Reluctant Adept: Book Three of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (44 page)

Wow.
The fact that the king was still awake following such a healing … this was
not
a guy you messed with.

In fact, with his access to magic potential, skilled healers, and donors willing to endure the pain and disfigurement of tissue loss, I could easily imagine that regrowth of his missing parts wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Though, nothing about the process was easy. From what I understood, magically induced regeneration (or MIR, as it was popularly called at home) was exceedingly painful, physically exhausting, and required dozens if not hundreds of sessions. For a mortal human, it took years and many tens of thousands of dollars to regenerate
one
less-than-functional digit. Judging by what Tíereachán had said about Kieran's burns, sidhe healers were only moderately more capable.

For human or sidhe, magically inclined or not, arcane regeneration came with a near insurmountable price, even for a magnificent, all-powerful king.

And this king was most assuredly magnificent.

Now that we were out of immediate danger, I could appreciate the full impact of King Faonaín's presence. Even clad in a thoroughly stained tunic with traces of blood remaining on his squared, dimpled chin, he exuded a formidable aura of power. Everything in his bearing, from the confident set of his broad shoulders to the hard gleam in his blue eyes, screamed 'badass.' It wasn't difficult to see why he'd been crowned king.

As if to illustrate my thought, he casually flicked his hand. A monstrous
crack
jolted the room as a rectangular chunk of the stone floor, centering on his chair, popped upward ten inches from the surrounding rock, forming an expansive platform large enough for the king and his retinue. Intricate carvings of vines and flowers flowed across the newly exposed surface, matching the elaborate designs that adorned the room's columns, archways, and domed ceiling.

When the three incoming sidhe drew close to the makeshift dais, King Faonaín impatiently waved his healers away, even though they hadn't finished cleaning his face and hands free of blood. Kim and a man who I assumed to be Brassal stood regally on either side of the king's chair, facing the crowd and the three imperious newcomers. Across the chasm, behind all of us, Maeve had gone quiet but tearful, doing a masterful job of appearing meek and persecuted while she sat, confined to the stone pillar, cradling Vince's head atop her elegantly folded knees.

Who are they?
I asked as the three men came to a stop, not five yards from where we both stood.

Members of the Tribunal,
Tíer replied, looking grim.
The top six dominant houses qualify for a seat. These are the leaders of the three houses that remained loyal to the king. The other three joined with Maeve and Evgrenya.

His thoughts stilled as the shortest of the three newcomers began speaking.

Even before the dark-haired sidhe opened his mouth, my eyes had been drawn to his noble bearing and the ominous, swirling shadows that surrounded him, beclouding all but his most prominent features. I didn't know what type of magic he possessed and absolutely wanted to keep it that way. The shadows, which undulated in a way that seemed sentient, gave me the creeps.

"He is a necromancer of considerable power," Red whispered from his perch in the topmost pocket of my backpack, his head peeking up enough to see over my shoulder.

It astounded me that Red had anything in common with Shadow Guy, which made me wonder (although certainly not for the first time) what Red had been like, back in the late 1600s, when he'd been a human necromancer. Surely, given the anti-witchcraft sentiment of the time, his appearance would have been more circumspect.

"Whatever you do, do not allow him or his umbrae to touch you," Red added, ratcheting up my unease.

Instead of answering, I gave his paw an inconspicuous pat.

As for the other two Tribunal leaders … they were hardly wallflowers, that's for sure. The one furthest from Tíereachán and me, who stood at Shadow Guy's right, was covered head to toe in brilliant tattoos. The intricate patterns snared my appreciative gaze, opalescent and captivating as a butterfly's markings, each swirling line begging to be traced with the tip of my finger. So strong was the desire that Tíereachán had to shake me to my senses after I dazedly took a step in the sidhe's direction.

Don't look at the designs
, he hissed in my mind as he grasped my hand and tugged me back to his side.

