Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (15 page)

“If he tells you the truth in them, I would be surprised.” The bitterness that dripped from her tone was like acid.

Malachi pocketed the other pages and sat down beside her on the bed. He could have put his arms around her and insisted that they would find Cerridwen. He believed they would; to lose her forever was unthinkable. But he did not wish to reassure her and draw her away from the matter that, at the moment, was even more troubling to him than his absent daughter.

“May I ask why we now treat Cedric as a traitor? What has he done to lose your trust in the few hours since you saw him last?”

She did not answer at once. He knew Ayla well enough to know that she realized she had acted foolishly. But still, she would tell him, as penance. “He has a mistress. A mortal mistress.”

“Oh?” Malachi did his best to appear surprised, but artifice was not in his nature. “I must confess, I knew that.”

“And you did not tell me?” She was not angry. Just defeated and sad. “How much is kept secret from me in my own, most trusted circle?”

“Only that which should not truly affect you.” Perhaps, there was some deception he was capable of. “You believe that he has betrayed you because he has a mistress…but he had no reason to stay pure for you, or for Cerridwen. Is that what you wished? To have him all for yourself?”

“No!” Her shock and disgust was genuine, but only because she did not know herself so well as he did. “No, I have never thought of Cedric that way. But these last few days, he has been increasingly absent when I’ve needed him. The kingdom is in crisis and he has put his own needs before the interests of his race.”

“If you truly believed that, you would have thrown him into the dungeon alongside Governess.” Malachi stood, gave a last glance around the room. “I do not fault you for being angry with him over this…deception. You have been honest with him about a great many things that you did not have to be. But consider, perhaps, that he has sacrificed twenty years of his life to be loyal to you, twenty years of service whenever you have asked for it. Would you truly deny him a life of his own?”

She said nothing.

“I will go to him and ask about these letters. I will consult you before proceeding further.” He left her there, and did not expect her to follow him. She loathed being wrong. No, not being wrong; she did not like being told that she was wrong when it was something she was forced to admit.

He did not go to Cedric. That he had taken information from the council meeting and disseminated it to others did not sit well with Malachi. How could he not have realized the consequences of such an action? The Court was already in a panic. Word would spread like an uncontrollable fire through the Lightworld. Why encourage that?

He would find Flidais, and let her tell him what the letters meant. He would not mention the letters to Cedric. And he would bring his daughter home.

The Great Hall was a second home to Flidais. A first home, she admitted grudgingly. She spent more time there than in the small room allocated for her living arrangements in the Palace. It was simply easier to do her duties to the Queene if she was in the middle of the Court, with open eyes and ears.

It was also an easier way to make her living. If she were inaccessible to the Courtiers, she would not be able to accept their bribes. Corruption was far from an honorable profession, but there was no honor in poverty, either.

The recent news of the Elven threat had sent many Courtiers scurrying from the Palace, back to their homes in other parts of the Lightworld. Some were even cowardly enough to rent rooms on the Strip. Flidais carefully cataloged their names in her mind. She would not forget, and if they wished to return to Court, she would demand recompense before putting their names favorably before the Queene.

But their retreat had a decidedly bleak effect on Court life, and it was difficult for Flidais to ignore the smaller crowd, the less exuberant mood in the Great Hall. That mood dampened further when the doors opened to admit the Queene’s favorite, her Darkling. Everyone knew what he was. It was no secret that he was not Fae, and no secret that he shared the Queene’s bed. But knowledge was not official confirmation, and it certainly was not acceptance. He was far from accepted at Court, as evidenced by the hush that fell over the room.

Malachi rarely came to the Great Hall, and never alone. Usually, he travelled at Cedric’s side, or the Queene’s, on the rare occasions she graced the Courtiers with her presence outside of a feast or formal audience. Now, he came into the room as though he owned the Palace, had every right to walk about in it. It was an attitude Flidais did not like to see him exhibit. Less endearing still was the fact that he walked toward her. He wanted to speak to her. The idea made her skin crawl.

