Ironside

A lot of people looked at this book at certain stages and offered words of advice. I am indebted to my workshop—Delia Sherman, Ellen Kushner, Gavin Grant, Kelly Link, Sara Smith, and Cassandra Clare—for pushing me to be a better writer and to make this a far better book.

I am grateful to Tiffany Trent for telling me when the suspense was working, Justine Larbalestier for speaking sternly to me about the ending, Cecil Castellucci for making sure that I remembered to put in how everyone was feeeeeling, Tony DiTerlizzi for reminding me to make sense, Libba Bray for commiseration, Elka Cloke and Eric Churchill for pointing me toward the cool bits, and Dianna Muzaurieta and her smart and talented students, Brian Fitzgerald and Erin Wyckoff, for keeping me honest.

I am thankful for my wonderfully clever editor, Karen Wojtyla, and my super agent, Barry Goldblatt, for making sure that I wrote the best book that I could. And thanks to my copyeditor, Bara MacNeill, for making me look smarter than I am.

Thank you to Steve and Cassie and Kelly for sitting with me through all the writing and all the whining. And, last but most, thanks to Theo for believing in me and making me lots and lots of coffee.

Despite her casting him down to this place, despite the fresh bruises on his skin and the blood under his nails, Roiben still loved Lady Silarial. Despite the hungry eyes of the Unseelie Court and the gruesome tasks its Queen Nicnevin set him. Despite the many ways he’d been humiliated and the things he wouldn’t let himself think on while he stood stiffly behind her throne.

If he concentrated hard, he could remember the flame of
his
Queen’s copper hair, her unreadable green eyes, the strange smile she’d given him as she’d pronounced his fate just three months past. Choosing him to leave her Bright Court and be a servant among the Unseelie was an honor, he told himself once more. He alone loved her enough to remain loyal. She trusted him above her other subjects. Only his love was true enough to endure.

And he did love her still, he reminded himself.

“Roiben,” said the Unseelie Queen. She had been eating her dinner off the back of a wood hob, his green hair long enough to serve as a tablecloth. Now she looked up at Roiben with a dangerous sort of smile.

“Yes, my Lady,” he said automatically, neutrally. He tried to hide how much he loathed her, not because it would displease her. Rather, he thought it would please her too well.

“The table trembles too much. I am afraid my wine will spill.”

The hollow hill was almost empty; what courtiers remained to amuse themselves beneath garlands of hairy roots did so quietly as the Queen took her supper. Only her servants were close by, all of them grim as ghosts. Her chamberlain cleared his throat.

Roiben stared at her dumbly.

“Fix it,” she commanded.

He took a step forward, unsure of what she wanted him to do. The hob’s wizened face looked up at him, pale with terror. Roiben tried to smile reassuringly, but that seemed to only make the little man tremble further. He wondered if binding would make the hob steadier, and then was disgusted with himself for the thought.

“Chop his feet so they’re even with his hands,” a voice called, and Roiben looked up. Another knight, hair dark as his coat, strode toward Nicnevin’s throne. A dull circlet sat on his brow. He smirked broadly. Roiben had seen him only once before. He was the knight that the Unseelie Court had sent up to the Seelie as their symbol of peace. Roiben’s twin in servitude, although he could only suppose this knight’s thralldom was easier than Roiben’s own. At the sight of him Roiben’s heart leaped with an impossible hope. Could the exchange be done with? Was it possible he would be sent home at last?

“Nephamael,” the Queen said, “has Silarial tired of you so quickly?”

He snorted. “She sends me as a messenger, but the message is of little consequence. I rather think she doesn’t like me, but you seem better pleased with the trade.”

“I could not stand to part with my new knight,” Nicnevin said, and Roiben bowed his head. “Will you do what Nephamael suggests?”

Roiben took a deep breath, struggling for a calm he didn’t feel. Every time he spoke, he was half afraid he would snap and say what he really thought. “I doubt his plan’s efficacy. Let me take the hob’s place. I will not spill your wine, Lady.”

