The Seven Year King (The Faerie Ring #3) (11 page)

“Always the riddle.” Rieker growled under his breath.

Larkin stared at him for a long moment before she answered. “We’ve located Dain.”

“You have?” Tiki stepped eagerly toward the faerie. “Where is he?”

“Donegal has taken him to the White Tower—deep within the Wychwood Forest.” Her expression soured. “It is probably the most difficult place from which to try and rescue him.” She yanked the door open. “Come find me when you’re done with the mortal and we’ll discuss the situation.” Her voice drifted back through the open portal. “And change your clothes before the Court sees you looking like a guttersnipe!”

THE WALK TO the zagishire led them down a hallway that ran adjacent to the Great Hall. Even Tiki was impressed by the grandeur of the palace now that the Seelies were back in control. No longer were the rooms filled with shadows and darkness, but instead, bright light reflected off gold and gems that seemed to line every surface.

“I feel like we’re in Buckingham Palace,” Fiona whispered to Tiki as they walked along. “I’ve never seen such a place in my life.”

Tiki had taken Larkin’s advice, as much as she hated to do anything the faerie suggested, and removed the familiar glamour she’d grown up wearing in London. She’d tried to warn Fiona first, but to her surprise Fiona had shrugged away her explanation. “I think I’ll know it’s you, Teek.”

But even Fiona’s jaw had dropped when Tiki removed the glamour and revealed her natural image. Her black hair hung in a great braid down her back, framing skin that was a creamy ivory, making her eyes glow like two emeralds. She wore a gown the color of crushed cranberries, embellished with threads of silver that glittered in the light of the torches that lined the walls. Fiona had hurriedly looked away, sneaking peeks at Tiki from the corner of her eyes.

“Are you all right, Fi?” Tiki asked, distressed at her friend’s strange reaction.

“It hurts to look at you,” Fiona said in a whisper. “You’re so beautiful. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to look away.”

“Don’t worry, Fi,” Rieker said in an oddly strained voice. “You’re not the only one who feels that way.” Even Callan and Toran seemed affected by Tiki’s new appearance, dropping their eyes when Tiki looked at them and bowing their heads in a subservient way.

“I’m the same person underneath,” Tiki replied, not sure if she were pleased or irritated by their reactions. “I think we should change your clothes, as well, Fi.” Whispering familiar words, Tiki had run her hand near Fiona and the girl’s dirty, oversized jacket and trousers had melted into a stunning gown of royal blue. Her wavy hair was pulled away from her face in a crown of soft curls and she looked every inch as regal as a young blue-blood in London.

Rieker also had changed his outfit, donning clothes similar to what Tiki had seen others wear to court—tight brown trousers the color of bark, a spotless white shirt with an embroidered brown jacket. Used to seeing Rieker dressed as Lord William Richmond, in London, his transformation wasn’t quite as shocking.

They passed many hallways in the Palace that turned off in different directions and on any other day, Tiki would have itched to go explore where they might lead. But today, she was focused on finding Johnny, so they could assess the state of his health. Because after that, she needed to learn what had become of Dain and how they might save the young man. And underlying those concerns, she desperately wanted to keep her promise to Clara and return to London.

Shafts of sunlight streamed through open windows and the sound of birdsong carried on the wind as they drew near the entrance. A soft, summer breeze blew through the portico as they stopped beneath the grand entry arches and gazed out at what had previously been the Night Garden.

Rather than the dark, shadow-laden thicket of bare branches and sharp brambles that had housed predatory, nocturnal plants, this garden was well-tended and overflowing with abundant blossoms in every color. Healthy, green vines stretched in wild abandon, and a tantalizing fragrance filled the air. Nearby the sounds of a brook running over stones babbled, and laughter could be heard in the distance.

“I don’t believe it,” Tiki breathed.

Rieker stood by her side, a look of wonder on his face. “It’s hard to imagine it’s the same place.”

Callan stood with his hands on his hips, a proud smile stretched across his face. “It’s how the gardens that surround the Palace of Mirrors should look all the time.” He pointed to the left. The horizon in that direction was dark and filled with black clouds. “And the UnSeelies should stay in the Plain of Starlight where they belong.”

UNLIKE THE PALACE, the zagishire had an earthen floor and walls, with a ceiling made of thatch. A quiet hush hung over the building like a misty fog, almost as if the earth itself had wrapped its healing arms around the sick and dying who were lodged there.

A faerie greeted them at the entrance, her surprise at seeing the new queen evident as she bobbed her head and said, ‘Welcome, Majesty.’

“We’ll wait out here,” Callan said in a gruff voice, positioning himself on one side of the door and motioning for Toran to stand on the other.

Tiki, Rieker and Fiona followed the woman down the hallway, their feet silent on the hard-packed dirt floor. For a fleeting second the healing sense of the place reminded Tiki of another spot she’d visited in Faerie—the underground hall where the Macanna had gathered in the Plain of Sunlight, waiting for their opportunity to overthrow the Winter King. It had been there that the Macanna had bowed to her and first shouted ‘TARR-UH’. It was there that she’d shed the glamour she’d worn all of her life and become someone new.

Johnny was the only occupant in his corridor. Tiki rounded the corner with the others and stared curiously into the shadowed room. Small, rectangular windows lined the upper reaches of the walls, letting in streaks of sunlight. Dust motes wafted in their shafts while the rich, fragrant scent of heather filled the air. Fiona let out a cry of dismay as she spotted Johnny’s limp form and rushed toward him.

The young pickpocket was lying on his side in a bed that appeared to be constructed of white and purple heather. Fiona dropped to her knees and reached for one of his hands.

