Chapter 24
ALTHOUGH I KNOW I shouldn’t spare a thought for the king, that conversation lingers in my thoughts for the rest of the day, including another round of negotiating the labyrinth, stiff and slow, and, after sunset, a lesson with Kishel. Another ill-fated lesson.
I’m sure Fatework isn’t supposed to be ill-fated, but I’m also sure magicless humans shouldn’t be trying to do Fatework, so here we are.
There are two things that stick with me. One, which burns hotter and faster, is the way he insulted my father, who’s the best fisherman on the entire coast—not to mention that Drystan wouldn’t know a competent fisherman if one caught him in his net.
And the other, which remains after my irritation burns out, is how hurt he seemed. The soft voice. The lashing out. The thing he’s been denied.
No wonder he hates me.
Which means I can go on hating him without a shred of guilt.
I haven’t seen the Insufferable One all night, and I start to wonder if asking him personal questions is the best way to scare him off.
That’s when the summons arrives.
Asti collects me for something called the Withan. Like a kind of council for the king, she explains as we wind through stone corridors. When we reach a large set of doors, she nods me through.
I pause, a trickle of dread in my stomach. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I don’t have a seat.” She gives an apologetic smile.
I want to say, “Neither do I,” but the doors are already opening to reveal a large chamber with an intricately vaulted ceiling.
Stone beams radiate from slender columns, like the bones of a bat’s wing.
At the far end of the room, three tall, arched windows frame the moon perfectly, letting its light spill in and mingle with the yellow fae lights caged in wall sconces.
At the center stands a long table, surrounded by seven chairs.
Well, five chairs and two thrones. Drystan’s sits empty at one end and a matching one opposite. Some of the seats are already occupied, judging by the hum of conversation bouncing off the high ceiling, but the nearer throne cuts off my view.
I keep my chin high as I enter, though I want to shuffle in and retreat to a corner. As far as these people are concerned, I’m their future queen, and any safety and power I have here is contingent on that.
When I round the throne, I almost sag at the sight of Kishel. He offers a subtle smile and nods to the seat next to him. My relief at the sight of a familiar face wars with unease at the choice of seat. The empty throne.
I swallow and ease into it, wearing a faint smile as if to say, “Why yes, of course I sit upon a throne. I am soon to be your queen, and I’m absolutely comfortable with that.”
Lord Mastelle is here as is Phaedra. They acknowledge me with cool nods, then go back to their own hushed conversation.
“We’re still waiting for a few more to arrive,” Kishel explains.
“Astrid said this was like a council,” I murmur to him, not wanting the others to witness my ignorance. “Does that mean you can outvote the king?”
Kishel chuckles. “Not at all. Our roles are more… advisory. The only people with true power at this table are the king…” He inclines his head toward the throne opposite mine, then turns back to me with a penetrating look. “And his consort.”
That implies I could challenge his authority if we were actually married. He gains power through marriage, but it’s also a risk. No wonder his mother had to force him into it.
Before I can ask Kishel anything more, the doors swing open. I resist the urge to crane around and see who’s entered—I doubt it’s seemly for a queen. She has the patience to wait for people to come to her—and the confidence to know they will.
A petite fae enters, her blond hair tinged green. I only met her briefly at my first presentation. Lady Gewyne.
A handsome, well-built man follows her, ducking forward to pull out her chair. With an indulgent smile, she caresses his cheek and square shoulder as she takes her seat. She acknowledges us all, while he stands behind her, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes like he’s gone away inside.
I shift at the hollowness.
At my side, Kishel purses his lips, disapproval clear.
He catches my gaze out the corner of his eye, and murmurs, “He’s her thrall.
An old-fashioned practice, but still generally accepted.
” At my frown, he goes on, “His will is weaker, so she can control him and feed off his magic to make herself more powerful.”
My skin crawls, cold, tight. Inside my silk slippers, my toes scrunch up—a hidden reaction to the full horror of the thrall.
This is the danger of weakness.
The fae pouring water for his mistress and leaning in close as he delivers it to her, wearing an expression of desperate need like he would cut his own veins open for the slightest scrap of praise from her plate. No will of his own. No life. Just a shade that follows in her footsteps.