Honestly, I didn't know how
not
goggling at Tattooed Man was possible with so much of his glorious skin on display. He wasn't wearing robes, as I'd originally thought. His tattoos radiated color and light in such a tangible way that, unless you were paying attention, he appeared fully clothed. With Tíer's sustaining presence in my mind, though, I tore my gaze away from the dazzling sight to focus on the third leader.

This one was unusual in that there was nothing outwardly remarkable about him at all. Brown hair. Average height and build—at least for a male sidhe. But when he turned his clear gray-eyed gaze upon me, I soon realized he was the most dangerous one in the bunch, perhaps in the entire freaking room. Whereas the other sidhe had looked at me with shock and sometimes disgust, this creature regarded me with such pitiless rapacity that I knew he didn't view me as anything more than an animal, something to be watered, fed, and milked while shackled down in his basement.

I shivered. His was the implacable gaze of a sociopath. Even the king hadn't looked at me this way.

I might have taken an involuntary step backward, but a cool body at my back stopped me short. When I peered over my right shoulder, the sight of Alex baring the full length of his deadly fangs almost had me reversing course until I saw that his feral gaze was aimed squarely at Mr. Sociopath. I tried not to look astonished when the strigoi domn issued a guttural snarl and placed his clawed hand atop my left shoulder. There was nothing possessive or disempowering about the gesture. He didn't pull me against him and shield me as though I was his crystalline flower in need of protection. Alex merely stood at my back with his hand respectfully atop my shoulder, sending the message: 'You mess with her, you'll be messing with us
both
.'

With Tíereachán on my left and Alex at my back, I felt pretty un-freaking-beatable.

When Caiside and a deathly-pale-but-healed Nathan joined Alex in a unified front, folding their arms and looking more menacing than a platoon of commandos, my heart did a little dance. The fact that I'd earned their alliance and respect by just being me and following my heart made their show of support all the sweeter.

Even the frigidity of Mr. Sociopath's smile couldn't temper the warmth flooding through me.

The boom of a male voice from the king's makeshift dais jerked my attention away from our little show of strength, although I kept half an eye on Mr. Sociopath.

Is that Brassal?
I asked when I discovered the voice's source was the slim, sandy-haired sidhe at King Faonaín's left who I'd noted earlier. Strangely, he appeared to be reading from a—

No way.
I blinked, not trusting my eyes.
Is that … a stone tablet?

Yes. The king is a geomancer of unequaled power and skill.

I marveled at this.
So he's carving his commands on the stone tablet for Brassal to read?

If the atmosphere in the room hadn't been so charged, I might have snickered at the biblical parallels.

Yes.
Tíereachán squeezed my hand in warning, although, his growing disquiet, which pulsed through our connection like the timer on a doomsday device, had already squashed any remaining levity I might have felt.

He relaxed his grip and explained,
High Steward Gilios has informed the king that the rebel forces have been crushed by the Tribunal's three loyal families, with the aid of my mother's royal guard. In accordance to Tribunal bylaws, the rebel houses have been censured, their standings degraded, and Tribunal appointments revoked. The next three highest ranked houses have received and accepted their nominations.

Okay.
I looked around.
Why is everyone so tense? Seems to me, defeating a coup would be cause for celebration.

The Tribunal is required to include my mother's people in the rankings, which means that the three appointments were issued to, and accepted by, houses that are loyal to her.

So, you're saying the king no longer has a guaranteed majority?
I studied his profile.
That's what has everyone's panties in a twist?

I got a flash of blue as he slid his eyes to the side, giving me an amused glance, before he returned his grim gaze to the ongoing exchange between the sidhe leaders.

Yes
, he replied.
In case of a tie, the king has the deciding vote, but in light of allegations of wrongdoing against the crown, the Tribunal has imposed what you would call Martial Law. Until the Tribunal's convocation, next phase, the high steward has assumed governorship of the crown with the backing of the other Tribunal leaders and their unified forces.

