me while she bled some of you and made the others watch. Your eyes told me what you thought of me, that I was just another useless royal.”

He studied my face. “You nearly died that night because I looked at you?”

“I had to prove you wrong, Mistral. I had to risk everything to save you all, because it was the right thing to do. It was the dutiful thing to do.”

He held my hand in both of his, though his hands were so big, and mine so small, that he was holding more of his own skin than mine. He was still studying my face, as if judging the weight of my words.

“She does not lie,” Doyle said from the other side of me.

“It’s not that. It’s that I have not had a woman care so much what I thought in longer than I can remember. That she reacted so, from just that glance….” He frowned at me, then asked, “Were we always destined to be together? Is that why one glance from me did so much?”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. “I do not know. I only know that it is what happened. You make me have to be more than I planned on being, Storm Lord.”

He smiled then. It was a smile that any man might have given a woman. A smile that said how pleased he was, and how much my words had meant to him. Everyone thinks that the magic of being with all the men is about the otherworldliness of them and me, but some of the most precious moments are the most ordinary. Moments that any man and woman could share, if they loved, and spoke the truth.

Did I love Mistral? In that moment, as he gazed up at me, I had only one answer: Not yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE SERVANT CAME IN WITH A COAT. IT WAS LEATHER
pieced together with heavy Frankenstein stitches. The leather was shades of black, different sections having different textures, and some pieces of gray and white among the blackness, as if the coat had been made from different kinds of animals. The stitches and differences in skin should have made it an ugly coat, but it didn’t. Somehow it all worked like a club kid meets Goth, with a little motorcycle thrown in.

The really surprising thing to me was that it fit, not just closely, but perfectly. It was so tight through the arms and upper body that I had to take the bloody hospital gown off to fasten the buttons. I knew the feel of the buttons; they were carved bone. The coat fit tightly enough that my cleavage was framed nicely in its V-neck. The tightest part of the coat was under my breasts, so it was almost an empire waist. Then the coat spilled out and down like a ballgown. It buttoned all the way to the floor.

Sholto actually knelt in front of me to finish the buttoning. He smiled up at me. “You look lovely.”

Was it shallow to feel better just because I had a coat that fit me well? Maybe, but as bad as I was feeling, I’d take anything that made me feel better.

“It fits perfectly,” I said. “Whose clothes am I borrowing?”

“It was made for the queen of the sluagh,” he said, standing.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that the court seamstress had a dream some months back. She was told that I would take a queen and that she should sew accordingly.”

I rubbed my fingertips down the leather. It was so soft. The seamstress had lined the inside of the coat so that the stitching didn’t rub my skin.

“You’re saying your seamstress knew Meredith would be queen before anyone else?” Mistral asked.

“Not Meredith, not by name, but the measurements, yes.”

“And you let her sew for some phantom queen?” Doyle said.

“Mirabella has sewn for this court for centuries. She has earned the right to be indulged a little. But many of the clothes were made of scraps and pieces, like this coat, so it wasn’t a loss.” He gave me an appreciative smile. “Seeing Meredith in it lets me know that nothing was lost.”

“Why would it be that important that I have clothes here? Important enough for a prophetic dream?” I asked.

“We are under siege,” Doyle said. “Perhaps we will be here longer than we think. There are probably clothes to borrow for Mistral and myself, but you would be harder to fit.”

“But why would nice clothes be that important?” I asked.

“Mirabella told everyone who would listen that I would take a queen and that she would be only this big.” He made a gesture like you would measure a fish. “It forced the remaining hags and our female nightflyers to rethink their pursuit of me.”

“You mean women of your court stopped pressuring you because this Mirabella was sewing clothes that would not fit them?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Had you seen the clothes before this moment?” Doyle asked.

“No,” Sholto said. “The women of my court were much interested but I stayed out of it. Honestly, I thought Mirabella might be doing it to help me keep the women from pestering me so hard.” He ran his hand down my leather-clad arm. “But it was a true dream, this.”

“I hope it doesn’t mean we’ll be trapped here,” Mistral said. “Nothing personal, King Sholto, but that would mean that the humans were not able to get us out.”

“I do not wish for anything to go wrong with Meredith’s plan, but I can’t say that having her with me longer wouldn’t be a pleasure.”

There was a soft, respectful knock at the door. I knew without really being told that it was a servant. It’s as if they are taught that knock with the job description—a way of drawing attention to themselves, but not interrupting.

Sholto called, “Enter.”

The woman who had brought the coat bowed as she came through the door. “King Sholto, I am sorry, but there is a matter that requires your attention.”

“Speak plainly, Bebe. What matter?”

All three of her eyes flicked a look at Mistral and Doyle, maybe just a little more to Doyle, before she asked, “Are you certain you wish court matters to be spoken of before strangers?” She went to her knees immediately, “I do not mean Queen Meredith, but the two sidhe.”

I thought it was an interesting distinction that they were sidhe but Sholto and I were not. Was it simply that you could not be sidhe and rule the sluagh, or was it an acknowledgment that we both looked too unsidhe-like? I didn’t know Bebe well enough to ask her thoughts, but it was still interesting.

