Page 53 of Better in Black
General Winter leaned in close to Kieran. He had mastered the art of muttering into someone’s ear without looking like he was doing it. “Geraint Tarlegan is the favorite among much of the Court for the position of Knight. Largely because he possesses his father’s brawn. Alas, he did not inherit his father’s brains. He is not a clever man, and he knows it. That makes him quick to anger.”
Kieran sat back, feeling the cold knobs of the ebony chair stab into his back. “Some violence is warranted for such a knight,” he said. “Storms can be violent in their very nature.”
“That is true,” murmured Winter, “and Geraint is not without his good qualities. He is loyal, and he does not have the wit to be excessively deceitful.”
Geraint had reached the royal dais. Even as he bowed low before the throne, his expression was less than entirely respectful. Kieran wondered wearily what cause Geraint might have to dislike him, but then, so many of the Unseelie gentry did. His father, the previous Unseelie King, had had fifty heirs: Kieran had never been a favorite to inherit the crown. It had been a surprise to all when he did, and not an entirely welcome one: Some felt he was too young, some felt no former member of the Wild Hunt should ever sit the throne, and many simply disliked the fact that he had chosen two Shadowhunters as his consorts.
Straightening up without meeting Kieran’s eye, Geraint went to sit at the longest of the banquet tables, where three empty places awaited him and his two siblings. Settling beside a beautiful blue-skinned nixie in a white silk dress, he watched darkly as the chamberlain at the door ushered in the next claimant for the role of Knight:
“Let me present Mistress Brissole, daughter of Sir Tarlegan, our fallen Knight of All Storms!”
Lady Brissole made her stately way toward the throne, looking neither to the right nor left of her. Taller than her elder brother, Brissole wore a dress of black raven feathers, whose long train swept the floor like a devil’s broom. Her severe, pale face was framed by her dark tresses.
General Winter whispered: “The sole daughter of the Knight of Storms. Note her bold glance—she is a powerful warrior, but so are they all. She wagers that the Crown wants someone clever to keep the storms in order rather than someone foolhardy.”
“Does she wager incorrectly?”
“There is such a thing as too clever, sire. Her father sent her into the mortal world when she was young, and she developed a taste for it. I am not alone in thinking she spends too much time there.”
“Perhaps that would be helpful to me,” said Kieran coolly, “considering my own connections to the human world.”
General Winter did not reply.
Brissole had reached the throne. She bowed; the gesture showed arrogance and confidence, as if she were daring Kieran not to select her. He nodded coldly, and she went to join Geraint at the banquet table.
It was time for the third heir. Catchweed straightened up to his full height, and called out: “Master Finian, youngest son of Sir Tarlegan, our fallen Knight of All Storms!”
Interesting, Kieran thought. Finian was very unlike his brother and sister. Where they were both tall and strong-looking, Finian was frail, with unruly hair the color of hourglass sand. He looked sleepy-eyed, as if he’d just woken after a fortnight of debauchery. Also unlike his siblings, Finian seemed more interested in greetingthe seated courtiers than approaching his King. He wended his way slowly through the room, offering a kiss on the cheek of a nixie, stealing the goblet from the hands of a dwarf. He gulped down the contents before dropping the cup into the hands of a nearby hob.
General Winter murmured, “Finian has visited this court before, but only to sample the wine cellars. To be candid with Your Majesty, I was surprised to hear he intended to compete for this title. He seems to care mainly about revels and dancing, drinking and debauchery, and has seduced many a lad and lady.”
Finian had reached the throne. He tried to bow, but wobbled and caught himself on the edge of the dais.Hard to get a read on someone so drunk,Kieran thought, as Finian staggered upright, winked at Kieran, and went over to join his brother and sister. Neither of them looked pleased to see him.
“Sire.” General Winter sounded grim. Kieran turned quickly to look at him, only to find his expression as serious as his tone. “I have just received word that your consorts are waiting for you in your chambers,” he said. “It seems they only just arrived, and await your visit. Or…” Winter frowned at Kieran’s shocked expression. “Shall I send them away?”
Kieran’s heart was thumping strangely under his velvet doublet. Mark and Cristinaknewthat coming to the Unseelie Court was very dangerous. If they were here, something terrible must have happened.
All Kieran wanted was to race out of the room, charge down the corridors, and find Cristina and Mark. But even as his ears hummed with panic, he knew how that would look. He could never exhibit such a lack of control in front of the Court.
He rose to his feet carefully, turning to Winter. “Make an excuse for me. I shall return shortly.”
It was agony to walk slowly out of the room and not to run, but Kieran walked nevertheless, measuring every step.
—
The room in which Kieran slept was located near the top of the Tower; Mark and Cristina had been led to it as soon as they arrived at the Court by a pair of near-silent, uniformed redcaps, who had simply left them there.
“These are the King’s chambers,” one had said, before they’d closed the great bronze door behind them. But it was hard for Cristina to think of this room as Kieran’s, and not simply a space in which he slept and dressed.
The walls were smooth gray stone, and not a single picture or ornament hung on them. Vast, unshaded windows offered a view out over the storm-lashed landscape. There was a massive bed with posts made of twisted dark granite and a silver headboard. The furniture was gray and black wood—in fact, almost everything in the room was gray, black, or silver. It was a beautiful room in a strange, dark way, but to Cristina it felt impersonal, cold. Nothing in it represented Kieran.
“Here.” Mark had gone rummaging in one of the drawers of a black wardrobe, and emerged with a pair of gray blankets. He tossed one to Cristina and used the other to dry his hair. They’d gotten wet racing from the carriage to the front doors of the Court.
The bedroom door opened, and there was Kieran. Behind him, Cristina could see movement: other faeries, walking the halls of the Tower. But they were just shadows. Her attention was on Kieran.
He came into the room, closing the door behind him, and Cristina sensed Mark beside her, also watching. When Kieran came to the cottage, she realized, he was never richly dressed. He worewhat he’d worn before he was King: simple linen, soft boots, no crown.
Now he wore black velvet, heavily figured with silver. A cloak of dark gray velvet, lined with glittering crystals, hung from his shoulders, and glimmering amid his dark hair was the Unseelie Crown.