In the Underworld, will is tangible. The strong take power. And they doom the weak to powerlessness.
I hear Drystan’s voice: You are either predator or prey.
I have no doubt which he wishes to make me.
And I have no intention of obliging him.
At least I have no magic he can draw on, but I’m not foolish enough to think that makes me safe.
Just as I grip the arms of my throne, the king enters, followed by the remaining member of the Withan, Threnn.
There are no niceties, just the taking of seats and the alighting of the three ravens on the high back of his throne. One, the smaller of the two black birds, hops down on to Drystan’s shoulder, feathers ruffling as she casts a glinting eye upon Threnn.
“Nos tells me our neighbors have been patrolling the border with renewed intensity.” Absently, he strokes the raven’s throat. “What do you have to report about my fellow kings?”
“Yes, I have been wondering about the other six kingdoms.” Gewyne rounds on Threnn with a thin smile, eyes glittering like cut glass.
“Five,” Lord Mastelle says smoothly.
Her gaze cuts to him. “What?”
“The other five kingdoms, Lady Gewyne.” He chooses that exact moment to loosen the fingers of one glove, and I can’t help feeling there’s some element of display at that—a layer of insult I don’t quite understand.
“It’s been a century now, do try to keep up.
” He strips off that glove and starts on the other, not even sparing the woman a glance.
Her smile turns brittle and she makes a faint sound of acknowledgment.
“Or is your precious attention consumed by your little pet? Perhaps we need to examine where your thoughts truly lie.”
The largest of the ravens croaks, the sound as rough as charred wood.
“Tywel and I do so appreciate your sharp sense of duty, Lord Mastelle,” Drystan speaks up from the opposite end of the table as all eyes turn to him and the raven. “What is it they say about double-edged swords? Best wielded by those with the right to draw them.”
My gaze bounces between the fae and their subtle dueling. Power runs in undercurrents and reprimands come veiled in civility. Just as I thought I was starting to understand the game, I find myself on a new playing field.
“Now,” he goes on, “if you’ll all allow the Baloran to speak, I would like to hear his report.”
The redcap nods to his king and gives an update on the current border situation.
It sounds like Mordren shares borders with either three or four of his brothers—I can’t keep track of what’s a person’s name and what’s another kingdom.
They have limited trade, usually one party taking advantage of something the other lacks, as happened with the horses.
While they’re discussing how to get the best prices for ice, Kishel leans over. “I’m not sure how much His Majesty has explained to you about the other kingdoms.”
I give him a half smile.
His lips quirk. “Right. Nothing. Of course. His Majesty’s brothers—or, rather, half-brothers rule the remaining kingdoms of the Underworld.
Long ago, The Morrigan had a son with each of the old unseelie kings, ensuring her blood would rule over this place of finalities.
Thus were made the six Kings of Death. The Enderkings. ”
There’s a faint and horrible familiarity to that name. Something I can’t quite place, like a story from a dream.
“They all have their own domains,” Kishel goes on, “however His Majesty is the King of Death.”
“Hence the ravens,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches again.
Despite lacking what I’m sure is many centuries, maybe even millennia, of context, I understand enough from Threnn’s report to piece together that while the kingdoms aren’t at war, relations aren’t exactly easy, either.
Drystan nods thoughtfully when Threnn finishes his report. “Anything else?”
Threnn’s customary scowl deepens. “Your Majesty’s brothers haven’t responded to our intelligence-sharing requests.”
Phaedra scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Would you, if your brother claimed a consort and disappeared the only other person eligible to take his throne?”
Drystan goes very still, then slowly, a smile creeps over his lips—and his lips alone.
“Lady Phaedra, I can’t decide if I should be flattered that you think me capable of erasing the only other claimant to the throne so neatly…
or insulted that you believe I need to.” The slash of his eyebrow raises more sharply than Phaedra’s.
“Perhaps the greater threat lies not beyond our borders but within them.”
The pretty pink of her cheeks pales. “I didn’t mean—”
“It certainly sounded like you meant Effan could gain support should I prove an unsatisfactory king.” He shoots me the briefest, sharpest look, and my stomach drops.
He said my rebellion against his rules undermined his leadership. This has to be what he meant.
