Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (19 page)

If their revels would have distracted them from the new prize in the hall, it would have been tolerable, but they had great fun spitting at her, poking their fingers and their daggers through the bars of her cage, pressing their faces against them and making lewd motions with their slimy pink tongues.

To think she would have gladly spent the rest of her days here, if someone had asked her yesterday. Now, she could only find solace that those days would not be long. It seemed the night must be over, but Cerridwen had not slept. There was not room to lie down in her prison. She could curl up like an animal, but she did not wish to let her guard down in sleep, not when so many of them still wished to crowd in on her and threaten her. And still, their revels wore on.

Fenrick had not come to see her. He had not come to see if she had been treated well, had not come to defend her from his kin.

He was not her Fenrick, and she mourned for him now, hot tears stinging her eyes.

“Is the little beasty sad?” an Elf hissed, pressing close to the bars. His breath stank of mortal alcohol and rotted meat. “I can make her feel all better.”

A few of the Elf’s cohorts laughed rudely behind him. Cerridwen shrank as far into the cage as she could, until the bars at her back cut into her wings.

The Elf jabbed his dirty hand through the cage and made a few swipes, barely grazing her knees, and she yelped, jumping up involuntarily. She mashed her head against the top of the cage and crumpled, her palms clutched over her stinging scalp. The Elves laughed, and her tormentor gripped the bars, shook the whole of the cage until she was forced to brace herself or risk being injured further.

“Stop!” a voice called out, and she wished her heart had not leaped at the sound. Fenrick strode over, as cold and distant-looking as he had been before his father, and grabbed the Elf by the collar to pull him away. “Does this Faery belong to you?” he demanded, lifting the Elf off his feet.

“Of course she don’t,” the tormentor wheezed.

Another Elf called out, “Leave him, Fenrick, he was just having fun.”

“Fun?” Fenrick tossed the Elf aside, into one of the tables. It toppled as the creature crashed through it, ruining a game of dice and eliciting angry calls from the Elves who’d been enjoying it.

“Fun,” Fenrick repeated, louder, commanding the attention of the rest of the hall. “It is fun to destroy my father’s property, then?”

No one answered, and several Elves looked down, as if ashamed.

“Fun, then, to meddle with this, a trophy of war that my father prizes? To gobble down his food and drink, to take advantage of his hospitality while showing him no respect?” Fenrick paused, as if daring them to deny it. “Fun. Perhaps he should hear the names of those who have been engaging in such ‘fun.’”

Again, no one spoke. It was, Cerridwen realized with a shock, as though they were afraid of Fenrick. Only a day before, she could never have imagined such a thing. But she felt it now, too. There was something powerful about him, commanding, and he was very frightening.

“Go. The hour is late, and we are nearly at war. What worthless soldiers you’ll all be, drunk and gorged to pain.” He made a noise of disgust, then, seeing that they were not yet on their feet, and roared, “Out!”

The Elves hurriedly gathered up their weapons and games and, Cerridwen noted with disgust, handfuls of rotten meat and moldering bread. They fled so quickly and noisily that their sudden absence caused a weird silence to descend, a silence that was almost louder than the commotion that had been there before.

Fenrick went to one of the tables and picked out a chunk of meat, which he brought to the cage. Cerridwen recoiled.

“Eat,” he ordered. “You cannot starve yourself to death.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and turned her face away from the offered food. Her stomach was empty, but the very thought of consuming what he gave her made her throat close up in protest.

“Have it your way,” he said, tossing the meat to the floor. He wiped his hands on his trousers.

“If I try to offer you comfort, and you reject it, then that is your own preference.”

“Comfort?” Cerridwen heard the disbelief in her words. “Comfort? I am caged! I am a prisoner condemned to die! You promised me that all would be right, that you would look out for me.”

“I promised you what I had to in order to bring you here,” he said with a shrug. “You would have done the same thing, had you been more clever.”

