Page 58 of Better in Black
Master Finian’s door flew open. “I thought I heard someone out there. Would you like to come in and have a drink?”
Both Mark and Cristina straightened up, trying to look like they thought proper consorts should. Mark began, “I have a letter from King Kieran, explaining that—”
“Oh, how dull, official business,” Finian said. “I was just happy for visitors. Come on in, we could play chess, because the King has sent me this handsome board. I hope it does not mean he intends to give me my father’s position, for I would be most unsuited to it.”
As they followed Finian into his chambers, he stopped to cough violently into a handkerchief. As he folded it away quickly, Cristina caught sight of spots of blood on the white linen.Now, that’s interesting.
Finian’s room was decorated all in bright colors, so bright it hardly seemed to fit with the rest of the Court. Mark leaned against a mustard-yellow sofa, and said, “Is it that you don’t want the job, Finian, or that you think you are too ill to do it?”
So he had noticed the blood, too.
Finian, who had been reaching for a box that undoubtedly contained the chess set “from Kieran” (and a good bit of demonic energy as well, Cristina imagined), straightened up. For the first time his genial mask started to slip, and Cristina thought she caught sight of the real person underneath. “You are very perceptive,” he said. “A little of both, perhaps?”
“Is there nothing that can be done to help you? Can you not be healed?” Cristina asked.
“No,” Finian began, but was interrupted by another coughingfit. He retrieved the cloth from his pocket, dampening it with yet more blood. “It is a disease of the lungs that runs in my family. Every generation or so it kills a few. Nothing can be done for it, but I do not wish to be pitied.”
“You will find no pity here, only compassion,” Mark said. “You can be honest with King Kieran; I do not believe he would force you to be the Knight of Storms.”
Finian shook his head. “I do not want my condition to be the knowledge of the whole Court.”
“I am sure it can be kept secret,” said Cristina, a little absently. Her thoughts were caught on a sort of snag. She could not break free of the conviction that the right answer to all this mystery was at the tips of her fingers.
She and Mark went to the door; Mark left first, and Cristina, after a moment, turned back to look once more at Finian. Holding his bloody cloth, he seemed a forlorn figure.
“There was a great celebration for Kieran’s birthday not so long ago. Were you well enough to attend?”
Finian blinked at the odd question, but said, “I was here for the festivity. My condition was not so pronounced, then.”
He began to cough again.
“Thank you for your clarification, Master Finian. You have helped me more than you know.” Cristina left, closing the door firmly behind her.
—
Kieran looked up from the pages of the large tome that lay open in front of him. The rain lashed viciously against the windows of his study, interspersed with occasional showers of black hail. The noise of the constant storm was starting to give Kieran a headache, as was the sputter of the fireplace in the small room. GeneralWinter and Adaon, who were doing their best to advise Kieran, were also giving him a headache.
“Such a decision is unprecedented,” protested Winter. “It has never been done before, not with the Knighthood of Storms.”
“But itcanbe done,” said Kieran, tapping the page of his book. “Look. Not everything that is new must be mistrusted, General.”
“It is a compassionate decision, Kieran,” Adaon said, “yet you must make sure that it is not only compassion that drives you. The Land is depending on you, not just these three.”
Kieran felt annoyed. It was not just compassion that was guiding him. He was confident that this was the right decision for the benefit of all Faerie. Before he could say anything, the door of the study flew open, and Mark and Cristina came in.
They had changed from their banqueting clothes into the dark tunics and trousers that were the unofficial uniform of the Unseelie Court. They looked lovely, Kieran thought, but he rather missed their mundane clothes—the T-shirts and jeans he had once found ridiculous.
Without preamble, Mark demanded, “Kier, did you send any gifts to the three heirs yesterday?”
“Do not address King Kieran as Kier,” said General Winter, but everyone ignored him.
“No, of course not,” Kieran said, puzzled. “Such would be taken as an ill-timed sign of favor. The heirs must believe that I have no personal favorite.”
Mark walked around the desk and put his hand on Kieran’s shoulder. “You must bring them to the throne room, all three.”
“As soon as possible,” Cristina added.
“That seems premature,” said Adaon. “Unless the King is quite certain as to who will be the Knight of Storms?”
