34. A Lesson in Self-Defence, Not Torture
Chapter thirty-four
A Lesson in Self-Defence, Not Torture
T here were two gold dresses in the wardrobe.
It was the only colour available in more than one style, and I chose the paler one. A lightweight rayon with a mid-length, flowing skirt, billowing sleeves, and a respectfully plunging neckline with small buttons down to its empire waist. The colour of my hair brought out the white undertones of the faintly floral pattern, making it an easy yellow rather than pure gold.
I didn’t care what Wren thought. I didn’t even care what Morgoya thought as she gave me an evaluating stare when I walked out of the bedroom and commented that I looked lovely as we made our way back into that infernal dining room downstairs.
The House was quiet again, in the sense of both the enchantment and the quite literally vacant halls. Candlelight flickered against the walls as we walked, compensating for the gloomy natural light filtering in through the largely spaced windows.
I always felt as if I was being watched, but the persistent emptiness that had fallen over the House since my arrival was really starting to bother me.
“Where is everyone?”
“They’ve been instructed to make themselves scarce while you settle in,” Morgoya replied. “The High King didn’t want to spook you, and both Wren and I agreed. You’ll meet them tomorrow night.”
Spooked—again, like I was a wild horse or a feral cat. I decided against offering commentary on that particular description of my unstable opinion on Faerie.
The bastard brothers were waiting for us, but the seats at the long dining table were empty, and the wood was as bare as it had been the previous day. I straightened my spine against a shudder as the memories touched me like a lover’s caress—with the tip of a knife in hand.
Instead, the High King and his Hand were sitting in the reading nook, the former occupying the two-seater couch and the latter sprawled out across a small chaise lounge on the other side of the coffee table. Wren’s hands were tucked behind his head, and a book was lying open across his face.
“Straight to business today, please,” Morgoya said as she settled into one of the armchairs between them.
Refusing to meet Lucais’s guilt-stricken gaze, I took the other armchair and completed the square. The High King didn’t look at all affected by my choice of clothing in one way or another. There was only a pleading softness in his eyes as they searched my face for signs of forgiveness.
“We will be hosting the Court of Wind tomorrow night,” Morgoya declared. “Arrangements are already underway, and my spies have confirmed that the High Lord of the Court of Earth is indeed alive and well. The Watch is operational, but there are no signs of the caenim near the inland borders.”
The book slid off Wren’s face and landed on the ground with a thump.
Very slowly, he raised himself to sit, blinking sleepily as if the commencement of the meeting had woken him up from a nap. His neutral gaze fell on me as he made to shuffle around to face the High Lady. Before the turn was complete, his head snapped back towards me, an expression of utter surprise on his face.
I have stopped listening to you, and I do not care, I thought.
Wren gave Morgoya a withering glare and said to the High King, “We consider Gregor a lost cause, then.”
“It’s a shame,” Lucais murmured, leaning back in his seat. “We should keep trying to make contact, but the situation is precarious. The Guard will remain at the border, exercising an increased amount of vigilance, but no one should cross over into his Court. Not until we know for sure what might await us.”
“All going well tomorrow night, we may be able to remain here to conduct our business until the Malum send their next message—whether that be another proposal or another army.” Morgoya clicked her tongue. “It’s not safe to bring Aura into Caeludor yet.”
“It’s not safe to leave her here either,” Wren muttered.
“We’ve been over this.” Lucais’s voice was weary. “Nobody is leaving Auralie anywhere.”
“Fine.” Wren exhaled in a long-suffering sigh and ran a hand through his blond, sleep-tousled hair.
“I do agree, though,” the High King continued quietly. “It’s not safe anywhere, and we can’t pull any more of the Guard from the city without leaving it vulnerable.”
“What do you suggest?” Morgoya questioned.
The High King looked at me, deep-rooted sorrow in his eyes, and the ghostly presence of magic lunged for me in response. For the first time in weeks , damn him.
“No.” I folded my hands in my lap obstinately. “Absolutely not.”
Lucais sighed. “You took out a Banshee by yourself but nearly died at the hands of the caenim. If you were willing—”
“I am not.”
“—then one of us could show you how to get past that mental barrier,” he finished with a small, amused smile.
Blinking at him innocently, I pretended I hadn’t heard the last part of the sentence. He glanced at Morgoya, and then to Wren, and finally threw his hands up in the air and shrugged.
“Fine. Weapons, then.” The High King fixed Wren with a hard look. “Show her the armoury. Teach her to use at least something effectively in case the caenim return here and grab her during one of her tight-rope walks along the perimeter.” His stern eyes darted to mine for a split second, causing my cheeks to redden instantly. I hadn’t realised he knew what I’d been doing out there each day.
Wren’s mouth slackened. “What?”
“She could have died during the last attack,” the High King stated. “And I’d like to be sure that won’t happen again.”
“The wards are secure. I’ll push them out past Sthiara. If she hadn’t tried to run away the first time, the caenim never would have gotten within a mile of her—”
“Would you like to take that chance again?”
