The Shattered Dark (6 page)

My stomach tightens with unease. My hearing isn’t nearly as good as a fae’s, but I’m
listening and watching for an attack, too.

Moss and red-flowered plants grow out of cracks in the stone walls on both sides of
us. On Earth, that would be a sign that this part of the city isn’t well taken care
of, but here in the Realm, it adds a certain beauty and exoticness to the twisting
passageway.

The Inner City is where the wealthiest fae live and where the high nobles have their
secondary residences away from their provincial estates. We reach one of those residences
soon. Kyol pointed it out to me once before, saying it belonged to Lord Kaeth, elder
of Ravir and the high noble of Beshryn Province, one of the fae we have to convince
to support Lena. The gardens surrounding his home are still green despite it being
late fall here.

We turn right at the edge of a meticulously trimmed hedge, then left when we reach
the avenue of the Descendants. Blue light from the magic-lit lampposts makes it easy
to see the cobblestones beneath our feet. They’re level except for the parallel indentions
where
cirikith
-drawn carts have weathered away the stone. None of the beasts, which look like a
thin version of a stegosaurus with horselike hooves and haunches, are out now. When
the sun goes down, they fall into a minihibernation. It takes a hell of a lot of effort
to keep them awake through that, and even if you do, the
cirikiths
move so sluggishly it’s hardly worth the effort.

Despite how well this is going so far, goose bumps break out on my arms, and the nape
of my neck tingles. Out here on the avenue, there are plenty of places for the remnants
to hide.

“Relax,” Aren says beside me. “They’ll come after me before they do you.”

I pull my cloak more tightly around me. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

“It would have been a few weeks ago.” My hood is too far forward for me to see him,
but I can imagine the amusement
in his eyes. That’s just like him, shrugging off the fact that people want to kill
him, but I hate that he’s a target. I might be trying to take our relationship slow,
but losing him would devastate me.

The avenue curves to the left, and now I have goose bumps for a completely different
reason. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve walked up this road, the view at its
end is still staggering.

The Silver Palace is more like Neushweinstein Castle than an impenetrable fortress.
It’s impractical for defensive purposes, but aesthetically? Aesthetically, it’s freaking
beautiful. Six blackwood turrets, all lit by the fae’s magic, rise into the night
sky. The palace is built against the base of the Corrist Mountains, so the silver-edged
spires in the back reach higher than those in the front. The
Sidhe Cabred
, the Ancestors’ Garden that only a few privileged fae were allowed to enter under
King Atroth’s rule, climbs up the steep cliffs marking the mountains’ southern edge.

We reach the end of the avenue and step onto the huge, tiled promenade in front of
the castle’s main gate. The palace has three entrances, but this one is the most impressive.
The slate blue stone that makes up its walls is imported from a province in the southeast,
so the lighter color stands out dramatically against the deep red-brown of the mountain
behind it.

We don’t enter through the carved blackwood gate—it’s gargantuan and takes forever
to open and close—we enter through a nondescript door to its left, and I relax a little.
The palace is filled with fae loyal to Lena. Only a few watch from their posts in
this chamber, but somewhere above us, archers stand guard, ready to kill and raise
an alarm if the remnants attempt another attack.

I pull my hood back. As soon as I do, I see two fae heading our way. One is a rebel
swordsman whose skin, despite the chilly air, glistens with sweat. The other is the
impeccably dressed assistant to Lord Kaeth, the high noble whose home we passed. Their
accents are thick and, when they reach us, they both start speaking at once. I can’t
decipher what they say. I began learning their language only a little more than a
month ago, and while I’m picking it up quickly,
I struggle when fae speak too quickly or if I’m distracted by other things.

Aren holds up a hand.
“Not now.”

The swordsman swallows his words, then respectfully bows his head before he retreats.

The assistant isn’t as easily dismissed.
“Shall I tell Lord Kaeth you’re with the human?”

That, I do understand, but there must be more meaning in the words or the fae’s tone
because Aren stiffens.

“You can tell Lord Kaeth I’m with the queen.”
His response is way too calm, but the fae doesn’t seem to notice.

“She isn’t the queen,”
he says. Then, with a disdainful glance in my direction, he turns on his heel and
walks away.