Sholto sighed, then turned to us. “I’m sorry, but it is true that you are not sluagh. I’ll be right back, hopefully.” He didn’t look happy leaving us, but he went out into the hallway with the servant.

“Interesting that they do not consider their king to be sidhe,” Mistral said.

“Or me,” I said.

Doyle came to me, running his hands down the arms of my new garment. “You do look lovely in the coat. It becomes you.”

“Yes,” Mistral said. “I do not mean to ignore your beauty, Princess. Forgive me.” He actually went down on one knee as I’d seen the guards do for Queen Andais when they feared that they’d displeased her.

“Get up,” I said, “and never do that again.”

He looked puzzled, but he stood, though the uncertainty on his face was almost painful. “I upset you. I am sorry.”

“It was the dropping to the ground like you would for the queen,” Doyle said.

I nodded. “I’ve had to do my own groveling on the floor all my life. I don’t want to see it in my kings, or the fathers of my children. You can apologize, Mistral, but never drop to the ground as if you are afraid of what I will do. That is not my way.”

He looked at Doyle, who gave one nod. Mistral came to stand by us. He smiled a little uncertainly at me. “It may take me a little while to understand this new way of doing things, but I am eager to learn things that keep me off my knees.”

I had to smile at that. “Oh, I don’t know. I like a man on his knees if it’s for a good cause.”

Mistral frowned.

Doyle explained. “She means that if you are giving her pleasure, you can kneel to reach.”

Mistral actually blushed, something I had never seen him do before. He looked away, but answered, “I would be happy to do that again with you, Princess.”

“Meredith, Mistral. My name is Meredith, or even Merry, when we are alone.”

The door opened with no knock, and I knew by that that it would be Sholto. He came in, his face very obviously not happy.

“What has happened?” Doyle asked.

“Your mother has sent a message. She demands proof that you are well, or the Seelie are prepared to do more than just camp outside the sluagh’s mound.”

“Are they truly willing to attack you?” I asked.

“Whether they would do it, I cannot say, but that they threaten it is true enough.”

“Do they not understand what they risk?” Doyle asked.

“I think they see no humans to tattle on them, and we have all made small battles one against the other where the humans have not seen them. We do not bear tales to the humans.”

“Taranis changed that when he went to the human authorities and accused my men of rape.”

“That was…odd,” Sholto said.

“And if we can get to the human authorities, we will return the favor, but with a true crime,” I said, and even to me I sounded grim.

Doyle hugged me, and I slid my arms around the warm bareness of him.

“We can speak on the court mirror to your mother.” Sholto got a strange look on his face.

“What is it?” Mistral asked.

“I just realized that this will be the first time I’ve spoken to my mother-in-law.”

Doyle startled in my arms. “I have thought of Besaba as an enemy for so long, but you are right. She is Meredith’s mother.”

“No, she only gave birth to me,” I said. “You have seen the death of the only woman who earned the right to be called my mother. Gran raised me with my father. My mother wants me now only because she thinks it may make her the mother of the queen of the Seelie. Before Taranis began to show interest in me, she cared nothing for me.”

“She is your mother,” Sholto said.

I shook my head, still wrapped in Doyle’s arms. “I believe that you must earn that title. It’s another by-product of being raised among the humans. I don’t believe that just giving birth earns you anything.”

“The Christians believe that you must honor your father and mother,” Doyle said.

“True, but ask most Americans and they’ll tell you you have to earn that respect.”

“Do you wish to ignore Besaba’s request then?” Sholto asked.

“No. She’s pretending to be the aggrieved party. We must show her that there’s no reason to be aggrieved.” I gazed up at Doyle. “Would it be good or bad to have Doyle and Mistral at my side? Would you prefer that it be just you and me, Sholto?”

“I think a show of force is called for,” he said. He looked at the other two men. “If you have no objection, I think Meredith and myself in front as king and queen with you at our sides, and some of my other guards behind us. Let us remind them what they would fight.”

That seemed to meet with everyone’s approval. Sholto said, smiling, “I think I have some clothes that will fit you both, though Mistral’s a little bigger through the shoulders. Maybe an open jacket with no shirt, a very barbarian king.”

“I will wear what you like,” Mistral said. “I appreciate you letting us stay at Meredith’s side in this moment.”

“Those of the Seelie who are not afraid of the sluagh will fear the Queen’s Darkness and Mistral, Lord of Storms.”

“It is long since I have had the power to do what my name says.”

“You hold the spear that once belonged to the Thunderer. Taranis’s mark of power is in your hands, Storm Lord.”

“I think,” Doyle said, “that that is information best not shared with the Seelie. They are already here for the chalice. If Taranis knew that one of his objects of power had chosen another hand to guide it….” Doyle shook his head and put his hands out, as if grasping for a word.

I finished the thought for him. “Taranis would go apeshit.”

“Apeshit?” Doyle made it a question, then nodded. “I was going to say that he would kill us all, but yes, that term will do.”