Her smile widened with delight. She turned to Nephamael. “He asks so prettily, doesn’t he?”

Nephamael nodded, although he looked less amused than she had. His yellow eyes seemed to take Roiben’s measure for the first time. “And no concern for dignity. You must find that refreshing.”

She laughed at that, a laugh that seemed startled from her throat and as cold as ice breaking over a deep lake. Somewhere in the vast, dim cavern, a harp began to play. Roiben shuddered to think what it might be strung with.

“Be my table, then, Roiben. See to it that you do not tremble. The hob will suffer for any failing on your part.”

Roiben took the place of the little faery easily, barely counting it as a humiliation to get down on his hands and knees, to bow his head and let the silver plates and warm dishes be set gingerly on his back. He did not flinch. He remained still, even as Nephamael seated himself on the floor beside the throne, resting yet another goblet on the curve of his spine. The man’s hand rested on his ass, and Roiben bit his lip to avoid flinching in surprise. The stench of iron was overwhelming. He wondered how Nicnevin could bear it.

“I’ve grown bored,” Nephamael said. “Although the Seelie Court is lovely, certainly.”

“And there is nothing to amuse you there? I find that hard to believe.”

“There are things.” Roiben thought he could feel the smile in those words. The hand slid across the hollow of his back. He stiffened before he could help himself, and heard the goblets tinkle together with his movement. “But my delight is in finding weakness.”

Nicnevin didn’t so much as reprimand Roiben. He doubted it was out of any generosity on her part.

“Somehow,” she said, “I wonder if you are speaking to me at all.”

“It is you I am speaking to,” Nephamael said. “But not you I am speaking about. Your weaknesses are not for me to know.”

“A charming, ingratiating answer.”

“But take your knight here. Roiben. I know his vulnerability.”

“Do you? I would think that would be rather obvious. His love of the solitary fey has him on his knees even now.”

Roiben steeled himself not to move. That the Queen of Filth spoke about him as though he were an animal didn’t surprise him, but he found that he was more afraid of what Nephamael might say. There was something hungry in the way that Nephamael spoke, a hunger Roiben wasn’t sure what might sate.

“He loves Silarial. He declared himself to her. And the quest she gave him was this—to be your servant in exchange for peace.”

The Queen of the Unseelie Court said nothing. He felt a goblet lifted from his back and then replaced.

“It is delightfully cruel, really. Here he is, being loyal and brave for a woman who used him poorly. She never loved him. She’s forgotten him already.”

“That’s not true,” Roiben said, turning, so that silver dishes crashed around him. He leaped to his feet, uncaring of the gaping courtiers, the spilled wine, the hob’s frightened cry. He didn’t care about anything right then but hurting Nephamael, who’d stolen his place—his home—and dared gloat over it.

“Stop!” Nicnevin called. “I command you, Roiben, by the power of your name to cease moving.”

Against his will, he froze like a mannequin, breathing hard. Nephamael had twisted out of his way, but the half smirk Roiben expected to find on his face was missing.

“Kill the hob,” the Unseelie Queen commanded. “You, my knight, will drink his blood like wine, and this time you will not spill a drop.”

Roiben tried to open his mouth to say something to stay her hand, but the command forbade even that movement. He had been stupid—Nephamael had been goading him in the hope of just such a mistake. Even the Queen’s lack of rebuke earlier had probably been planned. Now he had made a spectacular fool of himself and cost an innocent creature its life. Self-loathing gnawed at his belly.

Never again,
he told himself. No matter what they said or did or made him do, he would not react. He would become as indifferent as stone.

The grim servants were quick and efficient. Within moments they had prepared a warm goblet and raised it to his unmoving lips. The corpse was already being cleared away, open eyes staring at Roiben from beyond death, damning him for his vanity.

Roiben could not stop himself from opening his mouth and gulping the warm, salty liquid. A moment later, he gagged and retched on the dais.

The flavor of that blood stayed with him through the long years of his service. Even when a pixie accidentally set him free, even when he’d won the Unseelie crown. But by then he could no longer remember whose blood it was, only that he had grown used to the taste.