She forced her revulsion away and tried to appear, if not welcoming, then not horrified, either.

“Malachi, I am surprised to see you here. So rarely do you grace us with your company.”

He made a noise in his throat, like an animal, as he rooted through a pocket of his robe. “I need you to read these for me. I cannot.”

He thrust a packet of papers toward her, and she had little choice but to take them. He could not read, but expected her to perform the task for him without the cost of gratitude? That was truly an insult. She was not his servant. With an annoyed glance at his face, she unfolded the papers.

It took only a moment to scan the first one, and she glared up at him sharply. “These are written in the Royal Heir’s own hand. How did you get them?”

Her pronouncement drew curious stares, and two Faeries who had been standing close by edged slightly nearer.

“They were given to me, by the Queene.” He did not lower his voice, but Flidais had no doubt he had noticed the subtle shift of attention in the room. “She does not have time to deal with such trivialities now, but she wishes to know what her daughter asks for in these letters. In truth, I think she gives me such a task to humiliate me, as she knows I cannot read them myself.”

Queene Ayla could not, either, but he did a good job of covering it up. He’d also lost the Courtiers’ attention. A menial task given by the Queene to her Consort was not interesting enough to gossip about.

“I have very little time for this,” Flidais said coldly, nodding toward the papers in her hand.

“But if you wish to follow me to my next appointment, I will read them over and tell you what they say.”

As always, the Court could not know that the Royal Heir was missing. Especially now, with the mood so infused with doom and despair. Malachi followed her from the Great Hall, and she took several twists and turns before leading him back to the council room. He did not complain. Though he could not read the letters, he would understand the need for privacy and subterfuge.

“What do they say?” he demanded, almost as soon as the door had closed behind them.

“I have not had time to read them all, yet, have I?” She laid the crumpled pages on the table and smoothed them. “They are all incomplete. She did not mean for anyone to read them, though she did when she began them. But the shortest says she is in love with an Elf…and that she will run away to the Darkworld to be with him. The longer takes a more political view, but the outcome is the same. She will run to the Elves and warn them of what is to happen….”

Flidais looked up at Malachi. “This is bad.”

He said nothing. He stared down at the pages, his whole body as tense as an overtuned lute string. “You will say nothing of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

Orders? From a Darkling? And orders that made little sense, as well. “I must tell. This could endanger the Lightworld far worse than we realized. If she tells the Elves that we are to war with them, they could attack before we are ready. This will be disastrous. I must tell the Queene, or Cedric, at least, and let him tell her.”

“No!” The animal power in the Darkling was frightening and disgusting, all at once. He pounded the table, and the whole piece jumped, as if it had touched one of the Human power wires. “I must have your word on this! I will go into the Darkworld and retrieve Cerridwen myself. But you will not tell the Queene, or Cedric. They will send soldiers after her, and that alone would spark a war. You must give me your word!”

Flidais considered. Her word still meant something, even when given to a Darkling, and she did not take such vows lightly. But she could not ignore the rash, unwise thing Malachi proposed. So, the presence of guards in the Darkworld could spark a war. So, too, could the word of a certain Darkling, whose motives could never be trusted, who remained a Darkling even after twenty years of service to the Queene. The Queene might trust him, but Flidais had not lived so long because she trusted.

Still, she rolled his words through her mind. She could not tell the Queene. She could not tell Cedric. “You have my word,” she assured him, very slowly.

And she would not go back on that promise. But there was another who would like to hear, she was certain of it.

Ten

F enrick had never spoken to Cerridwen about his home. He had certainly never taken her there. So, every step closer to the Elven holding was a bit more frightening, a bit more exciting. She clasped his hand at her side, so tightly and without thinking that several times he had disentangled himself from her with a pained expression. She had apologized sheepishly and walked with her arms crossed for a time, but then always took his hand back, and he always let her.

“Do not fear,” he assured her as they turned down another narrow tunnel. “Our races are different, that is true, but they will welcome your devotion. And my father will reward you handsomely for what you have come to tell him.”

