Page 55 of Better in Black
“So she sent you away?” Cristina demanded. “Or did you simply choose not to remain?”
“I considered it the wise course to leave. There are many stories about the grim fates that befall those of whom the Queen has tired—lovers and friends both.”
“Perhaps the Huntsman is a changeling?” Mark suggested. “A stolen mortal raised in Faerie?”
Cristina looked horrified, which Kieran found charming. “That would be a violation of the Accords!”
Adaon only laughed and shook his head. “The Huntsman does not defer to the Queen as a changeling might. I do believe he is there of his own free will—he certainly seems to take great joy in dispatching Seelie’s enemies.” He glanced across the room at the table where the three heirs to the Knighthood were studiously ignoring each other. “I must say I am surprised Master Finian has come to claim rights to the Knighthood of Storms. He has always struck me as a wastrel. He visited the Seelie Court at Samhain and became vilely drunk and caused a scene. The Queen was most displeased.”
At the door to the banquet hall, Catchweed puffed upon a trumpet, sending a loud peal through the room. “The time has come!” he cried. “We shall hear from each of the claimants to the place of Knight of Storms, who shall make their case before King and Court!”
“It seems I must return to my seat,” Adaon murmured, shooting a glancing look at Kieran, who nodded back at his brother. “It was good to see you two.”
“Yes,” said Mark. “We are sorry to hear of any pain the Queen may have caused you.”
Adaon shrugged airily. “Well, the favor of a monarch is a fleeting thing,” he said, and then seemed to realize who he was speaking to. A look of regret flitted across his face, but there was nothing more to be said: Expressing worry that his cuttlefish was growing cold, he retreated to his seat at a banquet table nearby.
Kieran tried to catch the eyes of his consorts, but if they had been upset by Adaon’s words, they did not show it. They were gazing at Geraint, who had risen and approached the center of the room, where he was most visible to Kieran and the Court.
“Your Majesty,” Geraint boomed, his gaze fixed on Kieran. “I am the firstborn child of Sir Tarlegan. My mother was a noblewoman of Faerie, which is not the case for my baseborn half siblings.” He sneered in their direction. “I am a warrior of tremendous fortitude, who only seeks what is his due by the tradition of our realm: absolute primogeniture, the right of the firstborn child to inherit the parent’s estate. I do not deny my father’s love for my siblings. But did Sir Tarlegan not leave his arms and armor to I, his eldest? Did he not encourage his daughter to seek out her fortune in distant lands, knowing that there was little for her at Court? Did he not permit his third child to be raised by his mother, in the lap ofweak indulgences? A great warrior is needed as the Knight of All Storms. That warrior is me.”
Geraint bowed low. Kieran caught a fleeting look from Cristina, who was shaking her head. He said, “Thank you, Geraint. I shall consider your words.”
Geraint stiffened. “Your Majesty, I welcome your judgment. I know it will fall in my favor.”
He walked proudly back to his table, just as Lady Brissole rose and took his place. Glittering combs decorated with the feathers of ravens and crows held back her hair. Her eyes were wide, amber-orange, reminiscent of an owl’s. Kieran wondered what manner of faerie her mother had been. “Your Majesty, I am Sir Tarlegan’s only daughter, the Lady Brissole.” She smiled, full of confidence. “As for Master Geraint’s merits, I would challenge him tospellprimogeniture.”
The assembled fey cackled with laughter. Geraint’s eyes narrowed as he crushed his silver goblet in his fist. Finian was staring longingly at some wine.
Lady Brissole tossed her head. “My father did send me to the mortal world, but he did so that I might study the ways of storms and the madness of the weather the mortals of the human world have unleashed upon themselves. Your Majesty, I have seen the devastation a storm can do. I have dared walk the accursed stretch of land the mortals call Tornado Alley. I have seen lands drown and hills burn. I pledge use my knowledge to tame the winds, the rain, the lightning—all in fealty to the Crown.”
Lady Brissole bowed—very slightly—before stalking back to her table.
Last came Finian. He wobbled as he stood up from his place, and wove an uneven line to the center of the room. He waved atKieran, as if he were a friend he’d just spied in the distance. Kieran heard General Winter rumble with discontent, like a stirring volcano, as Finian stepped forward and bowed.
“Your Majesty,” he said, and hiccuped. “I am only here at the insistence of my mother, who dotes upon me and believes I am worthy of my father’s title. I doubt he ever thought as much, as he was rarely present in my life. Off to perform his quests and duties and defend the realm. I have no such aims. I am a wastrel, a cad. Release me and I’ll go straight to the wine cellar and tap your finest. And offer you a toast, praising you for your good judgment.”
Kieran almost smiled. “You need not make rash promises, Master Finian. Though you are not permitted to roam the cellar or anywhere else in the Tower at your whim, simply ask, and the finest wine shall be made available to you. You are dismissed, for now.”
Finian looked as if he were going to object—probably because Kieran hadn’t dismissed him from consideration for the Knight position—but in the end, just shrugged. Kieran sat back in his chair as Finian wandered off and sat himself in the lap of an outraged nixie. The Court began to buzz and hum with gossip as Kieran glanced up at General Winter. “I must make my choice by tomorrow night, I know,” he said. “At least it seems I will only be choosing between two, not three.”
General Winter flicked his cold glance over the room. “Your father would simply have declared he liked none of them, and had them all slain.”
Kieran pressed his fingers against his temple. His head was throbbing. “Couldn’t he just have sent them home?”
General Winter shrugged. “I would have advised him not to, as I would advise you. There is always the fear that a rejected gentryfey will be resentful and perhaps might raise a rebellion against you. One should leave no loose ends.”
Barely listening, Kieran said, “Never fear. I will do what I must do, Winter.”
He glanced down then, and saw Mark and Cristina looking at him, both wide-eyed. He wondered how much of his conversation with Winter they had overheard, and if they were thinking of his father, the old King, and how very cold-blooded he had been.
But I am not like that. I am not ruthless,Kieran thought, but he knew he could not say such a thing: not to his general or to his consorts. The Unseelie Court was no place to advertise that you were merciful.
—
Really, Cristina thought, as she clambered into Kieran’s massive royal bed, there was nothing weirder than wearing your fuzzy poodle pajamas in the Unseelie Court, but it was all she had in the way of nightwear. Mark was in worse shape: He’d rushed while he was packing, and ended up with nothing to sleep in but a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt that saidparty naked.
“Where did you get that?” Cristina demanded, as Mark climbed into the bed with her. It was a very odd bed—very wide, but with a stiff mattress, and the silk-and-velvet sheets and blanket were slippery and cold. Kieran would never have chosen any of this himself, she thought, although she couldn’t ask him—he’d stayed back at the banquet for a last word with General Winter.
