All That Glows (16 page)

Betrayal beyond Muriel. It’s . . . possible. I feel flighty, a complete fool for not thinking of it until now. Have I left Richard in a den of wolves? “Milady, it could all be simply coincidence.”

“And how is it they didn’t even begin to pick up traces of the magic until well after you should have been dead? Hyde Park isn’t far from Buckingham. The perimeter guards should have sensed such a disturbance. Someone delayed it. Someone on the inside.” Mab’s sigh is wither and crumble, a strength diminished. She glides close, her hand rests against the tendons of my shoulder. I have to stop myself from gaping at the power behind her colorless, translucent skin. She’s old—far older than I’m ever likely to become, with how swiftly technology is spreading.

“I hate to put this on you because you’re so young, but you’re the only one I trust. You had a chance to save the prince and you took it. I know where your loyalties lie. The rest . . .” My queen’s words become gravelly before they fall into stillness.

“What about Breena? I know she’s loyal.”

“Whoever blocked your spells from reaching the other Fae had to use strong magic, more powerful than anything most of the, ahem, younglings, could have conjured. It’s Breena who worries me the most.”

Her words sink in.
Breena? A traitor?
There’s no way on this earth my friend would betray the royals.

“Breena was nowhere near the attack!” I reason.

“That doesn’t clear her.” Mab’s words aren’t gentle. She has no room for it. “I’ve heard even in London, magic can work at a distance.”

I have no argument for this. I keep my mouth shut, waiting for my queen to continue.

“I want you to look into the matter—the Guard must be clean and loyal. Root out anyone you deem isn’t. That includes Breena,” she says. “I grant you permission to ignore her orders if you think that they will in any way endanger the prince.”

“But, Majesty, what about Richard? I’m supposed to be guarding him. . . .”

“Leave two or three Frithemaeg with him if you’re gone. I doubt a traitor would try anything with another Fae in the room. You have my permission to relieve your detail as often as you need. Just make sure you don’t leave him with the younger ones for too long. I’ll call you back in another month for a report, but if you uncover anything sooner, don’t hesitate to message.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Under her opal eyes I feel like quartz: brittle and translucent. “You reek of modernity. The city has been hard on you, I take it?”

“Not easy,” I answer, honest.

“Stay here for an evening. It will do your spirit some good. Give you some luster.” The way she says this is an order. Not an offer.

“Thank you, my queen.”

“One more thing.” The queen holds up her finger and digs through her hushed layers of gown and petticoats until she pulls out a slim, caramel envelope labeled with curling letters. “I’d like you to deliver this message to Herne first thing in the morning.”

The spells woven into the envelope’s seal call out to me as I brush my finger over it. Mab will know when it’s opened and who tore the paper. The queen’s giving me this message means only one thing: it’s too secret to send by sparrow.

My thoughts are swimming, full of mirage and possibilities as I tuck the letter into my skirts and bow out of the chamber. Breena . . . not one iota inside me clings to the belief that Breena betrayed the humans she so fiercely guards. But the younglings . . . any one of them could be privy to the plot to bring down the mortals. To end Richard’s life.

Richard.
The thought of him is a tattoo inked against my heart, pained and always there, even when I’m not looking. I wonder what he’s doing right now, apart from me. What the younglings around him are doing. Protecting or plotting . . .

“Richard will be fine,” I say the thought aloud, but it doesn’t help. I’m strung tighter than a harp, ready to get back to him.

I don’t stay under the earth. Unlike Queen Mab, I’ve never been a creature of closed, tight spaces. What feeds me, makes my soul sing, is wide plains. The soaring openness of the sky and the lunge of mountains rolling up to meet it. There’s plenty of this spreading out from Mab’s stronghold. Miles and miles of rugged land, cradled in mist and ribbons of mostly melted snow. In the full daylight, when the lochs and their streams echo the blueness of sky and the black of their depths, it’s possible to see past the ruins of castles and defiant, layered hillsides, all the way to the sea.

It’s in one of these far-forgotten fortresses that I claim sanctuary. I spend my evening among its bald relic stones, taking in the ever-clear song of the stars through a roof collapsed by long-melted blizzards. Just feet away, the tar-dark waters of a loch swish and hum with the movement of Kelpies and oh-so-shy Sprites coming up for air. There are mortal creatures too: deer and hare grazing the unkempt grass.