She smiled, her nerves still a riot in her. It was not a reward she sought, and she wished she could make him know that. But there would be time for that later. Now, she could concentrate only on keeping her heartbeat quiet in her chest, her lungs from gasping for breath.

It seemed they had been traveling for hours, but Fenrick did not stop to rest. They were farther into the Darkworld than Cerridwen had ever traveled, farther, she was certain, than her mother had ever traveled in her days as an Assassin.

Her mother. The thought brought a fresh wave of resolve to her. What would her mother think if she saw her daughter tromping through the Darkworld, over rough, sometimes sticky ground, through passages that smelled like damp and worse? Would she still see her as a child?

It was too likely to deny. Queene Ayla saw everyone as beneath her…she would also disapprove of Fenrick, that Cerridwen could be certain of. The Queene whose Consort was a mortal Darkling would think ill of an Elf? At least they were not mortal. They traveled in silence for what must have been another hour, before Fenrick stopped suddenly and took her by the hands.

“When we arrive, you must not speak to anyone. They must believe you are my prisoner. Do not look into anyone’s eyes, they will see it as an insult. Most of them hate Faeries, and I do not wish for them to have reason to quarrel with you. Let me speak, unless I prompt you to, and all will be well.” He spoke with a sudden passion that unnerved her, his yellow eyes glittering in the dark.

“Your prisoner?” She did not like the idea, and it made her turn her head to look back the way they came. As if she could escape. As if she wanted to.

“For your protection only, and only temporarily,” he reassured, tugging her hands to start her walking again. “Come, it is not far.”

He did not lie. Another turn brought them to a great, wide tunnel, almost as wide as the Strip. The Strip, though, was wide and well lit. The Elven holding seemed a mass of darkness, and though Cerridwen’s eyes struggled to adjust, she could not make out distinct shapes beneath the dim torchlight high above their heads.

She pushed closer to Fenrick, grasped his arm, and heard his laughter. “You are not afraid of the dark?” he asked, incredulous.

Screwing up her courage, she let him go…but only to the length of her forearm. If she lost hold of him now, she would not find him again.

As they moved through what had, at first, seemed an empty, wide corridor, Cerridwen became aware of others around them. The hiss of sliding fabric and the sound of breath seemed closer in the dark than it might have in the light, and prickles stood out on her neck. She looked into the darkness at her side and saw yellow eyes, then kept her gaze fixed sharply forward.

They came to a door, which led to a much darker, narrow hall, and then, at the other end of that, blessed light. The room they entered was round and tall, the top open to the night sky above. Full moonlight shone down through a wire grate similar to the one over Sanctuary, but it was hanging torches that lit the room like sunlight, revealing the dripping black of the mildewed walls.

In the center of the room stood an Elf in a long, white coat that contrasted so thoroughly with his blue-black skin that for a moment Cerridwen could not see his face, so blinding was the color of his clothing. His hair was not as white as Fenrick’s, but tinged with a slightly dirty yellow. When he smiled, his teeth were not as brightly silver, and his smile was not as kind.

“Fenrick, what is this you’ve brought me?” He said it as though Cerridwen were some bauble or trinket he was about to be gifted. She did not like it, but remembered Fenrick’s warning.

“Father.” Fenrick made a queer bow, dropping to one knee with his arms clasped across his chest, a hand on each shoulder. When he stood again, he stood stiffly, as if avoiding a sword point to his back. “I have brought a prisoner. The daughter of the Faery Queene.”

Fenrick’s father laughed and clapped his hands slowly. The sound echoed from the walls like a headsman’s ax falling. With an audible hiss, the Elf walked in a slow circle around Cerridwen, looking her over with undisguised lechery. “Queene Ayla’s daughter? Prisoner?

How did you do it?”

Fenrick looked straight ahead, ignored his father’s disgusting display. All part of the act, Cerridwen assured herself. “A happy accident. I had been trying to seduce her, to no avail, for weeks. It was out of love that she confessed her secret identity to me.”