Tears burned her eyes. “I am clever.” She sounded like a child, and she hated it. “But I am not cruel. That is what you are, Fenrick! You are cruel! You lied to me, you knew all the time—”

“Did you not lie as well?” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the edge of a table. “You wanted me to believe you were mortal. And a common thief, at that. You knew of the animosity between my father and the Faeries, because I spoke to you of it. Did you think you would, what, impress me? Make me love you if you came to me in spite of the fact that we are enemies?”

She had, and that cut her more deeply than any blade could. “You lied to me, as well. You behaved as though you really—”

“Loved you?” He laughed. “Yes, I know. It’s a part of the game, Cerridwen. I wanted something from you, the same as I want from all Human girls. I had to behave a certain way to get it. You’re young, and you didn’t understand it then, but do you understand it now?

Have I at least taught you something of value?”

He honestly believed that he offered her valuable advice, and it sickened her. He believed that his deception, his cruelty was…what, a favor to her? She wanted to spit in his face, then feared what would occur if she did. Instead, she glowered silently at him.

“Perhaps, if you hadn’t been so naive, you wouldn’t be here today,” he informed her sagely.

“Think on that, while you’re waiting to die.”

“Why?” She laughed, heard the bitterness in it, and recognized the sound from somewhere.

“Some good it will do me, to have learned my lesson only to die.”

“At least you will have learned it. Some people never broaden their horizons, never look beyond their narrow beliefs. Consider yourself lucky.” He examined his fingernails, the sharp silver things that glinted in the dim light.

“Pardon me if I do not thank you for the enlightenment,” Cerridwen spat, working herself into a more comfortable position. With her back resting against the side of the cage, she could bend her knees and almost be comfortable. “If I sleep, will your kin take the opportunity to further torment me? Or will I be left alone?”

He chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. “After my warning? I doubt any of them will even look at you. And if they do, I will see to them personally.”

“Well, forgive me if I do not trust you to keep me safe. Your record of promises kept is very poor.” She closed her eyes, because she did not want him to see that she was about to cry. How could she have not seen this in him before? The callousness, the deception? Her mother had believed her a child…and she’d proven her right.

“You are angry.” He sniffed, the annoyance in the sound echoing in the empty hall.

“I believe that is my right,” she said, willing her tears away long enough to pierce him with her glare.

He did not argue. He spun on his heel, left the hall. Left her alone, in the dark, cavernous space.

Alone, she could dare to make herself more comfortable, and to sleep. It would not be a sound sleep; she needed to be aware when the monsters returned. She slid down to the floor of the cage and tried to curl into a ball, but something pricked her leg beneath her clothes. The knife! Her hands shaking, Cerridwen reached into the waist of her trousers. The curved blade had grown warm against her flesh, and she had not thought of it since she had first met with Fenrick on the Strip. But it was there.

Disbelief and trepidation mingled in her as she looked out at the darkness of the hall. There were no guards, that she could see, not a single Elf left in the place. Still, she trembled as she pulled the blade free, the last hope she had to protect herself from what was to come. If she could protect herself, she admitted ruefully. She had never needed to engage in physical combat before in her life, had never even been trained in case of an emergency. She was more likely to harm herself than another person with the weapon. The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she swiped them away angrily. She could beat herself down with her fears, or she could take whatever chance came to her and fight, until death, to save herself.

And then, another thought occurred to her. She might not have to fight at all. She gripped the handle of the knife tight in her fist and twisted to face the front of the cage. Though the blade was curved and wide, it tapered to a long, slender point, almost needlelike at the tip. She poked it carefully through the bars, then, thinking better of it—if she dropped it, all would truly be lost—she reached through the bars and fished for the lock that held the cage closed. It did not budge, at first. The lock held the door of her prison closed by securing a heavy chain, and though it creaked and groaned, there was not slack enough to bring the lock into the cage with her. She tugged and strained and, with a sob of frustration, kicked at the door with the little movement she could achieve in the cramped space. Miraculously, the heavy links of the chain slid over themselves, released from whatever kink had held them back. The lock did not come close enough to enter the cage, but now she could twist it to its side and reveal the keyhole at the bottom. With one hand wrapped around the bars to hold the lock in place, she used the other to work the tip of the knife into the lock. It was tedious work, but not work Cerridwen was unfamiliar with. Picking locks was a necessary skill for a Royal Heir who often grew bored and wished to leave the Palace without permission. This was a mortal lock, too, far easier than the complicated wooden tumblers crafted and enchanted by Faery magic that she’d encountered in the Palace. She had to go carefully, though. If the knife broke against the resistance of the lock, if a piece were left inside, obscuring the hole, her chance would be lost.