In such a place, I should feel whole, complete. Lacking nothing. It’s where I was knit and made, where I am alive.

The sickness is gone. Nothing in my body feels the stabbing zing of current and gears. I’m at the height of my bound, incarnate power, ready to take on an army of soul feeders.

But something is unmistakably missing. A hole has been sawed through my chest. A piece of myself I lost without consent.

I can’t
not
think of him. Even under such a dazzling sight as these silver-dusted heavens.

And I hate myself for being so weak—like so many of the other girls who bemused me over the years, the ones feverish with daydreams and first kisses, mooning over romanticized versions of men whose lips they touched. I’m a Fae. I’m supposed to be above all that.

But the thoughts spin regardless, over and over, picking apart Richard’s every expression. All the words he’s ever said to me. Especially the last ones:
I was wondering if there might be another reason.

And all at once, I know.

There was nothing wrong with my magic. The fault wasn’t in the veiling spell or the sickness. I showed myself to Richard, dropped the enchantments, because, in the most mysterious, unreachable places of me, I wanted to. Some part of me, the piece that’s gone now, wouldn’t let me hide from him.

At one time, I could count on the world. Winter’s hard freeze, the bitter howls of gray wolves, the colors and laughter of May Day and the bonfires of Samhain, the twines of magic holding me together . . . Things once constant, now suddenly not. Nothing, not even the immortal, is safe from decay.

How much of ourselves have we lost? I’m not the Fae who dwelled among these ghost-filled barrows and emerald hillsides so many years ago. I’m not the Fae who tumbled into Saint James’s Park and watched Breena feed the pigeons. I don’t know what—who—I am.

But I do know that Richard has something to do with it.

Fifteen

I
n the end, I can’t stay the night. Whips of worry spur me south, under the moonrise, back toward Richard’s London and all of its machines.

The heavens are still black as I wait for Herne on the borders of his forest, a nervous, unwilling messenger. I’m eager to be done with this particular errand—encounters with powerful free spirits like Herne aren’t something I relish. Their magic is too unrestrained, above any law or crown.

A whistle leaves my lips, forlorn and low, infused with pieces of Herne’s ancient name. Leaves rustle against the force of the summons, their edges curling in response to such close magic. The ground grows uncertain beneath my feet, trembling with the shake of horse’s hooves. A magnificent stallion, its coat lusty with dark and starlight, bursts through the trees, a flash of rolling eyes and gaping teeth. Wild magic sears off its flank, although I don’t need an aura to know that the creature isn’t mortal. Its rider is proof enough for that. A being, perhaps as tall as the horse itself, sits proud in the saddle. Though most of him resembles a man, his flare for the dramatic emerges in the twin antlers wreathing out of his skull. They twist all the way into the shivering branches, their sharp points even impaling a few unfortunate leaves.

“Who summons me?” Herne halts on the border of the trees. His horse stamps the ground, ready to be off again.

“I bring a message from Queen Mab.” I wave the envelope like a banner of surrender above my head.

Herne stays motionless in his saddle. Something of a flame flickers behind his shadowed gaze, sending sheaths of frost down my spine. I struggle not to shudder. It’s better not to show fear around creatures like Herne.

“I will not cross the borders of my forest,” the spirit finally says. “Bring the letter to me, youngling.”

I step out, wary as prey, holding the envelope as an offering.

“Hurry up,” Herne snaps. “I don’t have all night. There are things to hunt.”

My stride jolts to life with the fear of his words. I stop just before the borders of his forest. Only the envelope breaches the invisible boundary. Herne snatches it up like a magpie gleaning silver things. He tears—careless—into the seal and glances through the lines of Mab’s spidery script.

“So—Mab wants me to allow large numbers of immortals into my forest. Wants Windsor to be a safe haven, I expect. Can’t blame her, with what’s stirring up north.” He looks up, eyes boring full force into my body. Their effect is similar to nausea. “Does your queen require a response?”

“I’m on my way back to London. You should send a sparrow.”

“One of the Guard, eh? Perhaps I’ll see you here at Windsor—I always welcome the company of a pretty, young Fae.”

