Kings: Chaos Book 5.5 (4 page)

“Not without you,”
Pól
said. “We came to find you. We need to stick together. Now more than ever.”

“Bran, wake up!” Brendan slapped the boy’s cheeks, but there was no response. He hefted Bran into his arms and carried him toward shelter, struggling to stay on his feet. His soldiers offered to take his load, but he was the one responsible. Bran had only been hurt trying to save his king.

The water and the wind combated against him, but he finally made it inside. He brought Bran to his own cabin. The rest of his soldiers gathered into the room, all of them concerned. Bran was well liked amongst them.

Brendan lay Bran on his own bed. The boy didn’t stir, but he still breathed. One of Yvette’s women came to help.

Yvette herself huddled in the doorway, her hair wet and stuck to her head.

“We’ll make it through this,” Brendan said to reassure her.

She nodded fervently and tried on a weak smile.

Brendan turned to Bran, but the boy still wasn’t responding. Brendan’s gut twisted at the thoughts of losing him for good.

Chapter Four

Drake

From an engraved silver throne, Drake gazed out at his court, at the narrowed eyes and whispering mouths, the changes in disposition and favour. The mood had changed in the castle, and he had never felt so alone. The
fae
had once concealed their contempt—sniggered behind their hands, perhaps—but lately, the ill feeling had simmered to the surface.

It was all so frustrating. He had closed the rift. Surely they all should be grateful. But
Donella
was slowly poisoning his court against him, and he was too scared to send her away. He lived in fear on a daily basis, a fear of the
fae
turning on him, of others taking his power from him.

Sorcha had done her best to hide her pregnancy from
Donella
, but the
leanan
sídhe
had spies everywhere. Everyone knew by now, knew that time was running out to remove him from his throne. An heir would strengthen his position, turn some of his opposition back to his side. If
Donella
was smart, she would kill Sorcha before his wife gave birth, and that was why only the banshees were allowed to feed her in case of poisoning. He wouldn’t sleep until the child was born.

A number of
fae
knelt before his throne, backs bent over in supplication as they tried to persuade him they weren’t responsible for destroying a painting of himself and his wife. He hated that painting, despised the regal and haughty expression he held in it, but it stood for something. The fact his subjects dared to defile it was a worrying sign. Brendan’s subjects would never have dared, and that burned more than the act itself.

Drake made a show of relaxing in his throne, keeping his expression as blank as possible while those before him babbled about their innocence. It didn’t matter who did it; somebody would be made an example of. That was the only way, whether he liked it or not.

“Fine,” he said at last, finally prepared to lose yet another piece of his soul. “If none of the suspects admit to the crime, we’ll just have to kill all of their families to ensure the culprit is punished.”

A murmur ran around the court. The hall was stark and cold, always cold. At nights, Drake warmed his hands over the fire in his room for a long time to push the chill out of his bones. He had never been less comfortable, and he could never show that kind of weakness. His court was made of ice, and it wouldn’t do for him to act as though his heart was any warmer.

“Wait,” an old man cried out. “I… I did it. It was me. Please spare the families.”

Drake was sure the old man wasn’t the culprit. He was just too old to maintain the cold exterior the rest of the court worked so hard on. But he didn’t have the energy to investigate.

“And we have a winner,” he said. “Hang the old man at noon tomorrow. Tie him to the gallows today so he can get a good view of his impending death.” Drake stood. “Court dismissed.”

He strode out of the hall with Dymphna, willing his hands to remain steady. An old man would die to save his family, and the
fae
would be cowed for a few moments longer. And every day, the stakes grew a little higher; as did the price he paid.

“He’s old,” Dymphna said loyally. “He is a willing sacrifice.”

“But a sacrifice all the same.” He glanced at her. She knew what he gave to his wife and her god, yet she never judged him harshly. Freeing her had earned him a lifetime of her loyalty.

“You need to get rid of the
leanan
sídhe
,” she warned under her breath when they were out of hearing distance of the crowd of
fae
who were still hanging around the doors of the Great Hall.

“And you know I can’t. At least, not yet.” He sighed. “I’m going to check on Sorcha.”

“Is she still ill?”

“She says it’s normal, but I… I don’t know.”

Dymphna flashed him a sympathetic glance. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I should congratulate you.”

“For fathering another child?” he asked sharply then deflated. “I apologise. I haven’t been in the best mood of late, I know.”

“We should be celebrating,” she said. “You did it. You sealed the rift and made headway on saving the realm. These people have no idea how lucky they are. They have the leader they need.”

Or the one they deserved. Many of them were as cruel and insane as the queens they had once served. “As long as they look out the window and see evidence of the blight, it will mean nothing. Brendan will be the one who cleanses the land. He’ll be the hero, yet again.”

“If they wanted him to rule over them, they would be part of the Green Court,” Dymphna said.

Except they thought of the Green king as weak, susceptible to the faults of humans. Drake, on the other hand, had set aside a human to be a leader. If only they knew…

Dymphna sent a questioning servant packing as they strode up the stairs together, instinctively seeing that he wasn’t ready to deal with the court so soon after sentencing a man to death.

Drake trusted her. He had helped her out of a hopeless situation, been part of the process to reunite her with her daughter, and even helped repair her relationship with the other
daoine
sídhe
after she left them for a human. His mad grandfather had murdered her beloved husband, and yet Dymphna was the only person in court completely on his side. Apart from Sorcha, he conceded. No matter what he had thought of the banshee when they married, she had been by his side through everything. She had shown she was made of more than her heritage. Just like him.

