Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (11 page)

She began her letter to Cedric, but didn’t really know what could be said. She tried a few lines—

I have gone to the Darkworld. I am in love with an Elf. I will warn them of the treachery you are about to commit against them, and then I will disappear into the Darkworld forever.

—but they rang too simple, like a story she might have told as a child, one in which too much was revealed all at once to be believed. She tried again.

In the time since I have come of age, I have learned a great many disturbing things about the way this Court is run. I have learned that while we fancy ourselves to be greater than those who live in the Darkworld, we act with less honor than the lowliest Demon. We feed from others as though we were Vampires. And we hate and fear those who are most like us, the Elves.

For too long, the Elves of the Darkworld have been separated from the Fae races, and now our Queene seeks to destroy them. I have left this place to warn them of the coming assault against them, and to join in their cause.

Did she, though? Could she really declare herself a traitor to her own race? It seemed such an absurd and lofty goal now that she had printed it out.

Another thought occurred to her: If she told where she had gone and for what purpose, would that not increase her mother’s desire to attack the Elves, and bring her back?

She crumpled up both letters and began anew. This one, she would address to Governess, to thank her for her kindness in raising her, to praise her and let her know that she had fled of her own doing, and that Governess was not to be blamed, or blame herself, for her going. But those lines never touched the page before her tears did, and she silently commanded herself to stop.

As if summoned by her tears, Governess came in, frowning. “Do you wish for your breakfast now? It’s almost morning.”

Cerridwen surreptitiously wiped her eyes and nodded. While Governess was gone, she could slip out. It would not allow her much time, so once she heard the door to the antechamber close, she abandoned the idea of a letter altogether. She tore off her gown and raced to her wardrobe, rummaging through it until she found the clothes she’d used to disguise herself as a mortal servant. She also found the cloak of a Dragon emissary, which she had stolen from the Darkling’s chambers long ago. She wrapped this into a bundle and shoved it into her shirt. She tucked Fenrick’s knife into her belt and looked over her room. Was there anything else she would need? No, she decided. If she was to start a new life, she would not need the trappings of her old one. Just a few pieces of jewelry to barter for the things she would need. Fenrick would help her, she was certain, if she needed help.

A sudden, shocking feeling of elation crested over her. It was truly happening, now. She was truly beginning her life.

In the time it had taken her to dress and collect what she needed, Governess was surely returning with her breakfast. The crumpled letters remained on the desk, and Cerridwen shoved them hastily beneath her bed.

If they were found, it would not be in time to stop her.

Seven

A yla did not sleep, but Malachi could not go so long without it. He lay at her side, knowing that she would be content merely with his presence, and when he woke, he saw she had finally succumbed.

Not for the first time he marveled at how unchanged her appearance was. Her hair was not as tangled as the first time he had seen her, and she was not as dirty. He remembered the sight of her, fighting against him in the tunnel…seconds before he had become mortal…the way she had emerged from below the surface of the water in a great burst, her hair flaming red in the strange glow of the light she had summoned. In his mind he saw the curve of her arched back, the strained column of her throat leading to an open mouth pulling in a great breath of air…droplets of water flung by her haphazard braid circling her in a glistening arc. That was what he had seen, but he had not been able to appreciate it then, nor in the days after, when he had believed his only desire was revenge, to take her life as punishment for the immortality she had taken from him.

He laid his head beside hers on her pillow and traced the line of her shoulder, wincing at the sight of his scarred, mortal flesh against the smoothness of her skin. Mortal. He would not have been loved by her any other way. If she had not caused his fall, he would be a Death Angel still, collecting departed souls and keeping them safe to await the return of the absent God. He would have existed beyond the end of the universe, but he would not have been able to love her. In his mortality, he could only love her for a short time. And that time, he knew, was drawing to an end.

He flattened his palm against her pale arm, studied the differences. Was there no part of him that did not betray his age?

How could she love him, still desire him, as she watched him wither?

She stirred, but did not open her eyes. “Why must you stare at me? I only just fell asleep. You know I can feel your stare.”

Though her words held a sleepy anger, she reached for his hand and pulled his arm over her, as though pulling on a blanket. He rolled to his side and lifted one wing, felt the heavy tug of the metal in them. The canopy of ebon feathers arched above them and she opened her eyes just a fraction, smiling before letting them drift closed again.

“I wish I could spend today pretending that yesterday did not happen,” she said with a sigh. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. There was no need to remind her that such willed amnesia was not possible. She was painfully aware of her responsibilities.

“I think Cedric and I should separate that wretched Faery from the rest of Bauchan’s group. Win its trust,” she mused.

“His trust,” he reminded her gently. As a race, Faeries valued perfection. Something so twisted as the scarred Faery they’d seen in the throne room was regarded as an object, at best, an abomination, at worst. “Do you think he would tell you if Bauchan is lying?”

“He can tell us whether or not the Waterhorses have really been raised.” Another sigh. “I do not know what we face, Malachi.”

“You have had a quiet twenty years,” he pointed out with a chuckle. “You were not entitled to a worry-free reign.”

“You have a much different idea of quiet than I have,” she argued. “You have fought in many battles yourself in the past years. The Vampire invasion, the uprising of the Humans on the Strip. Perhaps I flatter myself, but the Faery Court did have a large hand in taming those conflicts, did they not?”

“Minor squabbles in the larger scheme of an immortal Queene’s reign.”

She smiled and stretched, some of the gloom fleeing from her. “You speak the truth. I do not care for truth.”

“You do not care for a great many things, yet they still exist.” He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You must get up now, and do your duty as Queene.”

She made a frustrated noise behind him and kicked her legs free from the covers, throwing an exaggerated tantrum. Finally, she said, “Yes, I suppose you are right. Do not expect to spend the day lazing about, either. You have a militia to begin organizing.”

