34 LONNIE
UNDERNEATH
After only a brief hour’s rest, a knock sounded on our door.
A different red-robed servant, this one with blue-tinted, leathery skin and long spindly fingers, arrived to lead us down to dinner.
Ambrose and I were already ready and waiting to go—having bathed and dressed quickly, in case we were dragged from our room sooner than expected. I’d stuffed myself into the same burgundy gown from the ship, and had brief cause to wonder if Ambrose had always intended me to wear it here, rather than on the boat.
We hadn’t spoken much since he’d warned me we were unable to use magic, except so long as it took him to insist I wear the obsidian crown to dinner.
I got the impression that Ambrose was on edge, feeling crippled by his inability to see prophecies. I was only just starting to realize how many visions the rebel king must see at any one time. I remembered what Bael had told me about Queen Celia going effectively blind toward the end of her life, and wondered if that would be Ambrose’s future as well.
For my part, I was a torrent of mixed emotions. I was desperate to look for Bael, Scion, and my mother, and simultaneously terrified to leave this room. If we were caught searching for them, and ended up in the dungeon ourselves, then…well, I didn’t see it likely that I would be rescued from a dungeon by a prince two times in the same lifetime.
I practically shook as we walked down to dinner—somehow terrified that I’d blurt our plans by mistake.
The obsidian crown felt too heavy on my head, and despite my insistence that I could handle this, that I wanted to help, I didn’t feel particularly adept or royal when surrounded by the all too foreign walls of Underneath.
I couldn’t help but let my gaze sweep over the opulence that surrounded us—vaulted ceilings reaching into shadows, tapestries that told of ancient victories and tragedies, and statues of fairies caught mid-flight, their faces twisted in expressions of rapture or agony. The only sounds were our footsteps, and the notes of some ethereal melody that seemed to bleed from the very walls.
We reached the ground floor, and stopped in front of a set of black obsidian double doors, almost identical to those of the Everlast palace. I cast Ambrose a sideways glance, wishing I could speak out loud to ask why there were so many similarities between here and the capital.
Was it simply because the obsidian palace was originally built by the Unseelie king, perhaps in the image of his own home? Or was there another reason behind the similarities?
The dining room doors swung open with an almost ceremonial gravitas, revealing a hall so grand it would’ve put the obsidian palace to shame. The ceilings towered so high it was hard to tell if they opened to the sky, or if they were simply painted to resemble distant stars. In the corner, sat a golden—robed string quartet, but they were not playing. In the center of the room, was a long table, so laden with food it could have fed an army—or at least a small battalion of gluttonous nobles.
The golden silverware gleamed, and crystal goblets stood poised to catch the light, fracturing into a thousand dancing reflections. Platters overflowed with fruits that shone like jewels, meats roasted to a succulent sheen, and pastries that were airy puffs of temptation. There were dishes I couldn’t even name, exotic concoctions that promised flavors as complex as the politics of this cursed court.
We walked in and sat down at the table. No one moved to touch any of the food, and I followed their lead. My stomach growled loudly, and I pressed my fingers to my abdomen, willing it to be quiet.
Servers appeared, carrying huge ceramic pitchers. One stopped behind my chair. “Wine, my lady?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat, remembering how I too had once carried a pitcher like that. How I’d spilled it across Scion’s boots, in what felt like another lifetime. “No, thank you.”
Beside me, Ambrose accepted his own wine with a whispered “thank you,”
through his mask.
Finally I could not keep silent any longer. “How are you going to eat with that thing on?”
He turned to me, and though I could not see his face, I knew he was scowling. “I’ll take it off when the king arrives. He knows what I look like.”
“Where is the king?”
I asked pointedly.
“He likes to make an entrance.”
I bit back a snort. Of course he did. What fairy did not?
A hush descended upon the room, thickening the air with expectation, or perhaps dread. My heart danced a nervous rhythm.
That’s when he entered.
The doors flew open once more, and a tall, painfully beautiful man stepped into the room.
I stifled a gasp, and schooled my face into benign interest, but inside I was reeling. I supposed I’d expected the king of Underneath to be monstrous, or at least as unusual as some of the servants and market-goers. But he was not.
The King looked like Bael.
Or rather, Bael looked like his father.
Even if I hadn’t known already that Bael’s father was Gancanagh of Underneath, it would have been evident from a single glance. They had the same dark, dangerous beauty, the same square jaw and high cheekbones, and—most obvious of all—the same cat-like, yellow eyes. More disturbing still, immortality gave the impression that both were about the same age, so that they could have more easily passed as brothers than as father and son. The only obvious differences between the two, as far as I could see at a glance, were that Gancanagh’s pin-straight hair was a dark, chestnut brown, and he was somewhat taller than Bael, so that the king towered to nearly seven feet.
