5. Nocturne, Part I The Invocation
“ D o you feel prepared?”
Kael looked past the old hob in the mirror to meet Werryn’s eyes, ignoring the feeling of her thorn-like fingernails scratching his scalp as she wove small strands of his silver hair into tight braids. Already dressed for the night in his ritual robes, long and black and exceedingly plain, the High Prelate’s gaunt face was drawn as he watched from the doorway.
“Yes.” After yet another unnecessarily sharp tug, Kael shooed Methild away and she scuttled out of the room quickly. He unwound the braid she’d only halfway finished.
“You say that every time,” Werryn scolded the king. He was the only one that could do so without repercussion, and he took advantage of that often.
Kael worked another braid loose; the ceremonial style was too formal for his taste. He preferred to see such ornate plaits on his female courtiers, not in his own hair. “Then stop asking.”
“I needn’t remind you that the last three rites have ended in disaster,” Werryn insisted, “and that this is one of our most important of the year.”
“No, you needn’t. I am well aware.” Losing patience, Kael’s voice came out tight and cold.
“You’re backsliding. We’ll bring in a tether tonight, but the longer you rely on this crutch the weaker your—”
“Enough!” Kael cut Werryn off and brought his fist down hard on the dresser in front of him. The mirror rattled against the wall. “Leave. Now.”
Werryn didn’t flinch, but instead held Kael’s reflected gaze for a moment. He knew when to push and when to retreat, and he had pushed far enough for now. He’d served the king since even before he had the throne; had been a party to his outbursts time and again for centuries. Kael’s temper burned hot as a flame that could flare at the slightest provocation. His cruelty, like smoke, was never far behind. With a resigned sigh, the High Prelate bowed his head in deference and turned to leave the room, his long robes swishing softly against the stone floor.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Werryn said as he disappeared down the hall.
Kael watched the male’s retreating figure, his jaw clenched tightly. The last thing he needed tonight was to be reminded of his own vulnerability, the constant struggle to control the magic that churned and roiled within him every waking moment. His service was to his dark god, and to his court. Not to the male who called himself High Prelate. Werryn’s opinions mattered very little.
Alone now in his candlelit chamber, Kael ran his fingers through his long hair, unraveling the last of the braids that had been painstakingly woven. He avoided his reflection in the mirror and rose to dress. Methild had laid his ritual robe across the foot of his bed. Similarly simple to Werryn’s, but newer. His old set had become too threadbare to keep. It was a pity; after nearly a century of use, he’d finally worn them soft. The new robe was stiff and rough against his skin when he rubbed the hem between his fingers. He’d wear it to The Cut, but he couldn’t stand to have it touching him during the ritual. It would be just fine to kneel on.
Despite the heavy weight on his shoulders, Nocturne had long been Kael’s favorite celebration. The Low One always seemed closer to him than ever this night—almost in him—and to serve as his vessel was the highest honor one could hold. It was what made him king. The revelry that would follow didn’t hurt, either. A smirk played on Kael’s lips when he considered it: the indulgences he’d witness, the gluttony and excess of the bacchanal that would surround him and stretch into the small hours of the morning.
But he had to get through the ritual first.
Drawing in a deep breath, Kael closed his eyes and tried to steady his racing thoughts. He needed to find his center and tap into the wellspring of magic that resided there. It was a dance between control and surrender, a delicate art of wielding his power without succumbing to its dark allure. It was his fierceness that gave him his edge, but by the same token hindered him each time from maintaining proper control over himself, particularly on charged nights such as this. The very power he so craved was sometimes too much for him, its vessel, to bear.
He couldn’t afford to falter again, not while his court was so deeply entrenched in its war with no end yet in sight. The Seelie Court was proving thus far to be a more formidable rival than even his most battle-hardened advisors had foreseen. Not only was it important to pay homage and receive the Low One’s benedictions, but this show of power was sorely needed to build back his subjects’ waning confidence.
As he prepared to leave the solitude of his chamber, now draped in the uncomfortable robe, Kael could already feel the magic building in his chest. The sensation bordered on uncomfortable; it wanted out. He took another breath, shallower this time. With a determined glint in his eyes, Kael straightened his spine. The time for hesitation had passed.
His walk to The Cut was a contemplative one, and he was glad that he’d sent Werryn on ahead so he could make it alone. The male was prone to lectures, warranted or not, and Kael’s mood wouldn’t allow for it tonight. Quiet as a whisper, he wound his way through the dimly-lit passages to the tall, winding staircase that spiraled up to the surface. Each of the stone steps was worn in the middle from centuries upon centuries of footfalls ascending and descending.
