Chapter Twenty-Four
Gerard
It wasn’t as though they had a formal agreement.
For the next week or so, Ger just happened to take his lunch in the kitchens at precisely the same time every day, and Jack just happened to be working.
They both happened to be on late shifts every night, too; perhaps the porter preferred it that way.
Ger hadn’t asked. All he knew was that Jack was always around at dinnertime, and coincidentally, there was always a fresh bread roll on his plate when he arrived, buttered straight from the oven so its fluffy insides soaked up the golden glaze just the way he liked it.
It made his stomach feel inexplicably warm, full of more than just buttered bread.
That night, though, there was no bread roll waiting for him. No Jack, either. He didn’t say a word when Marie doled out his stew—a little more watery by the day, even if his portion did still have a few chunks of clandestine potatoes—but she fixed him with a knowing look.
“He’s due back any minute,” said Marie.
“Who?” Ger said—very nonchalantly, he thought.
Marie just snorted.
And so Ger ate alone, his back to the stove because it was warmer—not because his seat faced the door.
He was well-placed, though, when it burst open, and Jack finally tumbled through.
His black hair was dusted with snow, nose and cheeks viciously pink, and his chest heaving visibly even beneath his heavy cloak as he gulped down wild-eyed breaths.
Ger did not remember standing, but he found himself on his feet before he knew it, already darting around the table and nearly colliding with Marie as they both rushed to meet the spluttering, breathless porter.
“Are you alright?” Ger said, at the same moment that Marie asked, with equal urgency, “Did you find the scallions?”
“No— what? Yes. Yes, I’m fine, no, I didn’t get any bloody scallions.”
Marie gave him a half-hearted cuff with her teatowel, but he batted her away.
“Stop, listen! It’s the Merrow King. He’s here.”
Ger’s heart seemed to catch on before his brain did, plummeting into his stomach even as he blinked stupidly back at Jack.
“What do you mean he’s here?”
“He’s back,” said Jack. He’d plainly sprinted all the way through the snow, and nearly every word was interrupted by the panting breaths he hadn’t stopped to take. “I just saw Benan and Doran dragging him through the courtyard.”
The floor fell away beneath Ger’s feet, mind whirring painfully in an endless downward spiral. Kai was back. Kai was here … which could mean nothing good for Adeline.
“Just him?” Ger heard himself ask, as though from a great distance.
Jack nodded, dark eyes round beneath his pinched brows. “Just him.”
Without another word, Ger turned on his heel and stumbled out of the kitchen.
???
He didn’t come across another living soul.
Every corridor between the kitchen and the throne room was empty, and he didn’t need to stop and wonder at that.
The frost grew dense on the walls and floors the farther he walked, laying thick as blossoming mould in the skirting boards and stairways, slowing his steps and thinning the air like spores of ice in his every breath.
His head was spinning by the time he reached the throne room, and it took him two tries to heave open the heavy side door and slip into the room.
He was met, at once, with a wall of backs—courtiers, and staff, and gards alike, all pressed as close as they could to the wall yet straining to lean in, to peer over one another’s heads, their whispers barely louder than the shuffle of their feet.
Chest tightened to the point of pain, Ger crushed it further, squeezing himself between the packed bodies and shoving his way to the front.
Even when he reached that empty space, his breath did not recover.
Because there, just as Jack had said, was the Merrow King.
Kai stood in the centre of the hall and faced the empty throne.
He didn’t fight the grasp of the Queen’s Gards who held him.
His wrists were twisted behind his back, caught in one of Benan’s giant paws with the point of Doran’s sword poised between his shoulder blades.
The sight of him, standing right where Silas stood, was such a vicious, vivid reminder that Ger found the frame of his vision contracted and blurred in protest, as though his brain very briefly considered blacking out.
Breathe.
He reached for the hilt of his sword, the habit that had slowly become his anchor through each of these lung-shredding moments.
It was a trick his mother had taught him, so long ago now.
Focus on something else, she had told him through her own tears.
Focus on something real. Something he could feel, or see, or hear.
Touch had always worked best. Through all these months, the smooth metal beneath his palm had reminded him that he was here, that he was surviving, and that one day, he might even find the courage to draw that sword. But today would not be that day.
