The Judgment of King Kieran #5
Kieran pressed his fingers against his temple. “I will—I will in a moment.”
There was nothing for Cristina and Mark to do but lie down and cuddle into each other, while leaving plenty of room for Kieran to join them. It was strange to be in such a huge bed without him, even with Mark beside her.
Cristina did her best to stay awake, but it was no use. The day had been long, and she was tired. As she drifted off to sleep, she caught a last glimpse of Kieran, still wide awake, gazing out the window at the worsening storm.
—
Geraint had been given a lavish guest room in the Unseelie tower, and was currently standing in the doorway, frowning as he read Kieran’s letter. He’d been at it for a while, Mark noted. Whatever else one might say about Geraint, he was not a fast reader.
At last, Geraint looked up, and scowled at Mark. “So I’m to be inspected by the King’s consort, eh?” he said, and stood back. “Come in, then. I don’t suppose you’ve brought another gift?”
Mark went by Geraint, and into the room. It was decorated in lush dark colors of blue, almost matching Geraint’s blue tunic. “Another gift?” Mark echoed. “I don’t believe I understand.”
Geraint smirked. “The King has gifted me this fine broadsword already,” he said, indicating what indeed seemed to be a very finely made sword, lying sheathed on the bed.
“I feel confident he intends to choose me as his Knight of Storms. Brissole is a silly girl, after all, and Finian ought not be even in consideration.”
“A fine sword indeed,” said Mark. “May I examine it?”
“You’re the King’s consort, I suppose you can do what you like,” said Geraint ungraciously, and fetched the blade.
Mark frowned as he turned it over in his hands.
It was careful, delicate workmanship, with leaves etched across the pommel.
It was also humming with a low buzz of demonic energy, of which Geraint was clearly unaware.
“You’re not going to take it away, are you?” Geraint asked.
“No,” Mark said, hoping nothing of what he felt showed on his face. He handed the sword back, and said, “If I may ask, is there a reason why you want to be the Knight of All Storms? Obviously it is a position of power, but is there more than that?”
Geraint had stopped frowning, and for a moment, looked almost thoughtful.
“In the mundane world that you know, weather is just weather. Here, powerful members of the wild fey use storms and floods to wound each other, but when they do, they also wound the land. You were in the Wild Hunt once, Miach. You know what it is like to ride among the storms. I wish to do that, too. There is no greater power in Faerie, and I would wield my broadsword against it, so as to save our land and its people.”
Mark had flinched a bit at the use of his Faerie name. Few used it. He said, “Would you save the people of Seelie as well?”
A moment’s hesitation. “Of course.”
And he cannot lie. Having learned all he thought he could from Geraint, Mark took his leave.
—
Cristina found Lady Brissole in her luxurious guest quarters, reclining on a settee as she smoked a long pipe. Its tobacco was not unpleasant, but rather smelled like soil after a long rain.
Lady Brissole turned to look at Cristina with languid disinterest. “You have come to inspect me, consort?” she said, managing to make the term of honor sound disreputable.
“Something like that,” said Cristina. “I have something for you from King Kieran—”
She began to reach for the letter of introduction, but before she could hand it over, Lady Brissole waved her away. “The King is too generous. He need not give me yet another gift.”
Brissole gestured languidly at an open jewelry box that contained a filigree necklace, delicately worked, the central pendant a round white stone that looked as though clouds were moving across it.
Cristina took a step closer. Up close she could feel a faint pulse of demonic energy emanating from the stone.
Why did Lady Brissole believe this was a gift from Kieran?
He would never give anyone something imbued with infernal properties.
But Lady Brissole obviously wasn’t lying; she believed it to be a real gift from Kieran.
Cristina thought of the summons to the Court that had brought her and Mark here under false pretenses.
Someone was clearly attempting to do mischief in Kieran’s name—maybe even worse than mischief.
“What a pretty necklace,” Cristina said diplomatically. “Kieran sent me, not with a gift, but rather a question.”
Lady Brissole looked moderately interested. “What question is that?”
Cristina said, “I came to ask you why you wish to be the Knight of Storms. Is power your concern, or do you believe that your brothers would fail dangerously at the task?”
“What a curious question for a King to have. Kieran certainly is different.” Lady Brissole put her pipe down on the table beside her.