Something in the pit of his stomach dropped. He had thought, for as long as he could stay awake the night before, about what would happen when the Faeries went to battle against these Waterhorses, and Elves.

Ayla was correct; her reign had not been completely without incident. There had been other battles, small in scale, handled by her guards, but battles nonetheless. And he had been proud to participate in those and had earned the scars he’d gotten.

But after the last one, nearly three years before, Ayla had no longer allowed him such freedom. “You are getting old,” she had scolded him. “You cannot fight as well as when you were younger.”

That had wounded him far worse than any blade could have. Not because she had pointed out that his body was slowing, his skill fading. But because she had spoken as a warrior, herself, and not as a female desperate to keep her mate safely at home. He had not pressed the issue. Until now. He could not fathom staying behind when a threat so great loomed. He could not conscience it.

“I had a thought,” he said, keeping his tone conversational, “that perhaps I could lead the militia into battle.”

Ayla slid her legs over the edge of the bed to sit beside him, and said nothing for a long while. That was fine. He could wait.

“I do not suppose you have forgotten what I told you after the clash with the Vampires?” she asked, pushing her feet into the little jeweled slippers beside the bed. His conscience forced him to honesty. “No, I have not.”

“Then why do you ask?” She was not angry; he had expected anger, and this startled him. There were so many reasons she would not be able to argue with. The militia would not include the Palace guards, who would fight under their usual command. Thus, his fighting force would be plucked from the Court and those outside the Palace walls. They would be…inexperienced was the incorrect word to describe the state they were in. Many of them had fought in the war that led to their banishment Underground, and long before that, the war in which they had claimed the Upworld and forced the Humans below ground. They had fought epic battles on the Astral—battles to mark the seasons, the changing of the winter to the summer. They were not inexperienced. But it had been so long, and Malachi could not believe that the pale, painted fops of the Court, with their fine silks and jewels salvaged from the mortal world, would be able to defend their Queene, even if they could be pried from their frivolous mortal pursuits.

There were other reasons, like vanity and his desire to forget, for just a few hours, that the Faeries who fought beside him despised him for what he was. But he had to give Ayla the reason she would understand, the one she was most likely to bend to. The waiting, knowing the battle had commenced, yet waiting for any scrap of news, would kill him. He would go crazy before the first casualty was brought back.

“I wish to fight, because if I do not, I will feel useless and helpless during the battle.” He knew this would speak to her, more than any of his other concerns. Since becoming Queene, she no longer fought, unless it was a war of words. And she hated to watch her soldiers march off without her, knowing that she could fight as ably as they. He studied her profile, watched as she mulled over her answer. When she thought about something hard enough, he could almost see those thoughts forming and tumbling over each other, crashing like waves within her.

“You will not be useless. You could help here, guarding the Palace.” But even she could not believe her words would appease him.

He played the game, anyway. “You will have your private guard. They will protect you, and me, though I would not wish them to. You do not need me here.”

“I do not.” She smiled, sadly. “I do, but not for protection. You are mortal, Malachi, and fragile. You’ve seen what these enemies can do to us. I would not have them do worse to you.”

“Time will do worse to me on its own,” he said gently. “I would rather be useful while I am here.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder and her body heaved with a silent sigh. “I understand that, all too well. Help train them. Go into battle with them, if you wish. But swear you will return to me.”

“You know that is something I cannot swear.” But he could not imagine being dead, could not imagine the black wings of his former bretheren rustling in the darkness to take him to Aether. Could not imagine being separated from Ayla.

The thought of his inevitable demise, perhaps not in this battle, or the next, but lurking, waiting for him somewhere in a future he could not prevent, turned the moment maudlin.

“How long…” he asked, clearing his throat around an unexpected knot of sadness. “How long will you remember me, after I am gone?”

She sat up, her face drawn with shock, as though she’d heard something so unbelievable that she had been rendered speechless. And she did struggle with her words. “How long? Malachi, I will never love another.”

It was a pretty sentiment, but never did not hold as much promise in an immortal life as in a mortal life. “You will. You have an eternity. I will not blame you for it. But I worry that you will forget me, and I will have no way, where I will be, to remind you.”

She climbed to her knees beside him, placed her hands on his face to force his gaze to hers. “I will never love another. I have loved no one the way that I love you. And when you die, that part of my life will be closed off, never to open again.”

As if she needed to seal her promise through physical action, she kissed him, hard and deep. The familiarity was almost painful, because it reminded him that someday, he would be taken from it forever.

It was almost enough to change his mind, to make him recant his silly desire to rush headlong into battle out of pride and boredom. Almost, but not enough. He felt some current the immortal creatures could not, something that perhaps only mortality could sense, with its innate knowledge that death was unavoidable, and that current pulsed with warnings of their doom.

If he would die soon, he would die fighting.

The Darkworld had always, in Cedric’s sight, seemed filthy and foreboding, even when he was on his way to meet with Dika. Now, with the new suspicions he harbored against the residents of the Darkworld, it seemed far more sinister.

He followed his little map, sprinting through the darkness. At first, as he neared the Gypsy encampment, he wondered if he had made a wrong turn. No lights were lit, and the noises of Human activity were not the same joyful sounds of a people at peace. There were tense shouts—the sounds of labor.

He made his way through the final tunnel and expected some resistance from the guards who had not wished to admit him the first time. But no one stopped him. They were too busy, he could see, throwing their belongings onto wheeled contraptions, pulling them deeper in the camp. He hurried past whole families piled onto carts, their belongings clutched to them as a strong man or woman pulled the whole along behind them as though they were beasts of burden. Women carrying crying babies on their hips, packs tied to their backs. And they came forth from each spoke of the giant wheel that made its hub at the central fire pit, which was cold.