Brassal, sternly reading from the tablet, pointed an accusing finger at Maeve, his lips curled in disgust. While Tíereachán had been filling me in, the crowd had grown restless, murmuring to one another, their expressions mirroring Brassal's. Several bystanders issued hoots of agreement.

Brassal demands to know why the king is being disempowered and investigated when it is clear that his daughter spearheaded the plot to overthrow the crown.

High Steward Gilios spared a scathing glance for the crowd, folding his arms in displeasure. He addressed the king and, after a stern diatribe, pointed to Maeve. He'd not spoken a dozen more Silven words when Maeve jolted, her face turning ashen. The crowd stilled. Even Tíer's thoughts seemed to freeze.

Whoa. What'd he say?

Maeve will face the capital charge of treason at the convocation. Due to her previous conviction and escape from official custody, if she's found guilty, she will either submit to scaradrai or be executed.

It seemed to me that she should have faced treason charges back when her demon cavorting ways had come to light, but what did I know?

What's scaradrai?
I asked.

Magic
—he paused to consider and then settled on
—sterilization
.

You mean shackling?

Tíer shook his head.
Shackling is temporary. Scaradrai is a permanent cauterization of one's ability to use magic. It is the worst of our punishments—most would say, worse than death.

Living like a normal human is worse than death?
I snorted.
Clearly some of your people need to try living as an Earthbound clairvoyant. There've been times when I would have jumped at the chance to undergo such a thing.

This seemed to take him aback, and he frowned at me.
Unlike humans, all sidhe are born with some degree of magic. Even those without discretionary skill possess autonomous abilities.
He tipped his head, studying me.
To be without magic would be like carving out the core of your being, emptying yourself of the very thing that connects us to the beyond. Would you honestly wish such a thing?

Not anymore, no. But there were times—hello, most of my adolescence—when I would have considered it. I didn't have the greatest childhood, remember? And until recently, I had virtually no love life.
I shrugged.
Being normal isn't worse than death. Billions of humans live happy productive lives without magic. That's all I'm saying.

"See all you have wrought, Adept?" Maeve snarled, jerking me away from our private conversation. She stood, safe inside her circle with Vince, who was once again restored to health, her face contorted into a beautiful, vicious mask. "You have doomed my people to untold years of strife. If you hadn't interfered, we would've had a peaceful transition with minimal lives lost and a ruler predisposed to restoring relations with the amhaín." She spared a pejorative glare for the king. "Do you think
he
will be so agreeable?"

She laughed bitterly. "And now they are forced to contend with a human who wears the
Bráigda
. You may command the Hunt, my dear adept, but make no mistake, it is you who will be hunted. Soon, you'll find there is no one you can trust, not even your doomed
mionngáel
. When that day comes, when you realize the mistake you've made, you know where I'll be."

With a twirl of her stunning gown, she turned to embrace Vince. In a blink, they blipped from view, their disappearance heralded by the telltale, subsonic
pop
of a broken summoning circle.

The high steward turned his furious gaze on me and roared, "What have you done? Where did you send her?"

"Me?" Heat flooded through me. "If you think I'd lift one finger to help her escape punishment, then you seriously need to bone up on past events." I rolled my eyes and then snapped, "She was standing in her summoning circle. Evidently, she decided Hell was a better choice over what you guys had planned for her."

Tíereachán squeezed my hand in warning, but I was too worked up to heed it and added, "Next time, I suggest taking your criminals into custody
before
threatening them with dire punishments. I'm no warlord and even
I
know that much."

With the fleet of shadows gyrating about his face, the high steward's expression was unreadable, but the agitated movements of his umbrae told me I hadn't made a friend.

King Faonaín, on the other hand, who'd been almost wholly silent since I'd arrived, burst out with an unbridled, bewitching peal of laughter. I basked in the sheer delight of it, pleased that I might have been the cause for such a marvelous, captivating response, until I reminded myself
who
was doing the laughing.