Darkest Mercy

  “I am not as solemn as you’d think, my Queen.” Tavish

  smoothed a hand over one of his already impeccable sleeves. “I am merely as solemn as I need to be to protect my regent.”

  With a comfort she didn’t think she’d ever felt before, she told him, “I don’t think you’re truly solemn, Tavish. If you were, you’d be in a different court. You belong to Summer. I’m sure of that. I can feel how strongly tied you are to my court, to me. You’re mine, Tavish. I have no doubt with you.”

  Her advisor rewarded her with a joyous look, and in the moment, she knew this was the side of him the Summer Girls saw. He was captivating in that faery way that made her think of the old stories where mortals believed them gods. He had uncharacteristically dark eyes, and his hair was silver—not silvered as mortals’ hair turns with age, but true silver. It was, like Keenan’s copper-colored hair, a metallic hue that made clear that he was very much not mortal. She’d never seen his hair unbound; it was kept in a braid of sorts that stretched down his back. The braid bared part of a small black sun tattoo on the side of his throat. That tattoo stood out in a mostly undecorated court. Of course, so, too, did his High Court reserve and his Dark Court eyes. Those eyes were watching her, so she said what she’d wanted to: “I don’t trust Quinn.”

  “I spoke against his selection.” Tavish’s gaze was focused on her, but it was—as it had been increasingly in the past few months—an approving look he gave her. “My king made the choice.”

  “Well, your king isn’t here. Until I decide otherwise, watch Quinn. No . . . extreme measures yet, but keep a close eye on him. Who he talks to. When. Everything.” Aislinn knew worry was in her voice, but unlike with the rest of the court, she didn’t need to hide that from Tavish. With her advisor, she could be unguarded. It was a welcome honesty. She twisted her hands together. “Both Seth and Keenan could be . . . in who knows what sort of danger, and neither of them have the sense to tell me where

  they are.”

  Tavish moved to sit beside her. “They will both return, Aislinn.”

  “What if Ba—”

  “She would’ve told us had she killed them.” Tavish reached out and smoothed back her hair in an oddly paternal gesture. “Their deaths would be of more use to her if you knew of them. They are alive. Bananach attacked Dark Court fey. Seth was there, and he left with the High Queen’s brother.”

  Aislinn considered rebuking Tavish for not telling her that news the moment he came into the study, but it was of little use to do so: he would only remind her that court matters were her first priority. His withholding that information for the few moments they’d discussed Quinn was negligible. It had to be this way.

  Court before everything. Before everyone. Before myself.

  “You learned this when?”

  “That Seth was safe? Today.” Tavish paused to let her know he was weighing the degree of truth he would offer. “That there was conflict? Two days ago.”

  Before she could speak, he continued, “You are my queen, and my job is to advise and protect you. If anything could have been served by telling you sooner, I would’ve done so. I know he was in the conflict with Bananach, and that there were injuries and deaths.”

  Aislinn’s heartbeat faltered. “Who?”

  “A halfling the Dark Court protected, the Hound-tattooist’s sister, was killed.”

  She thought about the girls, their seemingly endless energy, and felt grief wash over her at the thought of either of them being gone. “Was it Ani or Tish?”

  “Tish,” he said.

  “Poor Rabbit!” Even as she spoke, Aislinn’s thoughts flew to her own family. If Grams were injured in the impending violence, Aislinn wasn’t sure how she’d function at all. “Send Grams away. With guards.”

  Tavish nodded. “A wise decision.”

  “I need to know she’s safe and out of Bananach’s reach.” Aislinn crossed her arms, hugging herself to keep from trembling. “Send her on a cruise, so she’s moving around. Somewhere as warm as possible.”

  Tavish nodded. “There is talk of another death . . . not quite complete. My sources in the Dark Court are not as forthcoming as I’d like, but it is my understanding that Irial has been injured.”

  “Irial?”

  Tavish nodded once. “The details beyond that are not available. Yet. It does not bode well. If Irial is . . . gone, Niall will not cope well.”