There was a long, tense pause.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find the words to convince them I knew how to use weapons perfectly well without them sensing that it was a lie. The only things I’d ever raised in self-defence before, aside from the blade I’d used on the caenim in the field, were my hands.
And that hadn’t really worked out.
“No,” Wren grumbled at last, and I wondered how he was able to lie so well.
The matter apparently settled in spite of my input, the discussion continued between the High King of Faerie and the High Lady of the Court of Light, with their obnoxious companion chiming in to argue every so often. I was only half listening, picking up on small tidbits of information about security while the Court of Wind was visiting and the benefits of remote patrols across the land as I mulled over the phrasing of Lucais’s question and the ease of Wren’s deceitful reply.
Of course he was willing to take that chance.
Faeries couldn’t lie, but I was out of my depth against a culture so well-versed in the loopholes of language that its people could evade the truth without blinking an eye.
I wondered if there was a time limit on their honesty or if their thoughts played a part in their ability to deceive.
And then, when Morgoya asked the High King and his Hand what their preferred strategy was for explaining the situation to Enyd without giving too much away, I wondered how often they lied to each other.
“Do they not know?” I blurted, interrupting Lucais mid-sentence.
Three pairs of eyes fell on me, glazed over with surprise, and I realised that I was treading in unfriendly territory again.
None of them opened their mouths to answer.
I gaped at them. “The other Courts don’t know about the Malum?”
The three of them swapped apprehensive looks, but it was the High King who spoke.
“No,” he said gravely. “No, they don’t know about the Malum. We kept the deaths of the human girls as quiet as we could, and the rumour mill decided on its own that it was a rabid pack of Lycanthropes.”
“Werewolves?” I braced my hands on the edge of my seat to stop myself from falling over.
“They prefer the term Wolf-Folk,” Wren corrected, studying a button on his pale blue shirt. “They’re really quite civilised people.”
“I don’t care.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, rebounding off numb lips. I turned back to Lucais. “How can you keep this from the whole of Faerie? Don’t they deserve to know they’re in danger?”
“They’re not in danger ye—” Wren started to say, but Morgoya shushed him.
“They have a lot of questions we don’t know how to answer yet,” she told me. “Part of the reason we loathe our curse of truth is that when we tell it, we tend to give all of it over at once. It can be overwhelming, making those decisions, shouldering the burdens.”
“Just spit it out.” Wren scraped the toe of his boot over the plush green rug. “She’ll make up something stupid in her own head otherwise.”
Morgoya gave him a long look—which he ignored—before speaking again. “If we disclosed the threat the Malum pose, we would have to tell them what—and who—the Malum are.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. “You mean that when this all happened, during the—the whatever war—”
“The Gift War,” Wren murmured.
“You didn’t tell anyone about it?” I ignored him and tilted my head to the side, eyebrows bunching together. “You said they lived among you, that they were friends. What did you say when people asked? Surely someone asked when they didn’t come home?”
“It was contained to our inner circle. The rebellion began in this Court.” Lucais’s voice was strained. “There was so much destruction and pain during the Gift War that when someone didn’t come home, they were automatically presumed dead by their loved ones. We simply never corrected them—because they are dead, in a manner of speaking. It was too painful—”
“It was guilt,” I interrupted, levelling my cool stare on him. “You were the High King then, weren’t you?”
Lucais blinked at me.
“You tried to give them their magic back and banished them to the Ruins when you couldn’t because you felt guilty for what happened.” I felt my voice rising to near hysteria and did nothing to quell it. “That’s why you didn’t have them executed and why you still aren’t doing anything about them. You’re putting the whole of Faerie at risk and blaming it on me —”
“I don’t have time for this.” Wren jumped to his feet, startling me into silence, and began smoothing out non-existent creases from his clothes. His eyes were on fire when he looked at me. “You want a history lesson? Fine. Go to the library. Read up on the Gift War, and then come back to fling accusations at us if you still can’t put two and two together.”
Heat bloomed over my cheeks, and my hands curled into fists. “I wasn’t—”
“Tomorrow morning,” he went on, staring at the bookshelf behind Lucais as he straightened the collar of his shirt, “I’ll be in the training room. If you want to learn how to get yourself killed, stay here and pass judgement. If you don’t, I’ll expect to see you there at dawn. Don’t be late.”
My furious stare burned into his broad shoulders as he turned and stalked for the doors, leaving Lucais with his head in his hands and Morgoya rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.
Wren paused halfway across the room. “Oh,” he said, only half twisting around. “And wear something else. It’s a lesson in self-defence, not torture. I don’t need to see so much of you.”
His words hit my shield, clinking to the floor like bullets.
The tears that might have sprung to my eyes didn’t even bother this time.
My well was empty, and anything that was left would not be going to him. Nor would I be touching any books that he directed me towards— The Sins of Stars included. I’d find a fireplace for that or toss it out the window.
I simply turned to Morgoya when he was gone and asked, my voice heavy and head held high, “Will you tell me about the Gift War?”