She did not know how long she worked. Crouched over, her back began to sting, demanding to be stretched. Her feet grew numb as she sat on her legs, and the bars at the bottom of the cage cut into her knees. But finally, the mechanisms of the lock gave way with a click that was far too loud in the empty room. Cerridwen recoiled at the sound, certain it would bring a host of Elves to investigate, but, stupidly, they had left their prisoner alone. She tucked the knife back into its hiding place and moved more carefully, now that she knew it was there. The lock slipped from the coils of the chain, and she began to unthread the heavy links when a thought stopped her.

There were doors all around the hall, but she did not remember which one they had entered from. She could not remember which ones the Elves used as exits—if they were exits. And in her journey to this place, she’d paid more attention to Fenrick than she had to the places they’d turned, which tunnels they’d taken. Even if she escaped from this room, she might venture deeper into the Darkworld, rather than out of it. And if she became lost, well, the chances of them finding her and recapturing her would be greater. Reluctantly, she replaced the chain and slipped the lock through it. Then, thinking better of it, she closed the lock around a single link of the chain and tucked the unsecured end back into the coils. With one glance, they would not be able to tell that anything was amiss. But, when the time was right, she would be able to spring herself free.

She settled back, her body tired, her brain churning, and pretended to sleep.

They moved their council into Malachi’s sick room. It was the only way, Ayla had realized, that they could keep him at rest, though he would get little of it. Guards came in and out of the antechamber, mobilized by Cedric’s orders. Ayla stayed at Malachi’s side, but her thoughts were far away.

At first, they had tried to set up a barricade, had sent guards to block the entrance to Sanctuary and threaten death to any who attempted to leave. Bauchan and his retinue had left the way they had come, through holes in the metal grate high above the trees of Sanctuary. Two guards were sent with tools to patch the gaps; they slipped through and followed Bauchan. As had some of the guards who’d been sent to keep others from leaving. Now, wave after wave of Faery deserted the Lightworld. Deserted her. Cedric came into the room, his expression grim. “It is not good news, Your Majesty.”

“Ayla. Please, just…call me by my name,” she told him wearily. Titles and protocol only reminded her how truly alone she was in this.

“Then it is not good news, Ayla.” There was no humor in his voice, though the repetition should have been comical. “We’ve lost many guards.”

“How many?” Malachi asked, as if a number could change anything.

“More than half. And the Court is…gone. There are Faeries outside of the Palace who will stay, because they do not believe the threat of the Waterhorses. We’ve managed to enlist a few of those into a militia, but they are poorly trained.”

“What of the Guilds? Have they gone, as well?” The question had to force past the icy, tight fist gripping her chest.

Cedric shook his head. “No, thankfully, they remain loyal.”

“That is good news, then,” Ayla said, forcing a smile as Malachi squeezed her hand.

“Better than we should hope for, in any case.” Cedric paced stiffly to the hearth and leaned against the mantel. “But you must remember that the Guilds trained in weaponry—the Assassins, the Thieves, the Weaponscrafters—they are not trained to fight as the guards fight, nor can they properly organize a militia and give orders that will be effective. We have no one capable of that, at present.”

“Yes, we do,” Malachi said, sounding outraged at the insinuation. “I have already spoken to Ayla about this. It will be my responsibility.”

“And I do not doubt that, were you in better condition, whole and healthy, you would be able to do so,” Cedric explained patiently. “But you are not able to lead troops, let alone fight.”