The Dark Throne (15 page)

“Are you going to say something or just sit there scowling?” she asked, drumming her fingers against the chair in an impatient rhythm.

I couldn’t help but smile a little, but then I took a breath and said, “I might have an idea of what we need to do, if we can’t kill Malravenar.”

Vell made a little motion with her hand, inviting me to continue, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m not sure whether this is even possible—” I began, but Vell cut me off.

“Stop hedging, Tess, and spit it out. We’ll be the judges of whether it’s possible. That’s the purpose of a council. Or whatever this is.”

Finnead sat very still beside me and I realized suddenly he was having a hard time maintaining his serious demeanor when Vell’s sarcasm made such brazen appearances.

“If we can’t kill him, can we bind him into an object? Something that could be guarded?” I let the words spill across my lips without pausing to think too much.

“A prison,” said Ailin thoughtfully.

“Clever little mortal,” came Arcana’s disembodied low voice from the shadows.

“If part of the Morrigan was bound into the Crown of Bones, and if it’s known how to bind souls…couldn’t something be constructed out of that, to hold Malravenar without sending him beyond the veil to gather strength in the Grey Lands?” The Caedbranr hummed so low that it vibrated through my bones. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. I thought it was voicing its approval.

“It would solve the riddle of how to stop him without sending him beyond the veil,” said Gawain thoughtfully, looking to his Queen to gauge her reaction.

“I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it, because it seems like the system for keeping tabs on objects of great power and significance could use a little revision,” I suggested lightly. I ticked off the list on my fingers. “The Iron Sword, the Crown of Bones, a remnant of the Morrigan…”

“The Morrigan isn’t an
object
,” pointed out Vell, just as Arcana’s wheezing sound of amusement snaked its way across the room.

“Three,” said Titania in a clear bell-like tone. “There will be three pieces to this imprisoned soul, and one piece shall be kept at each Court.” She looked at Vell. “Guarded at the hearts of the three Courts, with separate wards as each Queen sees fit.”

“We will contribute guards and wards to each,” said Lumina gracefully. The Glasidhe accepted their separateness, not being counted among the Courts; I respected her all the more for offering her power nonetheless.

Vell leaned back in her chair, golden eyes narrowing in thought. “Four stones. Three for the Queens and one for the Bearer.” Titania inclined her head in acknowledgement of Vell’s revision, and the High Queen continued. “It’s a promising idea, but we’ll have to be completely sure that the soul-binding and breaking will work.”

“I do not think any plan can be completely assured,” replied the Seelie Queen, “but I will set my scholars and my mages to work while you hunt your dragon.”

“Ah, yes,” said Vell, her eyes alight at the mention of the hunt. “And speaking of the hunt, any word from our scouts?”

“Not yet,” answered Finnead, “but I think it would be reasonable to expect them back sometime after dawn tomorrow.”

“The sooner the better,” the High Queen said as she stood. The Knights at the table stood as well, a sign of respect for her power rather than deference to her femininity—but Vell still shook her head at them and said beneath her breath, “Silly antiquated courtesies.” Louder, she said, “The sooner the scouts return, the better. After these past days, I will revel in the cleansing of a good hunt and kill.” She smiled her wolf smile and prowled around the table as she left the room. Finnead followed her, but not before I felt his hand on my elbow again, giving me a quick touch of reassurance and comfort.

I found myself absurdly alarmed at the idea of being alone in the room with Arcana, so I waited and followed Titania through the door. Ailin and Gawain both gave me small bows as I passed. The little court of Glasidhe took flight, and I ducked as a magnificent red hawk swooped alarmingly close to my head. Flora laughed in my ear.

“Never fear,” she said gleefully, “tis only Forsythe on his loyal steed Gyre!”

“I just don’t like things flying down around my head,” I muttered defensively.

“There will be many steeds flying during the dragon hunt!” Flora said. “Perhaps the Wild Court will understand us a bit more than the Courts of Night and Day, once they have tasted the freedom of flight!”

“Or maybe they’ll learn that it’s much better to have your feet on the ground, especially if you’re not born with wings,” I pointed out.

Flora laughed again. “Ah, Tess-mortal, always so serious!”

I smiled. “I’ve fallen from increasingly higher heights since we embarked on this little journey, and I wasn’t particularly fond of the experience.”