Aren’s eyes don’t leave Lord Kaeth’s assistant, not until he takes my arm to lead
me down a side corridor.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he answers.

“Aren.”

He squeezes my hand, keeps walking. “It’s nothing, McKenzie.”

Which means it’s definitely something, and I’m 99.9 percent sure I know what it is.
Lena and the rebels might have won control of the palace, but that doesn’t mean everyone
in the Realm is suddenly okay with our races being together. King Atroth forbade relationships
between humans and fae. That was something that always held Kyol back, but it hasn’t
deterred Aren. He and the rebels are much more accepting of humans than the Court
fae ever were. The problem is, the rebels don’t make up the majority of the population.
Most fae still think humans and human culture damage the Realm’s magic.

Aren looks at me. He must see that I’ve figured it out because he says, “I’m not him.
I won’t pretend I don’t have feelings for you.”

Him.
Kyol. I spent the last decade pretending I didn’t have feelings for him in front
of the Court fae. It was a ridiculously long time to stay in love with a guy who put
the Realm and his king’s wishes before me.

I don’t respond to Aren; I just keep pace next to him as we
step into the palace’s sculpture garden. It must be late—maybe close to the middle
of the night—because only a few fae are gathered here. This is a serene place that
reminds me of a movie version of a Roman forum, a beautiful, open space adorned with
carved-stone statues and vibrant green plants, where people can meet and talk. Some
of the fae watch us with curious expressions as we pass through its center. Their
looks say they want us to stop, to answer questions or provide information or gossip,
but nobody actually calls out to us.

The huge, gilded doors to the king’s hall are shut. Or is it the queen’s hall now?
Lena’s made very few changes these last two weeks. She’s waiting until the high nobles
confirm her lineage and approve her taking the throne so that her decrees will be
considered official. Nobody knows when—or if—that vote will happen, though.

A guard—one of Lena’s rebels—opens a smaller door that blends into the larger one’s
design. I follow Aren in, and we walk side by side down the plush blue carpet. It’s
only after Aren curses under his breath that I notice no swordsmen or archers are
in here. Just Lena. She’s sitting with her shoulders slumped on the top step of the
silver dais at the end of the hall, not on the silver throne that crowns it. It’s
a constant battle, trying to get Lena to act like a queen.

She straightens as we approach, but it’s a weak attempt to look strong and alert.
Her normally perfect, glowing complexion is marred by the dark circles under her eyes,
and her long, blond hair doesn’t seem as silky as usual. She’s wearing a white tunic
that fits snug around her slender frame, and something that I can only describe as
half of a long skirt is tied around her hips. The lean muscles in her outer left thigh
are visible, but her entire right leg is hidden under the skirt’s thick layers of
blue and white feathers. Lena’s father, the elder of Zarrak, was the high noble of
Adaris, one of the provinces King Atroth dissolved to gain the throne, so she usually
dresses like she’s highborn, but this has to be the most ornate and impractical thing
I’ve ever seen her wear.

“No one’s in here,” she says defensively.

“That’s the other problem.” Aren stops at the foot of the dais. “There should be.
Where are your guards?”

“I sent them to the
veligh
.” Her expression is stony, as if she’s daring him to question her decision.

Beside me, Aren stiffens. “The remnants?”

“Of course,” she says.

Veligh
translates into waterfront. Most of the buildings of the Inner City are to the south
and west of the palace. To the east, there are no homes or stores, just a sliver of
land before you reach the silver wall. The Imyth Sea is on its other side, and because
that part of the wall and palace would be so difficult to penetrate, Lena’s kept only
a minimal guard on watch. Apparently, the remnants decided to take advantage of that.

“Their numbers are growing, not shrinking,” Lena says, directing an empty stare at
one of the tall, arched windows lining the wall to the left of the throne.

My gut tightens. The remnants haven’t met with much success these last two weeks.
Sure, they’ve hurt and killed a good number of us, but we’ve hurt and killed a good
number of them, too. They should be losing support, especially since Lena wants to
make changes that will benefit the majority of the Realm. She’s promised to do away
with Atroth’s unpopularly high gate taxes, and there will be no more special exemptions
and favors for the fae who kiss noble ass—my words, not Lena’s. Fae will no longer
have to worry about swordsmen invading their homes on hunches, and they will no longer
be required to register their magics. I honestly don’t understand why the remnants
are willing to kill to keep Lena from the throne.