“Johnny,” she said softly, “it’s me, Fi.” There was no response from the still form. “I’ve come to help you get well.” Fiona’s voice cracked. “Please open your eyes.”

But even as Fiona whispered the words, Tiki wondered if there was any way to save the young boy. He was but a shriveled shell of his former self—his cheekbones protruding from a face that was a macabre caricature of the charming boy she’d known.

Johnny’s head lolled to the side as Tiki gently rolled him onto his back. A white bandage covered his neck but a long scratch descended below the wrap and stretched down the center of his pale chest, red blood oozing from the wound. His brown hair hung in greasy strands, partially covering his face. Tiki smoothed the bits of hair out of Johnny’s eyes and was shocked at how hot his skin was.

“He has a fever.” Tiki looked up at the faerie for an explanation.

“Yes, Mum.” She dipped her head and gave a little curtsey. “He’s been like that since they brought him in. And he’s getting worse. Larkin won’t let us give him food or drink.” Her voice dropped. “He’s just a mortal, you know. I think he’s given up.”

Chapter Fifteen

D
onegal raised his hands, the sleeves of his black robes falling back, revealing arms that seemed to lack any skin—covered instead with a macabre combination of black veins, white sinew and red muscle. The Winter King and his closest advisors were circled around the bound body of the Seelie spy.

“A seventh year is upon us again. In payment of our tithe to the Seelie ruler to allow the noble UnSeelies to remain a separate Court—we shall provide a sacrifice at Samhain.”

The Winter King reached inside a bag of woven ferns that Bearach held and drew out what appeared to be a handful of brown feathers. As he turned the item in his hands, the feathers fell back, revealing a white face partially covered by a golden eye mask. The lips were painted gold and what looked like three hinges were positioned on both sides of the jaw and centered on the chin.

He spoke in a guttural voice. “As a symbol of our commitment to this obligation, we affix this mask to our sacrifice and dub thee the Seven Year King.”

Dain jerked his head to the side as Donegal leaned toward him, but with his arms and legs tied behind his back, it was impossible to fight. The UnSeelie leader forced the mask over Dain’s bruised and bloodied face—the eerie facade replacing his natural features.

The mask tightened against Dain’s skin as if permanently attached.

The Winter King straightened. “Your new queen must care a great deal for you.” Donegal’s voice was questioning, as he peered down at his prisoner. “She wanted to trade for your release.”

Though the probability of escape was non-existent, Dain had searched for any opportunity. The idea that someone might try and rescue him had not occurred to him. When agreeing to infiltrate the enemy Court one accepted the risks and with that, the knowledge that capture was considered a casualty of war. He was doomed and he knew it. Even Larkin wouldn’t try and free him from Donegal.

“I’ve never heard of a queen who cares so much about a
spy
that she would negotiate for his release.” Curiosity echoed in his words as Donegal nudged Dain in the ribs with his boot. “Most leaders deny all knowledge of such things. Why would she care about you, I wonder?”

Beside the Winter King, Bearach pulled a whip from his belt and unfurled it with a cracking snap of the leather against the stone floor. “I can get him to tell us who he is.” A laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “No one but the hobgoblins will hear his screams here.”

Dain stared at the far wall, willing himself to be strong. Just the sound of the whip made the lashes that already marked his back start to throb with pain again.

“It’s not just who
he
is,” Donegal murmured, his hand braced against his chin as he contemplated Dain. “I wonder if our prisoner can’t tell us who his queen might be? For that’s what we need to know: where has this new Seelie queen been hidden and by whom?” He nudged Dain again, harder this time. “And most important—what are her weaknesses?”

“WHAT IS YOUR TRUE NAME?” Bearach shouted.

The first strike of the whip was like flame being laid to his bare skin. Dain surged against the iron cuffs that suspended him from the ceiling by his wrists, trying to escape the bite of the lash, but the iron seared his flesh creating a different sort of pain.

“WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE QUEEN?”

Dain closed his eyes and tried to picture his favorite parts of the mortal world that he’d come to know—Piccadilly Circus, King’s Cross Station, Covent Garden. He imagined the myriad mix of people who went about their business every day: the flower girls, the coal porters, the bankers and the shop girls; crossing sweeps and the gentry in their finery—all of them unaware of the fey who walked in their midst. But one face rose to the surface with each memory: green eyes, fair skin, dark hair.

The second strike whistled through the air in a macabre warning before the thin leather cracked against his back. A small groan of pain escaped his lips as he sagged against his bonds.

“THE QUEEN IS A MACLOCHLAN—WHERE HAS SHE BEEN HIDDEN ALL THIS TIME?”

Dain inhaled through his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe through the excruciating agony. He would never willingly reveal any knowledge that could possibly harm Tiki or her family. He imagined William’s face. So familiar—yet so unknown. A twinge of regret mixed with the pain. He’d not had long enough to sort out his feelings for the brother he’d just discovered. He felt curiosity and respect for William certainly, intertwined with a new emotion: jealousy. Had he lost the chance to know him?

At the third strike, flashes of white light danced before Dain’s eyes. He ground his teeth together and prayed he would lose consciousness soon.

DAIN’S LIMP BODY hung from the chains that bound his wrists, his masked face pointed toward the stone floor.

Nearby, Bearach finished wiping his whip clean and re-attached it to his belt. “He is stronger than most, not to utter a word.” There was a grudging note of respect in his voice.

Donegal’s face twisted with barely suppressed rage. “We’ve got six months to make him talk.” He snapped his cape behind him and walked to the door. “We’ll leave him here without food for a few weeks—” his lips curled in a snarl— “and then we’ll see what he has to say.”