The Undercastle, nearly as old as the earth it was carved into, was as much a natural structure as it was hand-hewn. Most of it was underground: cut deep into the earth, its corridors wound their way through the bedrock, intertwining with the bones of the land. Its vast halls were formed of ancient caverns that had existed long before the Unseelie Court claimed them as their own. In some, vaulted ceilings dripped with glittering stalactites, sharp and wickedly beautiful. In others, the ceilings soared so high that they vanished into darkness.
The king was confident that tonight’s ritual would be smooth. He let his hand drift over the railing as he climbed. He’d counted the steps once when he was young; he seemed to remember there being close to a hundred, maybe more.
Outside, the night was crisp and cool and the breeze played softly through the pines. The Cut wasn’t far beyond the tree line, a clearing in the thick forest where nothing had ever grown. The trees that encircled it, though, thrived off the inhospitable soil. Their roots stretched and snaked and for the uninitiated, made the walk to the center a treacherous one. Kael knew it by heart, every bump and divot. He could navigate the whole area with his eyes closed.
He was the last to arrive. The candles were lit, and the circle of ancient runes carved into the ground dusted off. Kael moved into position just shy of its center, heart already thrumming wildly.
The tether, dressed in a white silk shift, was forced to his knees before the king. Kael glanced down at him briefly and thought he recognized the male’s face, if only vaguely. One of the prisoners taken after the last surrender, more than likely. He had broad shoulders and thick arms. Though Nocturne was one of their longer ceremonies, he looked to be strong enough to withstand Kael’s magic for as long as was needed to complete the invocation .
The Low One was already there waiting for them, before the ritual even began. Kael, the Prelates, and even the few higher-echelon courtiers that were invited to witness it could feel Him. He was in the air, in the trees, but most of all, He was in the darkness. He made it thick and even blacker than it would have been otherwise in that desolate clearing. The light of the candles, set up in perfect formation, barely spread more than an inch from their jumping flames.
As the Lesser Prelates took their places around the south side of the circle, Kael rolled his shoulders and his outer robe slid to the ground. He didn’t miss Werryn’s reproachful look when he kicked it into a ball in the dirt and knelt down on it. To the north, almost directly under the moon, Werryn stepped up to the altar. By the time he began the ritual, the moon would be aligned exactly over his head. They had several minutes yet to breathe in the electric air and gather their thoughts.
Kael shifted his weight from one knee to the other before settling back on his heels. He was uncomfortable from the inside out; if they didn’t begin soon, he was afraid his ribs would crack under the pressure expanding inside his chest. Finally, Werryn raised his hands and the quiet murmuring ceased.
“Brothers and sisters of the Unseelie Court,” Werryn’s voice echoed as he began his sermon, resonating in the open space. “As we gather in this sacred hour, we prepare for the coming winter, and with it, the winds of change. ”
He raised his hands, his fingers adorned with silver rings bearing the mark of their faith. Kael had his own set that he would don after the ritual, but for this, he needed his hands unencumbered.
“Tonight, we beseech the Low One to grant us His blessings. As darkness enshrouds our Court, let us be embraced by it and draw strength from the depths of the abyss. Let us harness His gifts to weave our destiny and secure our dominion over Wyldraíocht.”
Addressing the unseen forces that lay beyond the material, Werryn’s words called to the dormant power within Kael. Slowly, painfully, the first tendrils of magic emerged from his skin. Kael extended his hands, palms upturned. Wisps of shadow, almost entirely translucent, curled from his fingertips like threads of smoke. Hushed, reverent whispers passed between a few of the courtiers who hadn’t before seen his power firsthand.
“We are the masters of shadow, and the arbiters of our own fate. We ask that winter’s cold, unyielding grip forge us into a force that none can withstand.” After a moment of silence for his sermon to sink in, Werryn lowered his head and lapsed into the ritual chants. Monotone and low, he spoke in a language as ancient as the Low One himself that only the Prelates and a handful of scholars could still understand.
Kael’s shadows began to coalesce and writhe, swirling in a dance of ephemeral darkness. Surges of inky-black energy rippled through The Cut. His control was already precarious, teetering just on the edge of chaos. The courtiers, aware of the violent nature of his gifts, looked upon their king with a blend of awe and caution.
Kael dropped his hands to the ground and dug the tips of his fingers into the earth, clawing at the dirt with his fingernails to relieve any fraction of the energy that surged and burned under his skin. His lungs seized and his heart pumped impossibly fast. The Low One was here, beckoning to his shadows from the darkness, stretching and pulling them out of him. Ripping them from his veins.
