The Judgment of King Kieran
The Knight of All Storms was dead, killed by the fearsome Summer Boar, and the sky mourned him with a rain of stinging, cold tears.
The winds shrieked and cried, and thunder promised lightning that would strike the earth like the finger of a grieving lover stabbing again and again, seeking someone to blame for the loss.
—
A lone rider atop a hill gave witness to the sky.
His hair, darker than the clouds above, lifted with the wind; otherwise, he did not move.
Neither did the gaunt white horse beneath him, its mane growing more unruly with each gust. Pale Kieran, King of the Unseelie Court, was deeply troubled by the loyal knight’s passing.
—
A horn blew, its sound almost stolen by the storm, but Kieran’s hearing was better than any cat’s, so he heard the royal guard approach before he saw them.
—
“Your Majesty. The Knight’s heirs have arrived at the Tower.”
—
“Then let us hope that one of them is worthy,” King Kieran cried. “Or else the land will suffer, and all are doomed.”
—
“You really don’t have to tell the story this way,” Mark said, and yawned. He hadn’t had his morning coffee yet and was still partially asleep, his long body sprawled over one of the cottage’s wobbly kitchen chairs. “You needn’t call him Pale Kieran. We know who he is. Just ‘Kieran’ is fine.”
Bink, the faerie messenger perched atop the kitchen counter, looked affronted.
Cristina was fairly sure he was a species of hobgoblin, his body furry as a squirrel’s, with a long tail and pointed ears.
He wore a wrinkled felt hat. “I cannot use the King’s name in that manner. It wouldn’t be respectful.”
“It’s not his true name, you know,” Cristina said. She was perched on a tall stool at the kitchen counter, wearing a pair of white pajamas with a design of small red bows. Her dark hair had been pulled into glossy braids. Mark thought she looked adorable.
“Well,” said Bink. “Obviously not.”
Mark and Cristina exchanged a sideways smile.
Bink, despite his extremely small stature—he was about the size of a garden gnome, though, in Mark’s opinion, more trustworthy—took his job of messenger extremely seriously.
He also took Mark and Cristina’s position as Consorts to the Unseelie King very seriously, which was rare in Faerie.
Most distrusted or disliked the fact that the Unseelie King had chosen as his romantic partners not one but two Shadowhunters.
Faeries didn’t tend to trust Shadowhunters, and Mark could understand why.
“Very well,” Bink sulked. “If you want the dull version of the story, I shall tell it to you. The Knight of All Storms, who guards the lands of Faerie from gale and tempest, from flood and fire, has been slain by a fearsome creature of Wild Magic. Faithfully did he serve the lands for three hundred years. Now an heir must be chosen to replace him, or the weather will only grow worse until the green land of Faerie is torn apart by storms.”
Mark glanced at the kitchen windows. Usually, their little cottage was illuminated with pale gold sunlight.
Rain was rare, and it had been sunny when he’d gotten up that morning.
It was true that the sky outside was gray now, the pretty garden cast into shadow under heavy clouds. “And Kieran has to choose the heir?”
“Traditionally, both monarchs—the Queen of Seelie and the King of Unseelie—would make the choice. But the Seelie Queen will not open her court to the heirs. She says she will abide by whatever choice Kieran makes.”
“That’s odd,” Cristina murmured. It was not like the Seelie Queen to relinquish control.
“King Kieran must choose among the three children of the Knight, who have all come forward to lay a claim to the Knighthood. They arrive today, to present themselves at the Court.”
“That’s interesting,” said Mark, who was not entirely sure it was all that interesting. “But why are you telling us this, Bink?”
“Because I bring a message on behalf of the King,” said Bink.
Mark tensed. Kieran rarely sent them messages when he was at the Unseelie Court, and if he did they were short and to the point—coming home now, or delayed by a day, regretfully. He didn’t share what was going on at Court unless he absolutely had to.
“Why?” Cristina demanded, and Mark saw that she’d tensed up too. Her beautiful dark eyes were worried.
“He requires your presence at the Court,” said Bink. “Only you can assist him in this grave time. You must hurry to the Tower with no delay.”
Mark looked at Cristina again. He could see the liquid sloshing in her coffee mug as her hand shook. Mark wanted to grab Bink and demand he swear the message was really from Kieran, but Bink was a faerie. He couldn’t lie.