Because he didn’t fucking have it.
Ger’s fingers scrabbled over thin air, and his gaze dropped at once to his side, lungs shrinking to the size of raisins.
Oh fuck. Oh bollocking Daughters cursed fuck, no.
He’d left the kitchens without his sword, without his armour, and without a bloody thought.
He’d sworn to himself that Adeline would not lose another loved one, and now—
His eyes snapped to Kai, head swimming not only with the lack of air but the force behind his movement.
The king, by comparison, looked remarkably calm.
Unkempt, but unmoved. He was bearded, his hair longer than when he’d left, dark tufts of it curling beneath the collar of a too-small shirt with cuffs that barely hit the middle of each forearm.
His trousers were borrowed too, short at the ankle, his feet bare.
But despite it all, he stood with his eyes closed, brow furrowed with something that seemed a lot closer to focus than fear.
Could he have some sort of plan?
At the thought, Ger’s lungs allowed him one repairing breath; just enough to breathe sense into his brain.
Alright. The king was clearly a prisoner here.
He had not come racing back to the arms of his first love, and that was good.
He'd come alone, too. That was promising, Ger told himself even as something in his chest bleated like a cornered animal.
As long as Adeline was safe, not here was better than here, by far.
And as for the Merrow King … Well. Sword or no, Gerard would do what he could.
The inner door opened, and Imogen appeared in a cloud of pale-pink chiffon, guiding a blank-faced Mareda into the room by the small of her back.
They were followed by two members of the Queen’s Gard who had clearly been off duty tonight, on the same shift as Ger.
Like him, they wore no armour, though they had at least stopped for their cloaks and swords.
He thought, briefly, how cold it must be when they stood to either side of the throne and each took a knee, no plating or leathers between themselves and the icy floor.
It could only have been colder when Avette swept past them in a glittering swirl of ice-studded skirts and finally seated herself on the throne.
She wasn't wearing the dark tear tracks that had become her favoured look, and her hair was not slicked to her head in that shining river of black.
It bounced, instead, around her slim white shoulders, wispy tendrils curling around her face, softening the pointed angle of her chin.
Ger wondered if she'd been preparing for bed and simply washed away the day's costume. Or …
Had she not wanted to come to Kai dressed as the Sorceress?
He couldn’t help but notice that behind her throne, the twin statues of Silas and Johanna had been covered in thick, white drapings, as if to hide them from the Merrow King’s sight.
So maybe … maybe she’d wanted him to see her like this; barefaced and soft.
Gentle as the smile that tilted her pink lips.
Less of a raving fucking lunatic.
But maybe the king didn’t care to see her at all; he still stood there with his eyes closed, brows twitching together with some unseen effort, until Doran finally poked him in the back with the tip of his blade, and his eyes flew open, jaw squared.
He stared ahead wordlessly, not a flicker of change in his taut, focused expression.
But Avette’s smile broadened, her long lashes fluttering.
“Welcome home, my heart.”
She extended a pale hand, fingers unfurling like the petals of a frostbitten rose.
Doran lowered his sword after just a beat of hesitation; Benan hesitated a moment longer. And for as little esteem that he held for either man, Ger had to admit that they had solid instincts.
Because the moment Kai Cumhaill was free, that focused frown broke—and he was swallowed in a flare of green light.
Someone screamed in Ger’s ear, and he flinched away, still blinded and blinking.
What followed was a blur of chaos that overwhelmed every sense.
Warring blue and green glares that blinded half the room, a cacophony of earth-shuddering groans and elemental roars, a ground that was quickly giving way, and a frightened surge of bodies that knocked Ger to his knees.
His joints shuddered at the impact, ears ringing, colours popping behind his eyes—but in the split second that he was down, the roaring died, and the unearthly storm of light drew in like water in an unplugged tub.
The pivot from chaos to calm was a blanket thrown over Ger’s senses, and his head spun as he stared uncomprehendingly at his own hands splayed on the ground.
Red with the biting cold, and half buried in wet, frosty slush.
Ger dragged his gaze up, tremors running through his tensed shoulders, ears ringing.