Azar went still, rendered immobile by the abhorrent thought. After a moment he growled so savagely the ground trembled beneath their feet, “That will never happen! You summoned us. That means you have a plan. What is it?”
Ixcythe smiled. “We want something back,” she purred venomously. “We make that thieving human bitch want something back, too.”
3
Anybody want a drink before the war?
MAC
Cruce lied.
No surprise there.
Technically, he counters mockingly in my mind, although he no longer exists, I didn’t.
Technically, he’s correct. The seductive master of deception was also a master of precision. Loopholes, details, omissions, and evasions were his forte.
After confirming the key to using the High Queen’s power lay in forging a connection to the planet itself, Cruce also told me new queens were weak queens and required anywhere from fifty to five hundred years to attain their full strength and powers.
What he failed to share is fifty to five hundred years is the approximate length of time required to be able to wield the full powers of the High Queen only if the queen is already Fae and, although the True Magic can be passed to another species, the passage of it alone isn’t enough to turn that species Fae. Which I recently discovered in the tenth or eleventh millionth file I’ve reviewed during my incarceration in this chamber wherein time moves differently than in the mortal realm.
I assumed the transfer of Aoibheal’s power would transform me completely. My hair changed. Last time I saw myself in a glass, my eyes were eerily backlit, banked with luminous fire. I possess considerable Fae magic, from sifting to transforming elements to rebuilding things that once existed, to affecting the weather with my mood. I assumed all of me would change. Like Christian. Sean O’Bannion. Inspector Jayne.
I assumed wrong.
There are only two ways for a mortal to become truly, fully Fae: be transformed by a fully Fae High Queen, or reside for a lengthy period of time at the Light Court without ever leaving (bet the First Queen never shared that with the Unseelie king!).
Five thousand years at the Light Court, to be precise. I don’t have that much time. I suspect I’ve already burned through months, mortal time, sequestered here.
After I sang the Song of Making and destroyed the black holes, Barrons and I went to Faery to meet the courts I was to rule. At first, the Light Court had rolled out the red carpet and made a great show of willingly embracing me as High Queen.
Their feigned acceptance had lasted exactly four days. Then the attacks had begun, forty-two of them in twelve hours, each more cunning and treacherous than the last. They’d tried to trap us with wards, separate us, spell us, imprison us, so they could steal my spear and use it against me. They were so determined to kill me in order to put a pure-blooded Seelie on the throne, they were willing to die to accomplish it. Barrons and I had been forced to slay countless Fae, primarily Winter Court, who proved my most savage, relentless enemy.
We’d sifted back to the bookstore, to find a way to buy time so I could learn to use my power. It wasn’t as if it came with a convenient instruction booklet, or, if it did, that booklet had been buried somewhere within a gazillion chaotic files inside me.
When Barrons told me about the chamber the king created for his concubine before he finished the White Mansion, wherein time moved differently than the mortal realm, I realized it was exactly what we needed.
There, I would sequester, study, and learn to use the Song of Making so I could restore the walls between the realms of Mortal and Fae. If I couldn’t rule the Fae—and they’d made it clear they would never accept me—at the very least, I needed to contain them.
Barrons had no idea how time moved in the suspended chamber, only that it was much more slowly. I might spend a few centuries within, while only a few months passed in Dublin. Or, he warned, it might be longer.
We deemed the lost time a risk worth taking. If I attempted to stay in Faery or the mortal realm, the Fae attacks would only keep coming, and I’d never learn to use my power. That was the Light Court’s plan; so long as they kept me on the defensive, I could never go on the offensive.
Once I was inside the chamber, Barrons would stand guard beyond it, in the corridor of the White Mansion, until I exited. At some point during my confinement, I figured out how to attach the chamber to the bookstore and moved them both, better concealing us from our enemies.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in here, but it feels like centuries to me, and I’ve just discovered what I need isn’t within my reach. I intended to walk out only when I was adamantine; a lethal High Queen capable of doing whatever must be done. But unless I move to Faery and manage to survive five thousand years in the thick of a court that wants me dead, I’ll remain a partially endowed queen, unequal to my predecessors, forever.
Although I now know the true names of the Seelie, with a mortal tongue I’m no more capable of summoning my subjects than I was V’lane/Cruce. That alone will give me away to my court. She is not fully queen, they will hiss. She cannot even command our attendance, they will laugh. And do their best to kill me for eternity.
The problem is I hold power that, if taken from me by a Fae, will be used to enslave and, likely, eventually eradicate all humans. I must succeed at seizing my rule and governing the Fae. If I fail, I fail the entire world.
A little pressure there for a bartender from Georgia.
I’d sigh, but I seem to have forgotten how. Time in this place has left me feeling as disembodied as the Sinsar Dubh when it scraped me from my skin. I’ve suffered no physical demands. No urge to eat or drink, relieve myself, or stretch stiff limbs. I’ve sat, staring inward, sorting through a deluge of files and, although I’ve found much of use, I’ve uncovered nothing about the Song of Making other than legends, myths, and tall tales.
Still, it hasn’t been a complete waste. I’ve learned how to do disturbingly horrific things. I’ve acquired an assortment of ancient, revolting spells. I rediscovered my lethal crimson runes, along with a cruel assortment of other weapons within the queen’s arsenal. I know how to create wards and barriers, have memorized names and places, Fae history, possess an understanding of the Light Court I didn’t before. I feel the burn of magic in the earth, can amplify and direct it in stunningly cruel ways.
Unfortunately, I still confront the same two choices I had the day I entered: find a Fae to whom I can transfer the burden of power, trusting them to leave our world forever and never return (never going to happen—our planet is steeped more richly in magic than ever before, and the seat of their power is bound to it—they will never relinquish it willingly) or get out there and try to govern the deadly Fae with what tools I possess.