“Do you think they’ve found another Descendant?” I ask as I take off my cloak. A Descendant
with a traceable bloodline back to the
Tar Sidhe
, the fae who ruled the Realm centuries ago, might have a stronger claim to the throne
than Lena. I might—
might
—be able to understand their behavior if that’s what has happened.

The palace archivist showed me Lena’s heritage after the king was killed. It confirmed
that she’s a Descendant, and that she and her brother, Sethan, would have been high
nobles if their parents weren’t murdered and their province dissolved.

Lena turns away from the window, but before she can respond, another voice answers
my question.

“If they had a Descendant, they would have told the high nobles by now.”

It’s Kyol. His voice still affects me, sending a warm, anxious tingle through my body.
It’s impossible to ignore his presence. Even without turning, I know where he is.
It’s like the air itself recognizes his authority, and it’s difficult to describe
what I’m feeling. Kyol is the man I loved for a decade, and what we had together didn’t
just disappear overnight. I still care deeply for him, but I haven’t seen him in two
weeks, mostly because I’ve been avoiding him. Or we’ve been avoiding each other. The
last thing I want to do is hurt him, and I’m worried that seeing me, especially seeing
me with Aren, will do just that.

But it will be obvious I’m uncomfortable if I don’t acknowledge his presence, so after
setting my cloak down on the lowest step of the dais, I finally turn and see him striding
toward us. His dark hair lies damp with sweat against his forehead, and there’s a
smudge of dirt or ash on his left cheek.
Jaedric
covers his shoulders and torso, his forearms, thighs, and calves, and even though
it’s obvious he’s been fighting the remnants, he’s almost more presentable than Aren,
whose
jaedric
armor is slipshod in comparison. Aren would be the first to receive a new, well-oiled
set of armor if he wanted it, but he chooses to wear these patched-together pieces.

Kyol stops a few paces away and gives me a slight nod. It’s the way he always acknowledged
me in front of Atroth and other Court fae. Detached but respectful.

“We didn’t tell the high nobles about Sethan,” Aren says. His posture has changed.
Before Kyol entered, he was annoyed at Lena, but he was relaxed. He’s not relaxed
anymore. His left hand, which was resting casually on his sword’s hilt, has dropped
to his side, and his right is now loose and open, ready to draw the blade if he needs
to. He won’t need to, though. Kyol has sworn to protect Lena, and he’d never do anything
to hurt me. Aren knows that. I don’t think he’s aware of the subtle change in his
posture.

“We didn’t tell them about Sethan because we knew Atroth would attack Haeth if he
knew who we were,” Lena says, referring to the city she and her brother grew up in.
Sethan was the fae the rebels intended to put on the throne, but he was killed by
the Court fae outside of Vancouver. If he were still alive, I think the transition
to a new ruler would be going much more smoothly. He was prepared to be king, wanted
it. Lena’s a different story.

“Maybe no one is convinced you would be different,” I say to Lena. “They might be
afraid you’ll attack their homes and friends just like they attacked yours.” Then,
reluctantly, I add, “They associate the rebellion with Brykeld.”

Mentioning the city’s name puts the taste of smoke on my tongue. Aren’s known as the
Butcher of Brykeld. That’s one of a dozen reasons why I hated him when we met. He
wasn’t actually there when one of his men gave orders to seal families inside their
homes and burn the city, but most fae don’t know or don’t believe that. I didn’t believe
it until I got to know him better, until I saw the pain of the memory in his eyes.

He looks at me now, his expression uncharacteristically closed off. He knows I have
issues with some of the things he did to overthrow King Atroth, and I think he’s afraid
I can’t get over his past. I’m working on it. This world isn’t my world. It’s more
violent, more archaic. On the one hand, I understand that. On the other, doing things
like exposing fae to tech until they break or turn
tor’um
is wrong. The sudden loss of magic makes them go mad. That’s why human technology
is banned from the Realm—too much exposure cripples them for life.