Mercifully, Kael found some relief by directing his darkness towards the tether. The male cried out sharply as the shadows wrapped around his body, some plunging straight through him. He just needed to last a few more minutes, just to buy Werryn enough time to finish.
But he wasn’t as strong as he looked. Too quickly, the male fell silent and slumped forward onto the ground. Kael’s shadows retreated from his fading life force and branched out into The Cut, seeking their next target. A deep shudder that wracked Kael’s body shot through the ground and zipped up the nearest tree. One large branch crashed to the earth with a loud crack, narrowly missing a cluster of worshippers. Several of the Lesser Prelates stumbled, clutching each other’s elbows for balance, but Werryn didn’t waver. Steadfast as ever, he continued his invocations. His voice was but a hum in Kael’s ears, the steady rhythm of his words all merging into one constant droning sound.
Another crack echoed through the clearing—a whole tree this time, further off, was split clean in half by a constricting shadow. Kael managed to open his eyes long enough to lock them onto Werryn’s, and the High Prelate understood by the pain he saw there that he didn’t have more than a minute before Kael lost control entirely. Stumbling over his words, Werryn drew the ritual to a premature close.
“In darkness, we find strength. In shadows, we find solace. As winter descends, we find our resolve. It is by the grace of the Low One that we follow our King, our beacon of power; heed His call to arms; and blaze our path to supremacy. Let His reign be eternal.” The worshippers echoed the closing statement of the sermon—they knew these words by heart.
Slowly, slowly, Kael called his shadows to withdraw. They slid across the ground and his every nerve fired off in protest as they coiled back into his muscles. His bones. His blood. When the searing pain faded, in its place a hot anger bloomed in Kael’s chest. He rose to his feet and approached the tether. The male was barely clinging to life. Kael wedged the toe of his boot under his shoulder and kicked him onto his back. In one smooth motion, he unsheathed the dagger that hung from his hip and drove it into the male’s throat, twisting it once for good measure before standing again. He didn’t wait to hear the death rattle that forced its way out of the male’s mouth.
Kael could hardly remember stalking back to his chamber. Blind with rage, he slammed the heavy door closed and let out a yell so loud and harsh it hurt his own ears. His chest heaved and his body shook. If he thought Werryn wouldn’t have stopped him, Kael would have ripped the tether limb from limb, and likely a handful of the worshippers, too. Just picturing the carnage managed to pacify him slightly. The honey wine he poured himself from the bottle on his desk, even more so. Still, his hands shook as he traded the simple ceremonial robes for the ornate set he’d had made for the revelry. Spun from a rich black silk, the edges were trimmed with silver embroidery that swept across the fabric in swirls that closely mimicked the movement of his shadows.
“That was one of your worst performances yet,” Werryn said flatly from the doorway. He’d slipped in while the king had still been lost in his own thoughts.
“Do not give your opinions unsolicited,” Kael warned. The anger he’d been working hard to quell began creeping back in, so he concentrated on the repetitive motion of sliding his rings onto his fingers one by one.
Werryn ignored the bite in his words. “We must finish the rite. We’ll wait a few days for you to recharge, but it cannot be left undone.”
“With the way you order me around, it almost seems that you wish to be king.” Kael’s hands dropped to grip the edge of his dresser. “Tell me, Prelate, do you see yourself fit to rule? Or is it that you consider yourself my superior?” He spoke the words calmly—menacingly so. Usually unafraid of his wrath, his tone now was enough to send a brief chill down Werryn’s spine. So he conceded.
“Enjoy your evening, Your Grace.” Neither Werryn nor the Lesser Prelates would be in attendance tonight; their part of the Nocturne celebration began and ended with the ritual. For that, at least, Kael was grateful.
He swallowed down another goblet of honey wine and wished for something stronger. The celebration would begin soon, and he had a speech to deliver, but despite his earlier anticipation he wanted nothing more than to sink himself into a drunken oblivion.
Kael chose a delicate crown to wear and settled it atop his head before sweeping his hair away from his left ear. He palmed the earring he’d left sitting out: a long string of white gems, the closest thing to a family heirloom he possessed. Roughly, he pushed its sharp post through his lobe. It had been some years since he’d worn one, and he was meant to wait for Methild to come pierce him properly with a needle, but the brief, bracing pain felt good. It forced him to suck in a deep breath of air.
Settled, dressed, and with the faintest buzz in his veins, the Unseelie King was ready to greet his Court.