“Falling and flying are completely different!”

“If you say so,” I said as we reached my room. I ducked again as Gyre dove through the doorway, a hands’-breadth above my head, and Flora giggled. I sighed.

“First wolves, now hawks?” Sage said skeptically from his chair by the fire, leather-bound book in his lap. “The Hall is turning into a regular menagerie.”

“When will you two not have to watch me to make sure I don’t die?” I replied.

Sage grinned. “That’s a tall order indeed, Lady Bearer. Please don’t repeat that to either of our illustrious Queens, or you might find yourself with two permanent shadows.”

I rolled my eyes at him and sat on the bed, sliding off my boots. “Two very restless permanent shadows, no doubt.”

Sage stretched languorously, book still in one hand. “I’m liable to become accustomed to sitting in chairs by warm fires, reading books.”

“You mean being lazy and becoming soft?” I retorted as I began to unwind the bandages around my hands.

“First you call me fat, then soft,” Sage said, surveying himself. He lifted one corner of his shirt to reveal defined muscles on his lithe frame. “I’m not quite sure your descriptions are accurate.” The firelight played on his tawny skin, sharpening the lines of division down his abdomen and the furrow of muscle just below each of his hipbones.

Flora hummed in appreciation. I heard a wicked giggle from somewhere up in the rafters of the room: Farin had obviously reclaimed her territory and was enjoying the view as much as her cousin.

I had to laugh. “Keep your shirt on, I’m just kidding.”

He grinned playfully at me. “I can certainly take off my shirt if you’d like, Lady Bearer.”

I rolled my eyes again. “If I want a mindless distraction, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Sage laughed. “You certainly know how to make a man feel desired. Mindless distraction,” he repeated with a chuckle. Then he raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to a very
mindful
distraction?”

“Hush,” I muttered at him as my cheeks heated.
Though you’re closer than you’ve ever been to taking what you want from both of them,
a naughty voice in the corner of my mind pointed out with wicked glee. I took a deep breath and focused on making little sandwiches again out of the bread and cheese on my bedside table. Sage smiled and turned back to his book, while Flora gave a little giggle as she alighted on the table. I ignored them both, began to eat my food and waited for the blush to fade from my cheeks.

I ate and washed my face, and felt more than a little grateful for the softness of the bed and the runes for rest and restoration that flared into life as I drew the covers over me. I felt Flora’s slight weight on the pillow by my head. Tomorrow, I thought as I let my mind drift toward sleep, tomorrow I would rise early, and prepare a bag for the dragon-hunt…then perhaps I would feel the hilt of my sword in my hand again…I slid into sleep holding that thought close to me, taking comfort in the prospect of once more wielding a silver-flashing blade in my fire-baptized hands.

When I woke, the embers of the fire smoldered in the hearth, banked and tended, but the chair by the fire sat empty. Flora muttered sleepily as I sat up, her hair standing up in a pretty little shock of blue as she uncurled herself from my pillow like an awakening cat. Something had roused me from slumber, but I couldn’t remember what it was until I heard it again: the toll of a bell, bright and clear through the stones of the Hall. The bell beat a quick, steady rhythm. It was a summons, and I didn’t have to be told its purpose. Flora’s wings snapped to attention and quivered, her aura sparking with excitement. Farin dove down from the rafters, a miniature comet. Flora flew up to confer with her cousin as I slid from bed, rubbing the last vestige of sleep from my eyes.

A neatly folded pile of clothes waited for me at the foot of the bed, with a leather satchel beside them. I picked up the satchel first, measuring its weight before opening it and laying out the contents on the bed: a fine healer’s kit, instruments tucked into pouches on a leather roll, vials labeled in a neat, small hand and packets of different herbs, along with fastidiously rolled bandages. There was even a small thick book, well made and bound in leather. I flipped through the pages, finding both recipes for salves, ointment and tea, as well as more arcane knowledge that I didn’t recognize at first glance. I wrapped the book in its little oilskin cover and tucked it back into the satchel, reorganizing all the instruments to my liking before putting them away as well. The tolling of the bell did nothing to calm my suddenly shaking hands. I’d faced danger before, certainly, but this felt completely different—we were seeking the great beast, we were hunting the most dangerous creature in Faeortalam, and those who wished to serve the High Queen in her Wild Court would do so with laughter on their lips and defiance in their eyes.

