Authors: Jocelyn Fox
The Dark Throne
The Dark Throne
Copyright © 2016 by Jocelyn A. Fox
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.
eBook design by Maureen Cutajar
Print ISBN: 978-1530966981
Contents
Prologue
Q
ueen Mab, ruler of the Unseelie Court and all its lands, monarch of the Night and the Winter, once the most powerful being in any world, felt the raw touch of death for the first time in her long reign. She sat upon her delicately carved throne in the Great Hall of Darkhill, its magnificence now dimmed with encroaching dust, dulling the shine of silver and casting a veil of grey over the vibrant colors of the tapestries. Only her Three now attended her; her Named Knights brought all others before the Throne with eyes lowered, instructed not to raise their gaze upon pain of banishment from the Court. She had heard whispers of thoughts, musings of fading power and dying stars, and thought to herself that it might soon be necessary to blindfold all who knelt before the Winter Throne...or spill ebony-dark blood upon the steps of the dais, if any dared defy her. Deep beneath the conscious thoughts of her Court, she tasted the bloody tang of fear.
One of her snow-white hands raised slightly of its own volition, but the Unseelie Queen stilled her rebellious fingers, raising her chin as she resisted the urge to trace the fine wrinkles appearing around her eyes and lips, marring the cold smooth beauty of her skin like a spider-web of cracks through translucent ice.
The newly baptized Vaelanbrigh turned his head slightly at the movement of his Queen, nothing more than an incline of his head, asking her silently if she had need of him. Queen Mab glanced at him and looked away. The cost of the making of her youngest Named Knight had reached deep into her bones; the sword at his hip did not have a sapphire winking from the pommel, but a blood-red ruby. The making of the blade had perhaps been more difficult than the blood-baptism of the Knight. Even the weak grey light of the Great Hall glinted russet on the Vaelanbrigh’s head. Mab caught herself comparing the dark reddish gleam to the shine of a raven’s wing, the deep blue of a tumultuous sea…the colors of her lost Knight, her valiant Vaelanbrigh who had sacrificed so much, and so silently. He had been her bright and ambitious favorite, a blazing flame to put all others to shame—for he had accomplished all that she had asked of him, perhaps in penance for that fateful day of his one and only failure in her service. The Vaelanseld served her well and faithfully, but he was like a great draft horse, steady and even-paced. The Vaelanmavar—she grimaced at the thought, knowing she must gather her strength to sever flesh and bone one last time—slid his way through the Court with the cunning and slyness of a fox, a trait she had once valued but now looked back upon and wondered at her own wisdom.
It was not often the way of queens to second-guess their own actions, but Queen Mab questioned every decision that had led her to this precipice. “We stand upon the cliff,” she whispered. That was the last thought she had grasped from Finnead’s fading consciousness, after the rush and thrill of battle. A cliff. Flames, and then cold…bone-aching, soul-searing cold, sliding into the fading and emptiness of death. She shivered.
The Vaelanbrigh gave no sign that he heard his Queen’s whisper. She had begun talking to herself, sitting on the Winter Throne in the Great Hall for days upon days, unmoving save for the occasional whisper. He knew she focused her power on weaving a protection for Darkhill, a last effort to save the Court from the burgeoning Shadow that spilled like a tide of blood across Mab’s lands. He felt the silvery ache of her sorrow for Finnead in the back of his mind and calmly accepted her grief as his own. This calm acceptance of what had been, for a few moments, the truth, allowed him to shield from Mab the terrible, hopeful reality: that Finnead was alive, and in the Seelie Realm, traveling with the Bearer in her quest to stem the rising tide of darkness. He did not mourn the waning of his own Queen, because it was only through her weakness that he lived. It was only through the most perilous chance that she had not yet discovered the knowledge that he held in the deepest recesses of his mind. If Queen Mab knew that Finnead lived, and still journeyed with the Bearer into Titania’s lands, her fury would eclipse her love for Finnead…because as Ramel was beginning to understand all too well, Mab’s love for her Three was akin to a mistress’ fondness for her most lethal hunting hounds. The Winter Queen’s love almost felt like jealous possession.