The king crossed the room, flanked by a small group of nobles. Several, I assumed to simply be his inner circle—advisors, and court flies alike. Two, however, caught my attention.
They were small—shorter than the rest by several inches, and appeared slight of bone. “Appeared”
as I couldn’t see anything of them, aside from the long, red-silk robes they wore. Both were veiled from head to their toes, making me wonder how they could possibly see where they were going.
The two veiled companions hurried to the king’s side, as he stood behind his chair at the head of the table. He smiled at everyone, flashing razor sharp teeth. When he glanced at me, his eyes flicked up to my crown, before he immediately looked away.
As I watched the king, transfixed, I almost didn’t notice the servant who scurried forward with a golden pitcher, pouring wine into his goblet with hands that trembled like leaves in a tempest.
“Welcome,”
the king said finally, raising his goblet high.
As he sipped, I noticed that where hands should be, he had monstrous, cat-like claws. I shivered.
Everyone around me, Ambrose included, raised their own goblets and sipped, and I suddenly realized I should have accepted the wine. I sat awkwardly, unmoving, as I waited for everyone to drink.
Then, without warning, the king smashed his glass upon the ground with a loud crash. The others followed suit, the sound of shattering crystal echoing through the room, and as if it were a signal, music suddenly erupted from the players in the corner, and talking commenced.
“Welcome, Lord Dullahan,”
the king leaned toward Ambrose, smiling as if they were sharing a private joke. “I trust the journey was not too strenuous?”
To my surprise, Ambrose pulled off his mask with a flourish and grinned back, like King Gancanagh was an old friend. “Only two run-ins with Charybdis, and not a single dragon. Hardly anything worth mentioning.”
The king’s face fell comically, like that of a child. “How disappointing.”
I choked on air, thinking of the monsters we’d encountered while at sea. I certainly would not have called that “disappointing”
as if to see more would’ve been all the more enjoyable.
The sound of my cough turned the king’s attention to me, and his vibrant yellow eyes bore into me, flickering with interest. “Did you not enjoy the journey?”
My chest seized, meeting his too-familiar eyes. Looking at him it was hard to imagine that it was under his orders that Bael himself was currently trapped beneath the castle. “It was…eventful.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,”
the king said to me, leaning all the way forward. “What’s your name?”
Before I could reply, Ambrose cut me off. “You must remember Rhiannon.”
Gancanagh cocked his head, clearly curious. “I do, but this is not Rhiannon.”
“One of her daughters,”
Ambrose said smoothly. “The one who was a seer, Rosey, joined my cause several years ago.”
“Hmmm,”
the king replied, looking away from me as if his interest had died. “It’s a shame you couldn’t get the other one.”
I sat frozen, a buzzing starting up in the back of my mind. Ambrose had done quite well, in hiding my name without lying. He’d spoken only technical truths, leading to the conclusion that I must be my sister. Except, in doing so he’d revealed new questions. How did the king know my mother? And more importantly, why would he find it “a shame”
if I were Rosey, rather than myself?
“So, daughter of Rhiannon,”
the king said, addressing me directly once more. “How did you come to wear that crown?”
“I gave it to her,”
Ambrose said, again cutting me off before I was forced to reply. “I took it during the battle over the castle, and it looks lovely on her, don’t you think? Besides, I thought it might be enjoyable to have three queens with us, rather than two.”
Gancanagh grinned. “Ah, thank you for reminding me. Allow me to introduce my wives.”
He gestured to the two veiled figures beside him.
An awkward silence followed, as neither woman spoke, and the king did not offer their names to us.
“Hello,”
I said finally to the nearest veiled woman.
She didn’t so much as twitch, and didn’t reply. A strange, uneasiness fell over me in the following silence.
Thankfully, at that moment, the servants returned and began doling out food onto our golden plates. Conversation stopped for a few minutes, as everyone ate, and when it started up again the king seemed to have moved on from questioning my presence.
Ambrose and Gancanagh spoke animatedly as we ate. They discussed only business; the success of their trade routes, and politics that flew directly over my head. My mother was not mentioned again, and as the meal progressed, I began to tune out the conversation.
Perhaps I should have listened, tried to learn their secrets, but my thoughts kept wavering to other parts of the castle. Were my mother and my mates starving, while we sat at this feast? Would I know if they were seriously harmed, as they seemed to with me? Or could they be dead already, and I was too human to notice. When would we be freed from this pointless charade so that I could go search for them?
“You will have to join us for the hunt tomorrow,”
Gancanagh was saying to Ambrose, their business evidently having concluded. “Or, are you planning to return right home? If I’d recently acquired a palace, I cannot say I’d have left so soon for a simple business meeting.”
Ambrose stiffened beside me, and I was not sure why. “The palace is currently not fit for visitors. It’s being rebuilt after the unfortunate damage it sustained in battle.”