He hesitated at a narrow window to look at the sea. It crashed against the rocks as though trying to destroy them in a rage. He had never seen the water calm or gentle, and now the foam was tinged with black, a sign the blight had reached the water. How could anyone sail across the sea and survive?

“If Brendan doesn’t return, there will be an awkward period,” he said.

“Scarlet is still his heir. She’ll technically inherit the Green Court.”

“My illegitimate daughter will have more power than I do.” Drake shook his head. “Fate does like to twist and bend what we think will come next.”

“Better Scarlet than someone like Sadler or
Donella
,” Dymphna said. “Cara is too sentimental to allow Scarlet to be your enemy. Donella would encourage it.”

“Don’t make too big an enemy of her,” Drake warned.

“Anyone who aligns themselves to you is
Donella’s
enemy,” Dymphna said. “Surely you’ve noticed the whispers.”

That he had.
Donella
had refused to attend court since he humiliated her. She was likely spending every waking moment turning his court against him, one
fae
at a time, and there was little he could do about it. He had too few allies, too little control over the power of the court. He hadn’t learned to wield his magic to harm others and control it at the same time. He was effectively powerless, maintaining an image as a cold, cruel ruler to quiet the rumours.

“Perhaps if you rewarded the loyal subjects rather than punishing the rest…”

Drake bit his lip. “I must be seen to be consistent.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to make use of your close connections to other courts,” she said meaningfully.

“I’m not using Scarlet and Cara,” he said firmly. “Not for this.”

“
Donella’s
supporters wouldn’t dare overthrow you. Not if they were sure the Chaos court wouldn’t respond in kind. Your daughter is related to
Donella
. If even her own family aren’t on her side, then it would speak volumes to the people here.”

“It’s too risky.
Donella
may be related to Cara, but I haven’t even claimed Scarlet as my own.”

She glanced at him. “Maybe it’s time you did.”

“I can’t risk her. You know that better than anyone.”

Dymphna was the only one he confided in about Scarlet. She herself knew what it was to decide between love and strength. Not even Cara understood the extent of his regret and pain over his lack of a relationship with his firstborn. He had never desired a child, and he had watched his mother die because she wanted to keep him. “If my enemies targeted her to punish me, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“One day, she’s going to wonder why. Even if Cara didn’t tell her the truth about her father, someone in the realm would. She’ll come to you someday and ask you to explain yourself.”

“Perhaps by then, the realm will have changed.” Telling his firstborn why he had never been a father to her was something he had nightmares about. He could only attempt to protect her from afar and hope that her mother loved her enough to make him obsolete.

They finally reached Sorcha’s doors. Drake swallowed hard. Somebody had drawn a red X on the door.

Dymphna ran her finger through the substance then sniffed it. “Blood.”

“Set some of the
daoine
sídhe
to guard Sorcha at all times,” he said gruffly.

“I can take care of that myself if you wish.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I need you with me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to quash whatever this is as soon as possible.” His hands curled into fists. “They dare. They actually dare.” He punched the wall and swore loudly. After everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed, he was about to lose it all because he had scorned a woman who was more powerful than he dared suspect. He had to deal with her. Somehow, he had to get rid of her without being dragged down by the consequences.

“Drake.” Dymphna’s voice brought him back to earth, tethering him to his body. “This might not mean anything.”

“And if it does?”

“Then we’ll face it together. I came here to help, and I will.” She glanced at the blood and sighed. “I’ll organise a permanent guard right away.” She left him abruptly, and for an instant, he felt completely alone—and more importantly, vulnerable.

How dare they take so much from him? His home, his security, and curse the gods, even his soul. The highs weren’t worth the lows. He seethed, sick of second-guessing himself, of being “managed” by the women in his life.
He
was the king. He deserved respect. Consumed with the thoughts in his head, the ones that lovingly whispered to him that death was the answer, he fought a war with himself in the hallway before storming into his wife’s bedchamber.

“Why is it so dark in here?” he demanded of a banshee standing in the corner. “Why is there no life?”

He strode to Sorcha’s bed. She was watching him with wide eyes. She looked worse than ever. The thread holding his sanity together tautened, close to snapping.

“Get my wife fresh water,” he commanded. “And fruit. Lots of fresh fruit. Force her to eat if she refuses.”

“Drake,” she said softly.

“No.” He pointed at her, pretending to himself that his hand wasn’t trembling. “
No
. You can’t carry a child if you’re as weak as a babe yourself.”

“Calm yourself,” she whispered. “Eyes are always watching.” She took his other hand and uncurled the fist. His fingernails had pricked the skin, leaving bloody crescents behind. “Oh, Drake.”

He moved to the window and yanked the curtains open. “Let there be light,” he said shakily.

The light cut through the darkness in the room, and he wished he hadn’t done it because now he saw clearly the true extent of Sorcha’s condition. She looked as though she were dying, and as often as she reassured him, nothing could persuade him that it was normal.

Death terrified him. Since the day he witnessed his mother take her last breath, the thought of getting close to someone crippled him because he imagined their deaths. As soon as he felt himself falling for Cara, the nightmares had started and never stopped. Death by drowning, an arrow through the heart, a slit throat, pushed out of an ivory tower, poison. That one had only been the last to almost come true. He had taken the poison himself instead. But Cara hadn’t been the one by his side, nursing him back to health. He had almost died for her, and she had sought comfort elsewhere.