  “I don’t understand.” Aislinn disliked admitting ignorance, but there were times that doing so was essential. Tavish was her advisor, and he’d lived longer than she could yet fathom. His ability to explain the long histories of the faeries she had only just met was one of his many valuable skills.

  Expression inscrutable, Tavish began, “You know that Niall and Irial have a history?”

  He paused, and she nodded.

  Tavish continued, “Niall has held on to his anger at

  Irial’s deceits and betrayals for centuries—and rightly so—but becoming a regent makes one see the challenges that might motivate choices that otherwise appear cruel.” Her advisor paused again and gave her a pointed look.

  “Some faeries,” he continued, “don’t realize the complexities of ruling as quickly as you have, my Queen. Niall is stubborn, not nearly as willing to listen to advice as a regent needs to be . . . unless he hears it from Irial. The arrangement they’ve settled on has made the former Dark King the advisor to the new king; it is unprecedented.”

  Aislinn was trying to make sense of the nuances Tavish wasn’t explaining. “So Irial advises Niall, and they’re . . . what?”

  “Irial has moved back into his home . . . with the new Dark King,” Tavish said.

  “Right,” she drawled. “You live here. So?”

  Her advisor lowered his gaze. “With all due respect, my Queen, I have no amorous intentions toward you. I am advisor to the Summer Court. I advised Keenan’s father, Miach; Keenan; and before them, I guarded Miach’s father.”

  She smothered a laugh at Tavish’s pursed lips.

  “After a millennium of discord, Niall and Irial have found a sort of peace together,” Tavish added.

  “And now Irial’s injured. Dying, perhaps.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh.

  “Aside from advising Niall, Irial has been tending to some of the less palatable Dark Court businesses as well. Niall, for all of his recent changes, is not as cruel as the Dark King sometimes must be. Irial has fewer . . . restrictions,” Tavish said in a very quiet voice.

  “This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

  “Precisely,” Tavish agreed. “And I have no doubt that Bananach struck Irial for these reasons. She is striking at the courts, looking for weakness, and whichever court is not strong enough will be destroyed if she has her way.”

  “Our court is not strong enough to stand against any of the others.” Aislinn looked up and saw the somber expression on her advisor’s face before he spoke. She knew where his words would lead, had known for months that the Summer Court was not getting strong enough. “Tavish . . .”

  “There is a way to change that, my Queen.”

  “He’s not even here, and he doesn’t . . . Keenan and I don’t . . .” Her words faded.

  “I suspect the news would reach him if we were to let word be known that you were still willing to consider being his queen in all ways—”

  “If that’s what it takes to get him back here, do it.” She did not avert her gaze. “Perhaps it’s time I was the one doing the manipulating.”

  “As you will,” Tavish said.

  Aislinn hated the fact that she wasn’t sure whether she was more relieved at the possibility of her king’s return or terrified that Donia would see her actions as a threat. Donia is smarter than that. Of course, the Winter Queen already believed that the Summer King and Queen would inevitably become a couple, and sometimes, Aislinn thought that Seth’s refusal to be fully in her life was because he felt the same way.

  If it’s bet
ween giving in to that fate or sacrificing our court’s safety, I’m not sure what choice we have.

  Chapter 9

  Far Dorcha stood outside the Dark King’s home, waiting. Inside the house, the nearly dead king’s shade lingered. Unfortunately, the complications that Irial had created in his last days made the situation unprecedented.

  Clever maneuvering.

  It was enough to make Far Dorcha smile. The Dark Court could be counted on for the unexpected.

  “The door isn’t open.” Ankou suddenly stood beside him. Her winding-sheet dress hung from her gaunt body, but he wasn’t sure if she’d grown thinner or if he misremembered how delicate she appeared. “The body is in there, but the door—”

  “Sister.” He brushed a lock of white hair back and tucked it behind her ear. “I wondered when you’d arrive.”

  Ankou frowned. “The door should be open.”

  “The old king’s shade is still anchored in the world,” Far Dorcha said. He didn’t remind her that no one could deny him entrance, that no one could fight him if he chose to stop them, that his very presence could impose mortality on a faery if he willed it. Resorting to such measures was crass.