I back away, my smile weak. “Yes, perhaps.”

The roar of Herne’s laughter rattles the air even after he gallops away, far into the reaches of his forest.

Morning’s early hours greet the world with an eerie, thistle-blossom glow as I land outside the palace gates. This time the sickness is only an aftershock, weak and secondary. I ignore it; push down the pain as I step past the bars of solid iron and pause for the two younglings who sidle up to me.

“State your name and rank!” The first of the new security is harsh, excited with her words.

“I’m Lady Emrys Léoflic—Prince Richard’s Frithemaeg.” Richard’s Frithemaeg—these words feel sinful, their hidden meaning threatening to explode like fireworks in my aura, my face. Startling spark and neon. Showing all.

But the younglings aren’t really listening. What I couldn’t hide from Mab is easier to conjure out of their attentions.

“We need to see your signature,” the other Fae says, her voice calmer.

I hold up my right hand. Magic seeps like nectar, sweet and gold, from my fingertips. Light stretches out, ebbing and molding into the form of a regal bird as it glides around the guards’ heads. It’s a mark of who I am, a piece of my essence no other can imitate. Satisfied that I’m no soul feeder in disguise, the younglings step back.

Although Mab’s direct order was to spend these three days in surveillance, I have to visit Richard first. Worries of treason and assassins in corners shadowed and sharp have taken over me. Grown like mold, ruining everything. Only seeing Richard, taking him in with my own two eyes, will put this to rest.

I cross the courtyard’s brick-red gravel in the calmest manner I can manage. The entire border Guard is watching me, fixed on my every move. I can’t betray my true eagerness at seeing the prince, or my new distrust in his Guards. If the corruption’s as widespread as Mab implies, then no one should even suspect an investigation.

I peer into Richard’s window, but the glare of breaking morning beats off the glass—all yellow and amber—hindering my sight. It takes nearly a minute for me to make out the shapes of his bedroom. Ghastly wads of T-shirts and slacks flung upon chairs appear alongside the stretched, pale faces of some eclectic band on the opposite wall. A lamp lies sideways on a marble-topped table, a hairline crack snakes through one of the windowpanes. Signs of a struggle?

A sharp jolt twists my stomach as I study the bed’s hovel of sheets and blankets. Richard isn’t there.

Panic, pure and throaty, shatters all my years of disciplined training. I don’t even bother opening the window, my hands burst through like hurled stones. Diamond glass rains across the outside sill, piercing my palms and knees as I push myself into the jagged hole.

“Lady Emrys? What are you doing?” It’s Helene. Her hair is askew, the edges of her eyes puffed pink. Something isn’t right.

“Where is he? Where’s Richard?”

There’s a faint groan from the other side of the room. Richard’s groan. My neck snaps back at the sound. He’s slouched in a corner chair, wearing the same clothes I left him in. His shaggy head rests on a small writing table. On the desk’s edge, nested in the papery carcasses of his new speech, is a decanter for whiskey. Clear and very empty.

Richard’s moan grows louder; he begins to twitch. An eye, its specks of cool gray green and gold shot with crimson, cracks open before I can pull away.

“Embers?” My nickname is mumbled along with an incoherent string of vowels.

“Slæpe,” I whisper at him. The spell slips, light and silvery, into his temple.

The sleepy gibberish fades from his lips as my magic drags him back into dreams. I study his rumpled features: the hot, tangled mess of his hair, that half-unbuttoned shirt and the jarring sting of his breath. Alcohol.

I turn back and face the other Fae. Their faces are pale with confusion, as if they aren’t certain whether or not to blame me for this mess of glass and spells.

“What happened last night?” I hear my voice rising, but I can’t stop it. My anger swells like dough riddled with too much yeast.

“Some of his Eton buddies came over for a couple of drinks. . . .”

Edmund. I should have known the drought of his calls and pub invites wouldn’t last. He must consider Richard’s mourning period over.

Helene’s dark, liquid eyes don’t flinch from mine. “I thought you weren’t due back for three more days. What are you doing here?”

I buy time with my response by fixing the shattered window. Tiny shards of glass fly back into their puzzle parts, glinting rainbow light across the younglings’ faces. They’re both staring.