“My father thought of storms and such as an enemy. But you never truly defeat storms. No amount of brawn will defeat their coming, there will always be another. Not every storm is a bad thing: They bring rain, they enrich the soil, they disperse the seeds of plants, carpeting Faerie in flowers. They cleanse the skies, they scour the beaches. There are those wicked souls who seek to bend the storms to their own purposes, and I would free the storms from their nefarious plots.”
Looking into Lady Brissole’s dark eyes, Cristina said, “Thank you, that’s all I need.” She headed to the door, but paused before leaving the room. “One more thing. Kieran requests that you not wear his gift just yet.”
Brissole smiled confidently. “I understand. He must wish to name me the Knight of All Storms first.”
—
Cristina and Mark met just outside the door of Master Finian, the third heir. Huddled together, they quickly told each other of their respective meetings.
Mark shook his head. “Kieran would not have given these heirs demon-tainted gifts. Something sinister is afoot.”
“Indeed,” Cristina said. “I think I might have an idea of what might be going on—”
Master Finian’s door flew open. “I thought I heard someone out there. Would you like to come in and have a drink?”
Both Mark and Cristina straightened up, trying to look like they thought proper consorts should. Mark began, “I have a letter from King Kieran, explaining that—”
“Oh, how dull, official business,” Finian said. “I was just happy for visitors. Come on in, we could play chess, because the King has sent me this handsome board. I hope it does not mean he intends to give me my father’s position, for I would be most unsuited to it.”
As they followed Finian into his chambers, he stopped to cough violently into a handkerchief. As he folded it away quickly, Cristina caught sight of spots of blood on the white linen. Now, that’s interesting.
Finian’s room was decorated all in bright colors, so bright it hardly seemed to fit with the rest of the Court. Mark leaned against a mustard-yellow sofa, and said, “Is it that you don’t want the job, Finian, or that you think you are too ill to do it?”
So he had noticed the blood, too.
Finian, who had been reaching for a box that undoubtedly contained the chess set “from Kieran” (and a good bit of demonic energy as well, Cristina imagined), straightened up.
For the first time his genial mask started to slip, and Cristina thought she caught sight of the real person underneath.
“You are very perceptive,” he said. “A little of both, perhaps?”
“Is there nothing that can be done to help you? Can you not be healed?” Cristina asked.
“No,” Finian began, but was interrupted by another coughing fit. He retrieved the cloth from his pocket, dampening it with yet more blood. “It is a disease of the lungs that runs in my family. Every generation or so it kills a few. Nothing can be done for it, but I do not wish to be pitied.”
“You will find no pity here, only compassion,” Mark said. “You can be honest with King Kieran; I do not believe he would force you to be the Knight of Storms.”
Finian shook his head. “I do not want my condition to be the knowledge of the whole Court.”
“I am sure it can be kept secret,” said Cristina, a little absently. Her thoughts were caught on a sort of snag. She could not break free of the conviction that the right answer to all this mystery was at the tips of her fingers.
She and Mark went to the door; Mark left first, and Cristina, after a moment, turned back to look once more at Finian. Holding his bloody cloth, he seemed a forlorn figure.
“There was a great celebration for Kieran’s birthday not so long ago. Were you well enough to attend?”
Finian blinked at the odd question, but said, “I was here for the festivity. My condition was not so pronounced, then.”
He began to cough again.
“Thank you for your clarification, Master Finian. You have helped me more than you know.” Cristina left, closing the door firmly behind her.
—
Kieran looked up from the pages of the large tome that lay open in front of him.
The rain lashed viciously against the windows of his study, interspersed with occasional showers of black hail.
The noise of the constant storm was starting to give Kieran a headache, as was the sputter of the fireplace in the small room.
General Winter and Adaon, who were doing their best to advise Kieran, were also giving him a headache.
“Such a decision is unprecedented,” protested Winter. “It has never been done before, not with the Knighthood of Storms.”
“But it can be done,” said Kieran, tapping the page of his book. “Look. Not everything that is new must be mistrusted, General.”
“It is a compassionate decision, Kieran,” Adaon said, “yet you must make sure that it is not only compassion that drives you. The Land is depending on you, not just these three.”