“At least. But not much longer.”
“Ah.” Keith looked from Vanya's bright azure eyes to Fyodor's that glittered like cleaved rock. “So it begins.”
“So it ends,” Fyodor answered, crossing the room to close one skeletal hand on Keith's biceps. He squeezed in sympathy. As Keith met the other wolf's gaze, they shared a silent nod.
“Go on ahead,” Keith said, drawing a breath, breaking his first promise already. “Go. Take my son. I'll be there.”
“Elder Brotherâ” Vanya began, from the doorway.
Fyodor cut him off with a gesture. “As you say. Congratulations on your wedding, Keith MacNeill.”
“Thank you,” Keith said, and spread his arms so the sprites and brownies could finish undressing him.
Chapter Eighteen
A small army of maids and ladies lay in wait for Seeker when she returned to her chambers. They bathed her and dressed her in layers of underthings, corsets and garters, all of them meant to be seen. In private, at least. The Mebd had indeed chosen a dress for her: neither white, ivory, nor Seeker's habitual gray, but an emerald green watered moiré silk jeweled in gold thread, amethyst and tourmaline across the low-necked bodice and down the peacock length of the cathedral train.
Seeker suffered her hair to be oiled and dressed, diamonds pinned through it and pearls shining against its darkness like moons seen through a mist. The maids' brushes made her face as perfect as the Mebd's, if golden rather than porcelain, and the gown weighed on her; its violet-silk-lined Queen sleeves and ruched skirts were heavy as stones piled on her chest.
This isn't how I thought I'd marry.
A tap fell on the door as the last emerald button of the portrait collar was fastened at the nape of her neck. Seeker startled as if someone had kicked the door of her stall.
“Come in!” Her voice stayed steady. Even commanding.
Wonder of wonders.
But composure fled when the door to her chamber opened and Whiskey came into the room, impeccable in a white tie and tails. He smiled and swept a bow, a silver horsehead cane in his right hand and a spray of blossoms in his left. “I see Her Majesty forgot your corsage, mistress, ” he said, as the ladies and maids withdrew out of earshot, one or two of them shooting him nervous glances.
He extended the blossoms to her: a spray of tiny violet orchids, each no bigger than the diamonds in her hair, with an emerald pin to fix them.
“How did you know the colors?” It was the first thing she thought, and she regretted the words as she said them.
“I've seen the dress,” he answered, with a satisfied smile. “If I may pin you?” He winked at the double entendre.
Seeker restrained herself from smacking her forehead; it would have destroyed a half hour's paint. “You may.”
He handed her his cane and the flowers, retaining the pin. Long, warm fingers slid under the low neckline of her gown, protecting her from the stabbing tip. “It wouldn't do,” he said, securing the orchids over her bosom, “to spill blood on the silk. Even if the color is dark.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He winked, and his fingers slid a little. She struggled not to gasp, but she couldn't hide the shiver. “Nothing,” he answered. “Careful. You might tumble right out of that gown, my lady. Despite your corset.”
“Your hand, Whiskey.”
“Yes, mistress.” He smiled and stepped back. “I suppose I shouldn't ask for the honor of giving the bride away?”
She wished she could pivot on the ball of her foot and stride away, but the corset set her spine and the train drew her shoulders up stiff, and she would have had to march on a sweeping curve to manage a turn. “Arthur is doing it,” she told him. “The Mebd asked him.”
“Ah, well. Then I will see you at the feast, I hope.” He reclaimed his cane and turned away, then hesitated with one hand on the door. “And perhaps claim a dance or two.” Flawless, he bowed and left before she could answer.
Arthur awaited Seeker among the tapestries outside the throne room. He turned to her as she came through torchlight, flanked by her attendants. Though his gray-blue eyes gave away nothing, she saw the way his chest rose and his breath caught as he looked her over. “Were you fair instead of dark,” he said, “would swear I knew you, Queen Elaine.”
“Not Queen yet,” she answered.
“Soon enough to deserve the courtesy.” He took her arm, sliding his hand under the floor-brushing sweep of the Queen sleeves. “I've only seen the like of these once before. ”
“They weren't in fashion yet when you . . . entered your slumber,” Seeker told him. “Where would you have seen them?”