“You will have to invite me to visit when the repairs are complete.”
Again, Ambrose went stiff, but his voice was even when he replied: “Of course.”
A spark of anger flitted through me. They were discussing travel, as if the king was not holding his own son beneath the castle. Perhaps torturing him, or worse.
With a smile so brittle it could shatter, I pushed back my chair, the sound jarring against the marble floor, and rose to my feet. I couldn’t sit through another moment of this or I would scream. “I believe,”
I blurted out, my voice cutting through the drone of pleasantries like a blade, “a breath of fresh air would do wonders for me.”
Ambrose’s gaze flickered to mine from across the table, dark and sharp as obsidian. His gaze bore into me with a silent warning, but I turned away.
“Of course,”
came the king’s honeyed reply. “My dear,”
he intoned, addressing his veiled queen with a nod so subtle it was almost imperceptible. “Would you be so kind as to escort our guest to the terrace?”
Fuck.
Ambrose’s silent reprimand still lingered in the air, but at the king’s command one of the veiled queen’s rose, and beckoned silently for me to follow.
I ground my teeth. Now, there was no chance of me searching for anyone, but I couldn’t very well pretend to have changed my mind. I would simply have to get some air with the queen, and return.
The queen led me silently out of the hall and down another opulent hallway.
“Your home is quite lovely, Queen…”
I trialed off, hoping she would interject her name.
She did not respond, her veiled gaze fixed on the path ahead. I shivered again. Her silence was a tangible thing, wrapping around me with unease. My eyes flitted from one dark corner to another, seeking any hidden threats.
Then, the queen opened a door onto a large terrace, and I stepped outside, my mouth falling open.
The sky stretched on forever, the stars twinkling over the tops of red mountains. Strangely, I felt my throat tighten at the sight. It looked like the mountains of Aftermath, and after the casual mentions of my mother and sister, my emotions lingered too close to the surface.
“It’s beautiful,”
I said honestly, glancing over at the queen.
As I turned, a flicker of motion caught my eye, and I whipped around sharply, only to see nothing but the dance of candlelight against stone. I bit back a curse, chastising myself for nerves that felt like rampant lightning beneath my skin. This castle, these people—they had a way of burrowing under the skin, of making you doubt your own senses.
And then, without warning, the shadows burst into life.
A robed figure stepped out of the darkness of the terrace, a long blade raised to strike.
“Look out!”
I cried, throwing myself toward the queen.
Time seemed to stutter, like a heartbeat suspended in the mid-air.
The assailant’s blade sliced toward us, its whistle a discordant note against the hushed silence of the balcony.
“Behind me!”
I snapped at the queen, shoving her roughly out of the way.
Before leaving, I had carefully concealed a small blade in my boot, hidden from view by the flowing layers of my dress. Now, my hand instinctively went for it as the assassin bore down on us.
I didn’t have time to wonder why this was happening, or who the man was. My hand found the familiar grip of my hidden dagger, and I lurched forward.
The assassin slashed the air in front of me with his long sword, and I met his strike with my own blade. Everything Ambrose had taught me flew from my mind, yet somehow, the memory of the movements had not left my muscles.
We danced across the balcony, his long sword clashing against my short dagger, each strike echoing through the night. My breaths came in quick gasps as we danced and dodged, both determined to win this fight. As I parried his blows, my heart thumped wildly in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
With each clash, I wove my way closer, reading the attacker’s rhythm. Their strength was formidable, but it was brute force, lacking the subtle artistry of true skill.
Seizing an opening, I feigned right, and the assailant took the bait, lunging with a thrust meant to end me. But I was no longer there; In the space of a faltering heartbeat, I struck back.
My dagger found home, plunging into the throat of the mysterious attacker, and he finally let out a single, long shriek.
I dragged my blade downward, and the man crumbled onto the ground. Quickly, I crouched atop his chest, my own breath heaving as he sputtered and died, blood pouring out across the terrace.
“Are you harmed?”
I asked the queen without looking back.
She was ominously silent, and I glanced back to look at her, forgetting for a moment that I would learn nothing from her covered face. She appeared to be uninjured, and the red splatters of blood on the ground and my dress did not seem to have any effect on her equally crimson robe.
My chest heaved, and a cold realization washed over me as my adrenaline slipped away. I looked down at the assassin beneath me.
This close, the darkness was no longer able to hide his identity, and with a gasp I recognized his too-green, snake-like eyes.
The servant from earlier.
Unfortunately, his identity provided more questions than it answered. Why? What did the servant have against me? Or, perhaps I was not the target, but the queen was.
Moreover, Ambrose had just told me that the king could see everything that went on in his castle. Why then, had he allowed not only me, but his own wife to be attacked?
It seemed entirely too obvious.
This was intentional.
A test.
And I wasn’t sure if I’d passed or failed.