As I quickly changed into my clothes for the hunt—simple shirt and breeches, and a soft quilted vest over my shirt—another voice joined the clarion call of the bell. I listened to the wolf’s long beautiful howl, and then a second wolf took up the call to hunt as the first voice faded, and after the second there was a third, creating an endless undulating song that had no pause. It was like when the wolves ran together through the shadows, weaving between each other, fluid and primal. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I listened for a moment, then shook myself and focused on my preparations. I wound a few lengths of clean linen around each of my hands; then I walked around the foot of my bed, toward where the Sword leaned against the headboard, and stopped short. The armor I’d worn into Brightvale gleamed, spread on a dark green cloak by the Sword; there were new gloves and a scabbard I didn’t recognize. I knelt, the wolves and the bell still singing in my ears as I picked up the black scabbard. It was a short yet elegant sword, made in the Seelie style, the hilt black leather worked with gold. Without fully grasping the hilt, I slid the blade from its sheath, and my breath caught in my throat. Names gleamed on the blade in beautiful script, running parallel to the sharp edge and flowing down toward the point. I heard footsteps but I continued to examine the blade, unable to take my eyes from its deadly beauty.

“It is as you asked,” said Calliea from behind me. “And it is worked with forge-magic, so you need only to tell it the names of the fallen that you wish to add.”

I felt grateful for this gift, made so beautifully and so soon after I’d asked; then I shivered at the prospect of whispering the names of the dead to this blade after every battle. But I had asked, and I would honor it. I nodded. “It’s magnificent.”

The Caedbranr hummed reprovingly. I narrowed my eyes at its battered old sheath. “Hush. There’s no need to be jealous. You’re part of a prophecy and a legend, so I’d think that’s quite enough.”

“I thought I’d heard you talking to that blade before,” remarked Calliea.

I shrugged and said, “Sometimes it even talks back.” The Sword hummed its sound of amusement. I slid the new blade back into its gleaming black sheath and stood, facing Calliea. She wore raiment much the same as mine, with her golden whip coiled at her waist and her body bristling with daggers of all sizes. Her hair was woven in complicated braids and there was a thick cobalt line hand-painted down the very center of her heart-shaped face, down the bridge of her nose and over her lips and chin. She’d eschewed coloring her hair, but there were several red hawk-feathers bound into her braids and a spine of silver rings ran up one of her ears. I smiled a little as I recognized the red feathers from Gyre. Calliea must have made friends with Forsythe while I was asleep.

“Come,” she said, striding forward, “we must be swift.”

“Is anyone else wearing armor?” I asked. I realized too late that my question made me sound like a child worried about what the other kids would be wearing to school.

“Finnead and Gray,” replied Calliea, “and all of the Valkyrie. Maybe half of the ground riders.”

“The Valkyrie?”

“Didn’t you learn any of your mythology?” Calliea asked as she helped fasten my breastplate. “Too tight?”

I shook my head to both her questions.

“Well I’ll leave you to look it up on your own, we haven’t the time to talk. But the Valkyrie is the name of Gray’s winged force. There.” Calliea stepped back. I settled the strap of the Sword over my shoulder, and buckled my new plain blade about my waist, relishing the feel of a blade against my hip again. In the tops of my boots went two silver daggers, and only then did I grab my healer’s satchel and turn to face Calliea.

“We’re preparing in the Great Hall,” she said shortly, her flashing eyes betraying her excitement. Without waiting for my reply, she turned on her heel and strode briskly from the room. I followed, my heart beating like a drum in my ears, counter to the tolling of the bells and the howling of the wolves calling the Wild Court to the hunt.

Chapter 9

I
stretched my legs to keep up with Calliea’s long stride as she walked through the corridors toward the Great Hall. She held her body differently, now that the call to the hunt lingered in the air: some of the softness about her had dispersed, and she was every inch the warrior preparing for battle. Flora and Farin wove a neon trail above us, and then Forsythe joined on his red hawk. As we turned a corner and the great double doors of the Hall came into view, Forin joined his kin. I didn’t notice which one of them started it, but a Glasidhe war-hymn soon accompanied us, high bright voices twining in a melody as mournful and fierce as the wolves’ howls.