  “Perhaps you ought to knock,” Far Dorcha suggested.

  His sister closed her eyes and drew in the air around them. He felt the stillness grow heavier and, as always, chose not to question how the air could take on weight. Something about the change in it felt like pressure in his lungs, as if soil filled them. Ankou blinked and approached the door. This was why he was at the last Dark King’s house with her—not to protect her, but to keep her from disturbing an already untenable situation.

  Bananach’s machinations had drawn faeries from all of the courts, as well as from among the solitaries. She’d poisoned the former Dark King, and in doing so set herself against the court to which she’d always been allied. A declaration of war must be spoken by at least one regent before Bananach can have the fight she seeks. And none of the courts were declaring war.

  “Open.” Ankou hammered her fist on the door. “I am Ankou. Open.”

  A gargoyle that clung to the door opened its mouth, but predictably, it didn’t speak. The invitation to shed blood for entry was clever. What else for a king clever enough to dodge death?

  “Sister?” he prompted. “It seeks a taste.”

  She narrowed her gaze.

  “If you place your hand here”—he gestured at the open maw—“the creature can find you acceptable or not.”

  “I am Ankou,” she repeated. “I am always acceptable. We are Death. How could that be unacceptable?”

  Far Dorcha took her hand in his. “May I?”

  She nodded, so he extended her skeletal hand to the creature. It sank fangs into her flesh, and she stared at it dispassionately. Once, Far Dorcha had let another beast remove every drop of his sister’s blood. It was an experiment born of curiosity, nothing more, but it was as meaningless to her as other seemingly cruel experiments he’d tried. Ankou watched; she waited. When she was called upon, she collected the corpses where they fell. All of her tenderness was reserved for fallen faeries. Even he was only important to her because of his connection to the dead.

  He tugged her hand free and suggested, “Tell it again.”

  “I am Ankou.” She leaned closer to it. “You must open.”

  The gargoyle blinked at them, and for a moment, Far Dorcha wondered if the new Dark King could prohibit their entry. Is he as unexpected as the nearly dead king? Then, the gargoyle yawned, and the door cracked open.

  Before they could cross the threshold, several Hounds stepped forward. They were battle-bloodied, but they were no less daunting for their injuries.

  “I am Ankou,” she announced. “I have work here.”

  A growl behind the Hounds caused them step to either side. There stood the Gabriel, the Hound who led the Hunt. He looked haggard. His eyes were darkened, and his skin seemed sallow.

  “The king won’t let you take him,” Gabriel said in a low rumble. “Can’t reason with him just now.”

  “The body is about to be empty.” Ankou stepped toward the Hound.

  Gabriel nodded. “I know.”

  “I should be able to take it.”

  “Him,” Gabriel corrected. “Irial. The last king. He is not an it.”

  “The body is,” Ankou said.

  On both sides of Gabriel, the Hounds surged forward, and Far Dorcha reminded himself that his sister needed guidance. “She could free him from his—”

  “No.” Gabriel held out his tattooed forearms. On them, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out, etched there in flesh for any and all to read. The Hound, and thus his whole Hunt, had orders to protect the last Dark King.

  Ankou reached out with her bone-thin hand as if to grip the flesh where the orders were written. “So be it.”

  Far Dorcha caught her hand in his. He entwined those fatal fingers with his own, lacing their hands together, and told Gabriel, “You cannot stop Death. If we choose to enter, you will all die.”

  “I know.” Gabriel shrugged. “I obey the Dark King, though. Not everyone’s pleased with his choices, but the Hunt stands with him.”

  “At what cost?” Ankou prompted.

  “My pup died. More will fall. I know mortality, and it’s good that Iri rates your attention. Didn’t see the ones who took Tish’s shell away.” The Hound’s expression grew tenser still, but he shook his head. “Can’t take Iri yet, though. King says. I obey the Dark King . . . regardless of the cost.”

  Far Dorcha nodded. “I will speak with your king soon.” Then he turned to his sister. “Come, Sister, there is time yet.”