“Well, we can’t leave immediately,” said Mark. “We’re in our pajamas.” (This was not Mark’s primary concern, but he was only half faerie. He could lie.)
“I thought that was ceremonial garb,” said Bink, sounding disappointed.
“We will need a carriage to take us to Court,” Cristina said, setting her coffee cup down. “Can one be here in an hour?”
Bink bowed to her, so low that his felt hat tumbled off. “It shall be done, Lady of Roses.”
—
The bedroom Mark, Cristina, and Kieran shared was at the top of the cottage.
It was a snug room, with a comfortable, big bed, and squashy armchairs draped with soft blankets.
There was a picture window under the eaves, and a long window seat where Cristina liked to sit and look out over the front gardens, with their rose-bedecked trellises and beds of hollyhocks and cottage pinks.
A little gravel path wound through the gardens toward a grassy meadow where the trio often liked to picnic.
The decoration in the room was mostly photographs of Cristina’s and Mark’s families: Jaime and Diego, Emma and Julian, Helen and Aline with Tavvy, Dru with blue streaks in her hair, Ty looking down at a sleeping mouse cupped in his hands.
They were both homesick when they were in Faerie, but when they were in the mortal world, they longed for Kieran and for the cottage. It was a strange, divided life.
Under the leadership of Kieran’s father, the Unseelie Court had no fixed location, moving from place to place at the whim of the King. Kieran had given the Court a permanent home, anchoring the Unseelie Tower where had it stood when he had killed his father.
“Remember not to pack anything iron,” Mark said. He had a duffel bag open on the bed and was throwing things into it. Cristina didn’t need the reminder about iron, but she could tell from the way Mark moved that he was just as anxious as she was.
“I’ve really no idea what I should pack,” she said. “I didn’t bring anything terribly elegant or…Unseelie. I never thought we’d be invited to the Court.”
“Any clothes in silk or velvet should work.” Mark tossed something white into his duffel. “Faeries like natural fibers. Wool, linen.” He looked mildly hopeful. “Leather?”
Cristina rolled her eyes at him. “You have to admit it’s strange, Mark. Kieran always said that he would never bring us to the Court. Aren’t you worried?”
“That it’s a trap?” Mark looked up from his packing.
“Yes. Bink says the message is from Kieran, so we must assume that to be true. But the Unseelie Court roils with all sorts of plots and plans. If what lies before Kieran is a question of inheritance, then we can expect to be dealing with three bloodthirsty heirs willing to tear each other apart for this knighthood.”
“Which is exactly what Kieran always wanted to keep from us,” Cristina said. She bit her lip. “Perhaps he is in need somehow of the expertise of Shadowhunters? Though I cannot imagine why. Surely he does not need us to translate something out of Purgatic for him, or…”
Mark smiled. “Perhaps he just misses your beautiful face.”
“Perhaps he just misses your beautiful face,” Cristina teased.
Not that she didn’t think Mark had a beautiful face.
She thought everything about him was beautiful, including the graceful way he moved.
She watched him with a quiet pleasure as he came around from the side of the bed, and drew her toward him.
She tipped her head up to look at him. She always felt the same thing when she was close to Mark like this, a heat that muddled up her insides, a mixture of excitement and yearning.
She felt just as strongly when she was close to Kieran.
When she was with both of them, it was something even more intense altogether.
“Lady of Roses,” Mark said softly, and kissed her.
When he drew away, his eyes were serious.
“Regardless of whether it is a trap, we must go to Court. We both know that. Because if it is a trap, it was set by someone who does not wish Kieran well. And as much as he has always wanted to protect us, perhaps it is our turn to protect him.”
—
Outside the black, needle-sharp tower of the Unseelie Court, a massive storm was raging.
It had been pouring since just after noon, and in the Great Hall of Ceremonies, grunting ogres stood in front of each stained-glass window to prevent the howling winds from shattering the panes and ruining the banquet that had just begun.
Kieran hadn’t particularly wanted to throw a banquet, but his seneschal, General Winter, had told him that it was traditional when choosing who would inherit the honor of a fey Knighthood.
And in Faerie, tradition was law. So, sunk into an ornate ebony chair, Kieran looked wearily at the scene before him and thought: How long is this going to take?