“On a Fae maiden's gown,” he said, turning too-bright eyes away. “The music is starting. Is your train arranged, my lady?”
“My lord,” she answered with a nod, wondering at his reaction. “Let us do this thing.”
Brownies, strong beyond their size, swung open the relief-carven doors, and Arthur in his cochineal and royal purple led Seeker over the sea blue, sea green tiles into the Mebd's throne room. He tightened his grip on her arm when she shuddered and might have stumbled, sneaking her a wry little grin. “You're white,” he whispered. “Fear not. 'Tis a pleasant sort of torment, marriage. In its way.”
Seeker nodded, but her eyes were fixed on Keith, who wore green and gold to complement her gown. He turned to watch her enter, his hair very bright against all that verdigris. Not as bright as the red, red robes swathing the Mebd, however: robes as red as the pall over the throne upon which she sat, her body seeming relaxed and at ease. Seeker winced at the sight, feeling the gouge on her palm sting as if fresh. She let the corset hold her straight and didn't limp on her taped, aching toe.
The wedding itself passed in a blur. Seeker couldn't remember the vows she spoke, or the ones Keith answered, or anything except the susurrus of the Mebd's voice as she administered them without rising from her throne. When it was done, Seeker felt his lips brush hers and couldn't bring herself to close her eyes. The ring on her finger was a broad red-gold band paved with emeralds; it felt even heavier than the gown.
A handmaid lifted her train. Keith took her arm and helped her descend the steps. She searched the crowd with flickering eyes, restraining with an iron will the urge to turn her head. “Have you seen Ian?”
“Before the wedding,” he whispered, bending toward her. “I sent him on an errand.”
"Away from our
wedding
?” The guests stood, applauding as they passed, turning like so many clockwork follies.
“I'm leaving after the toast,” he said, and she realized that the lines around his eyes and mouth were more than the worries of a marriage that wasn't as he had envisioned.
“Keith, what's going on? Where did you send Ian?”
Her voice was low, for his ears only, and he answered the same way: “My father is dying. I'd have left already, but I wasn't going to leave you at the altar.”
“I'll come with you,” she offered. “I just need time to change. Or somethingâ” Arthur caught her eye, and offered her a half-bow with his applause as they passed. Seeker smiled in return, noticing that he was flanked by Cairbre on one side and Cliodhna on the other. “âto hack the train off with.”
“Elaine,” he said. “No. I'm sorry. It's only for the pack.”
“You and your fucking macho werewolf society,” she hissed.
“Sorry.” He even sounded sorry. “Elaine. My
father
.”
“I didn't get to go home when mine died.” They were at the door and walking down the hallway now, to more applause; brownies and bogies lined the walls, clapping and cheering. And Whiskey, standing last before the doorway to the great hall.
“You'd prefer not to see this. Trust me. Besides, you'll have to hostess the feast in my absence.”
Something rose up in Seeker, a sort of icy precision that seemed to flow up the channel of her spine. “Go.”
I'm a Queen now. Although I'm sure the Mebd wouldn't put up with this.
And then she thought of the Queen's impassive face as she leaned on her throne and felt her cheeks blanch.
You've misjudged her.
It was an odd thing, a voice that might have been someone else's, speaking as if in Seeker's ear.
You've misjudged it all.
Someone brought wine in glasses, and she and Keith drank the toast.
Keith took his leave with a kiss, and the Mebd came up beside Seeker as she watched him walk out of the hall, still clad in his wedding green. “Congratulations,” the Mebd said in her ear. “Have you seen the Merlin?”
Seeker finished the wine that was left in her glass, set it down and picked up her husband's, shaking her head in answer to the question. Carel had not been at the wedding. “I want my son's heart back,” she said, frowning around the goblet's crystal rim.
“It was that or his soul,” the Mebd said softly. “I've kept it fed. You peered under the pall on my throne.”
“So?”
