Chapter 5 #2
Tristan and I have both seen what one can do. A Fey king shatters the bodies of anyone who objects to him and hangs their broken carcasses on gibbets. He goes after their families. He grinds his enemies into dust, and he’d never dream of letting the courts stop him. He’d destroy them all first.
Because everyone knows that a king’s wrath is death.
Auberon once sent us to round up traitors from the villages and bring them to him for a mock trial. No real lawyers. No real judges. I did as commanded. That was the third worst thing I’ve ever done.
And when we brought him the “traitors,” the peasants’ sentences were preordained. If a king says a commoner is guilty, he’s guilty. And if you criticize him for his harsh methods—well, that alone is treason or sedition. Then you’re guilty, too.
“We can’t have another king,” I whisper. “We just got rid of the old one. Why would anyone want to go back to that?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but I think I know why.
It’s the bloody ceremony of it all, isn’t it?
When you step into Westminster Abbey and see where a monarch is crowned—when sunlight slants through the colored windowpanes onto the soaring arches—people feel awe.
It looks godlike. When an anointed king sits on a throne glittering with jewels, he looks divine.
But who built those arches, the crown and scepter, that stained glass? Not the gods-damned king. Artists create the magic. Artists are divine; they channel the numinous voice of the gods.
All the bloody king did was show up and plant his arse on a throne.
“Many of the Fey in Brocéliande were happier with the monarchy,” Tristan says.
“They’re not satisfied with being ruled by commoners, and it doesn’t help that the republic keeps imprisoning every aristocrat and cutting off their heads.
The commoners have no idea what they’re doing.
So, there’s a growing royalist faction that’s gaining power every day.
It’s chaos. The republic is off to a rocky start. ”
“Of course it’s off to a rough start,” I shoot back.
“Half the leaders were running pubs or farms before taking power. They haven’t had time to learn how to govern, but they will if people are patient.
Choosing another king isn’t the answer. Our monarchs live for thousands of years.
If the next king is a monster, we’ll be stuck with him forever.
And even if he starts out fine, the throne will corrupt him. ”
Too much power rots the soul. The kings believe they are chosen by the gods, which means they can do no wrong. That belief is corrosive to morality.
I bite my lip. “Lydia the tavern wench and her mates running a kingdom—they can be replaced if everyone hates them. They’ve got to stay in line. No gods anointed them. They’ve got to be thoughtful to stay in power. The kingdom needs tavern wenches.”
My voice has grown too loud, and Tristan lifts a finger to his lips. I hear footfalls coming closer, people out for a nighttime stroll.
Tristan glances over my shoulder, then grabs me by the waist to pull me in closer against his muscled chest. A pulse of heat flares through me, and my heart skips a beat.
Of course, I know this is only a spy ploy to make us look like lovers by the river, but I’m distracted by his clean, delicious scent all the same.
Tristan is the only person I knew before everything fell apart.
When I see him, I remember lying on my back in tall grasses and honeyed light and running through the forest. I remember a childhood of looking for mushrooms and conkers, fighting with sticks.
To look at Tristan is to see a lost sylvan idyll made of woodland cottages, and being near him opens a sharp hunger in my chest for a time of innocence.
“We have to stop the next king,” I whisper.
“Yes, I know. That’s why I wanted in to the Veiled Court,” he leans down to whisper, a lock of dark hair falling in front of his eyes. “Avalon Tower needs to know what decision they will make. We need to know when it will happen. Problem is, the baroness is dead, and I no longer have a way in.”
I breathe in the smell of him, like fresh rain on stone, and it reminds me of being young. Despite the horror of tonight, I feel safe pressed against his hard chest, and his body warms mine.
“I don’t think you should give up just yet,” I whisper.
Tristan holds my gaze, a line forming between his eyebrows. I can read him like a book, and his expression makes my throat tight.
“What else are you not telling me?” I say.
Slowly, he releases me. “That halo will remain as long as you are outside the Veiled Court. As you walk around with it, you’ll find yourself followed by cloaked spirits who come in threes. They’ll crawl from the shadows like phantoms. They’re the cugol—the Cloaked Ones.”
You’d do better to take your chances with the Cloaked Ones than with us.
“I think I’ve heard of them,” I say. “What, exactly, do they do?”
“They’ll find you no matter where you go. The halo is a beacon, and if they capture you, they will burn you. They serve the nobles, and you murdered one of their own.”