“Remind me,” he goes on, “what banner is it he stands for that you’d be gathering behind?” He makes a show of frowning and cocking his head as he taps his lower lip. “Ah yes, grapes and yeast, and the capering of a drunken fool.”
I have to admit, I enjoy the way Phaedra looks away, the delicate dip of her throat as she swallows. It’s a delicious and entirely petty victory.
“Your Majesty misunderstands me.” She looks up through her lashes. “I merely meant how it would look to others, particularly those beyond our border—those with no loyalty to yourself.”
“Ah, of course, you were looking out for me. Such uncharacteristic kindness—I didn’t recognize it from you, Phaedra.”
“I admit I only have a passing acquaintance with the concept.” One side of her mouth rises in this smirk that feels so horribly private it makes my stomach burn.
Although Asti dodged the question, I’m positive now that they were—or still are—lovers. She’s welcome to him. They suit each other. Cruelty and spite. Beautiful and bitter. How perfect for one another they are.
While the other members of the Withan discuss Effan’s disappearance, Kishel again leans over. “Effan is the son of King Arawn, King Drystan’s father.”
“But not The Morrigan’s child, right? Not a demi-god?” That explains why Drystan is on the throne instead of him and why, despite being a baker, Effan enjoys an elevated position where he can get away with drinking more than baking.
“Exactly. He’s—”
“You don’t know who Effan is?” The sharp peak of Phaedra’s arched eyebrow is back, her sapphire eyes on me. “And yet you’re sitting in his chair.”
I grip the arms in order to force myself not to shift in a seat that suddenly feels overcrowded.
“As my heir, Effan held that seat.” Drystan dips his chin in acknowledgment. “But as my betrothed, Lady Rhiannon has now taken it.”
“And just as he’s disappeared,” Lord Mastelle mutters. “How convenient that should happen at precisely the moment some may question whether they backed the right brother.”
A sudden, cold quiet sucks the air from the room.
Did Lord Mastelle just imply he is the one wondering if he should have supported Effan’s claim to the throne rather than Drystan’s? Is this all because I broke a few rules? Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I had no idea of the extent of the ripples I would send across his kingdom.
Despite the chilled displeasure radiating through the chamber, Kishel gives Lord Mastelle a flat look. “It’s not as if he ever took the seat himself.”
“If I have enemies willing to strike down my own blood, it only proves I’ve been right to remain vigilant…” Drystan’s gaze sweeps the table. “And to reward those who stand beside me.” His attention shifts to Kishel and something unspoken passes between them.
In silence, Threnn, Phaedra and Lady Gewyne lean in, like the king has just placed a particularly tasty morsel on the table.
I can’t help marveling. He’s just deflected the accusations on to mysterious “enemies”—his brother-kings, perhaps—and turned this into an opportunity for the Withan members to climb over each other for his favor. Loyalty, it seems, is rewarded by the King of Death.
Then he delivers the killing blow.
Straightening, he interlaces his fingers on the table and fixes Lord Mastelle with a pleasant smile. “As for the recent disturbance at court”—Phaedra looks right at me—“you’ll be glad to hear my fiancée is in the process of being re-educated in the labyrinth.”
Five pairs of eyes turn to me. Even the ravens join them. I hold still, but I want to shrink in my seat.
Drystan’s smile widens, growing cooler as he turns it to me. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty of time there to think about her actions… and to learn some gratitude for the position she finds herself in. One many others would, I’m sure, kill for.”
Phaedra shifts in her seat. I’m suddenly glad the table isn’t set for a meal—no sharp objects in sight.
Lady Gewyne eyes me like I’m something she found on the ground. “You gave her the chance to escape?”
Drystan gives an amused huff. “Do you really think a human could get anywhere in the labyrinth?”
Aside from Kishel, the fae laugh. At me. At the poor little human.
But, I also notice, Lord Mastelle is laughing with Drystan—they all are.
I’ve been made an example of to smooth over the king’s position with the most powerful members of his court. And he’s manipulated them all with a half-truth.
I thought the danger lay in his looks or his whispering spies.
But I missed his true power.
It isn’t seen or heard.
It’s felt. Just barely.
Like the sea inching against the cliffs, slow and patient—only noticed once it’s already too late.
And by then, you’ve already given him exactly what he wants.