  When Ankou nodded, Far Dorcha released her hand—and she extended it faery-fast to cup Gabriel’s cheek.

  “You should not interfere with my work,” she told the Hound. “I could have offered mercy.”

  Then, Ankou leaned up and brushed her lips over his cheek, marking him for a fate that only she could see.

  “Come, Sister,” Far Dorcha repeated, and then he led Ankou away from the Dark King’s house.

  Chapter 10

  Gabriel slammed the door behind the departing death-fey. “No one is to open the door. Was I not clear?”

  The Hunt scattered as he turned around and snarled at them.

  “The king . . . both of them . . . need to be guarded, and letting them in will not help anyone.” He looked from Hound to Hound. “Niall needs a little time to—” The door chime sounded as the gargoyle on the outside of the door bit someone.

  Gabriel spun around and yanked the door open again. “What?”

  But it was not the death-fey; instead, one of the Winter Queen’s Scrimshaw Sisters stood on the step. She curtsied. “The Winter Queen—”

  “King’s not receiving visitors,” Gabriel cut her off. He shoved the door, but the implacable faery put a hand out and stopped it from closing.

  “The Winter Queen,” she repeated, “seeks audience with one of the Hunt.”

  Then the faery turned and walked away as if staring into the face of the Hunt had not been terrifying at all. Gabriel grinned for a moment as he closed the door, but as he walked through the darkened house and into the room where the Dark King paced restlessly beside Irial’s deathbed, his grin vanished.

  “Niall?”

  The Dark King looked at him, and for a moment, there was no recognition in Niall’s eyes. He stared at Gabriel, but did not speak or indicate awareness in any way. Then, the shadows in the king’s eyes flickered, and Niall said, “I am awake now, right?”

  “You are.”

  “I don’t want to be,” Niall rasped.

  “I know.” Gabriel had thought about his options: he couldn’t bring Sorcha here; Keenan was still away from Huntsdale; that left Aislinn and Donia. The Summer Queen wasn’t as powerful as the Winter Queen, and Niall had unpredictable reactions to her. Donia, on the other hand, wanted to talk to a Hound and was friend to the Dark King. Hoping his emotions were hidden, Gabri
el told Niall, “My Hounds are here. I’ve called in others

  we trust, Niall. We’ve hired solitaries whose loyalty can be bought.”

  “Good.” Niall wasn’t looking at Gabriel now; his attention was once more on Irial. “That’s good.”

  “I can get more aid.” Gabriel stepped over to stand beside the king he’d served for centuries and the grieving king he’d sworn to protect at cost of his own life. “I can bring help.”

  Niall glanced at Gabriel. “Aid? Healers?”

  Gabriel weighed the words he needed; as the head of the Hunt, he was not used to needing to twist truth. The faery he sought was not a healer, but a regent who could hopefully help his king. Gabriel looked at Niall and said, “I think I can get aid for my king.”

  Niall nodded. “Yes. The other healers were wrong. They had to be.” The Dark King motioned to the far corner, where a faery was sprawled motionless. “That one said Irial was past saving.”

  “Chela will keep you safe while I go,” Gabriel assured Niall, but the Dark King had already turned away.

  Silently, Gabriel gathered the healer, gave orders to his second-in-command, and went to see the Winter Queen.

  Chapter 11

  “Where the hell is Keenan?” Aislinn grumbled. “I’m not ready for a war. I’m not ready for a grief-mad Dark King, either. . . . I don’t know how to do this on my o—”

  A knock at the study door interrupted her, and barely a blink had passed before Tavish was in front of her. Even here in the loft, he kept himself between her and the door. A sword hung at his side, and she knew that another weapon, a sliver-thin steel blade, was strapped to his ankle. The very fact that he could wear cold steel spoke of how strong—and old—he was.

  The door opened, and Seth walked into the room. “Ash?”

  Her first instinct was to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and cling to him, but that wasn’t where they were—not anymore, perhaps never again. She brushed her hands over her skirt, smoothing it down, and smiled at him. “Seth.”