He felt her draw power from him. The sensation had terrified him at first, when he’d been newly blood-baptized. It felt as though her lips were upon his own and she sucked the air from his lungs, squeezing his heartbeat to a pause as she grasped at his life force. He let the Queen drink her fill—though struggle would be useless. After the disappearance of the Walker Murtagh—another layer to his dangerous deception, a mystery explained to the waning Queen as Murtagh’s sudden death, rather than his sudden rescue by the Bearer—Mab relied more and more upon her Three to bolster her power. He stilled himself, the red stone set into the hilt of his sword pulsing softly with light as he drew deep breaths against the pull of the Unseelie Queen drinking his life force. One day, perhaps, she would drink him down whole, her cold presence offering little comfort as he sank into the darkness of death. Ramel clenched his jaw. It would be worth it, if it would help the Bearer and….her company.
Shadows laced the edge of his vision. He steeled himself, willing himself to stay on his feet; even now the Queen did not tolerate displays of weakness, especially from one of her Three. Their weakness reflected her own, and the lash of her anger would be swift and hot. Ramel gripped the pommel of the Brighbranr….and staggered as the Queen’s whirlpool-current pull abruptly ceased. A strangled gasp floated from Mab’s lips. He turned, keeping his eyes downcast. “My queen?”
The Unseelie Queen did not reply, her breath labored and shuddering. Ramel reached through the invisible link to the Vaelanseld—best to alert the Queen’s oldest Knight to her distress, if he had not already sensed it for himself. He raised his eyes enough to see the Queen’s marble-white hands gripping the arms of the throne, fingers like claws. As he watched, one of the Queen’s fingernails split, dark blood dripping down onto the intricately carved stone. He leapt up the steps of the dais, reaching for his own
taebramh
though Mab had drained most of it.
“What is it?” the Vaelanseld asked brusquely, striding into the throne room from the southern entrance.
“I do not know,” Ramel replied, raising his voice above the Queen’s labored breathing. She gave a sudden violent shudder and as if in sympathy the floor of the throne room quaked. Dust filtered down from the shadowed vault of the ceiling. The Vaelanseld ran to the Queen’s side. With one hand out for balance, Ramel looked at the Queen fully for the first time since his blood-baptism. She arched back against the throne, eyes wide and unseeing, her perilously beautiful face frozen in a rictus of agony. With each gasp her body convulsed slightly. Blood smeared her fingertips from her shattered nails.
“My queen, my queen,” said the Vaelanseld, dropping to his knees beside the throne, reaching up with one hand to lay his palm against the queen’s snow-white cheek. Another convulsion shook Mab’s body, and the throne room groaned with another quake.
“Is it an attack? Should we sound the bells?” Ramel gripped the pommel of the Brighbranr and fought the urge to shake the Vaelanseld.
“No.” The strangled whisper passed Mab’s bloodless lips. Her eyes rolled back, her body arched violently and she screamed, a sound of hounds and bells and shrieking wind. A crashing tidal wave of power slammed into Ramel through his link with Mab, forcing him down onto one knee. The maelstrom of power—a familiar yet alien force, not of Mab but tasting of blood and fire and baptism—raged through them and around them. With a sound like bones breaking, the stones of the dais cracked and a great wind swept through the throne room, gathering up the dust from the long silent stretch of striving against the darkness, lining the colors of the great tapestries with jewel tones and shining silver light. The pain receded and Ramel’s very bones hummed with power; he stood and flexed one hand in wonder, eyes widening when he looked up to see the Unseelie Queen, no longer sitting silent as a statue, but cocooned in a whirling silver glow, levitating on the wave of power, the Vaelanseld looking up at her with worship in his eyes.
When the glow slowly faded, setting Mab down upon her feet gracefully, the Unseelie Queen shone more radiantly than Ramel had ever seen her, the bells sewn into her hem crashing once again with all the force of storm waves against black cliffs. When she spoke, Ramel fought the urge to press his hands against his ears, even with the protection of his blood-baptism as one of her Three.
“The High Queen has been crowned.” She turned to the Vaelanseld with a fierce light in her eyes. “Sound the bells. We ride to war against the Shadow.”
Chapter 1
I
heard the voices first. I drifted for a long while in the warm darkness, wandering through dreams both beautiful and terrifying. But then I heard the voices, and something about them struck a chord within me. I couldn’t remember why they were important, but they drew me back toward a weighted existence, a hard and bright world laced with flashes of hot pain. A few times, I thought I might venture back toward the voices, their murmurs beckoning me; but tidal waves of agony pushed me again into the more welcoming darkness.