“So if I hadn't taken one or the other, he would not survive sitting on it, kinswoman. And the throne must be fed as well. It's something of what has kept Annwn alive.” The Queen inclined her head to Seeker and turned away.
“Scian,” Seeker said after her, softly.
The Mebd halted, one foot in midair. She set her slipper down gently on the rose-and-green marble of the floor and turned, her placid face half-smiling. “She taught you all the Names, didn't she? All of Manannan mac Llyr's children.”
“No,” Seeker answered. “She didn't tell me her own.”
“No,” the Mebd answered, braids swaying like ears of wheat under her veil and her crown. “She wouldn't.” The Queen nodded slightly in acknowledgment, turned once more, and drifted away like a ship cutting water.
Seeker never knew how she made it through dinner, or out of her gown and into her nightdress, except that many hands helped her. Those same servants would have put her to bed, after, but she threw them out and built up her fire and sat drinking tea with brandy and staring into the flames, gnawing her thumbnail until she tasted blood. Someone had taken the jewel-toned orchids from her gown, trimmed the stems, and set them in a water glass on the mantel, and every so often her eyes rose to it and then sheered away.
“I told you you would need me more, after the wedding. ”
“I didn't summon you, Whiskey,” she answered without turning her head.
“You didn't bid me stay away, either,” the Kelpie answered from the doorway. He shut the door as silently as he had opened it and threw the latch behind. “You look lonely, my lady.”
She stood, letting her teacup clatter on the table. “And you're just the man to help me with that, I suppose?”
“I'm not a man.” But he came to her, smiling, to lay a hand on her shoulder. “I thought you wouldn't say no to company.”
The crystal-hard clarity that had infected her earlier didn't shift. She found herself frowning, meeting Whiskey's blue eyes and his companionable smile. “I thought about what you said to me by the loch,” she said, taking his hand in her own. “I was thinking that I might understand you better if I were full-Fae.”
“I might understand you better if I had a soul.” He shrugged. “But I doubt it. And we don't need to understand each other. If anything, mistress, you need to understand the Magi.”
“I understand what I need to,” she said bitterly. “Prometheus. What more do I need to know?” She thought of Matthew and shook her head. “Fire or godhood, what does it matter what you're stealing?” She ran her thumb along the broad silver band around his. “There's a limit to how much iron that silver can protect you from, water-horse.”
“I know,” he said. He kissed her on the mouth and she didn't have the energy to push him away. “There's a limit to how long a mortal can bear to be alone.” His teeth touched her neck, her ear. His breath was hot as acid on her flesh.
“I know,” she answered, leaning into his embrace. “I need to be stronger, Whiskey. And I need to be free of the Mebd.”
Lile,
she thought.
Scian. Maat. Damn you and your riddles, Morgan. I think I finally understand.
“Make your King stronger,” he offered, long fingers brushing her cheek. “Strong as his love for you.”
She looked at him with something that didn't feel like pity. “Have you ever loved anything, Uisgebaugh?”
“I have no soul,” he answered.
“No,” she said, “but you have a heart. Ian can feel love; he can't feel the pain of betrayal, though. The Mebd is soulless, and you are, and there's no love in either one of you. But you can hold fast to something, can't you?”
“Fast indeed.”
“Can you hate?”
“I've never needed to.” A gesture with an open hand, moon-silver glittering.
“I've been thinking about bondage, you know.” Almost hating herself: wishing she could hate herself. Wanting one last taste of hatred, before the end. She saw the startled expression cross his face, alert like a horse prick-eared after a lump of sugar.
He didn't speak, just stood. Expectant.
Hopeful.
“Will you accept a gift of me, Uisgebaugh?” Ritual words. She thought of a braid in the Mebd's golden hair, and smiled a lie.
“Yes,” he said softly, and she trembled, and thought of the throne.
Nothing with a heart could sit on that and live. And Ian will never sit on that thing.
The blood of Manannan mac Llyr.
You go to judgment . . . less what you have given away. All right, Mist. Maat. I understand now.
“I am Elaine Elizabeth Andraste MacNeill,” she said. “And I give unto you my soul, Uisgebaugh. My soul and my Name, and all that entails. ”