Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“We need to discuss how to extend the same invitation to those living at Mathers,” she warns me.

Amazing how things can devolve so quickly in such a short span of time. I signal one of the hobs walking toward us.

He hurries forward, arms full of freshly laundered and pressed clothes, and bows so low to the ground I fear he’ll dirty the lot. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“My mother and I will be working in the war room today. Please have our meals sent there.”

“Oh, yes, Your Highness. Of course.”

“We’ll need to start with breakfast,” I tell him. “Mulled wine for Her Majesty and tea for me. Ask Bridget to select some. Black, with milk and honey.”

The hob continues to prostrate himself, even as he backs away from me. “As Your Highness commands.”

We continue on toward the war room.

Mother tightens her grip on my arm, but when I check her, her smile is genuine. “Feeling royal, darling?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. We’ll need that decisive attitude today.” Her smile dims and her body tenses when she adds, “It’s time for you to make a decisi

on about the Knighthood.”

* * *

“Roark, you can’t ignore me all evening.”

I glance up, hands frozen mid-cut in the slice of roast I was served for dinner. Mother watches me with concern. The detritus of our planning lies spread on the tables surrounding us, maps and parchments and statistics and reports. Numerous balls of crumpled paper lie in front of the fireplace. Those are about a third of our rejected strategies; the rest actually made it into the fire when I threw them. Meanwhile, only a few scattered pages of notes were good enough to tack to the wall with ice shards.

“I’m not ignoring you,” I say. “I would prefer to finish my meal so we can continue planning a war that may kill all our people.” And me.

Before this disaster with Sláine and his betrayal at the Accords, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d ever seen Mother frown. This year alone, it’s become the most common expression on her face when we meet in private and she’s able to let down some of her guard.

She frowns now and delicately spears a roasted carrot. “We also discussed how to prevent such bloodshed.”

“Mother, for the last time, I have no intention of giving up my position to take on the Knight’s mantle.”

She waves a hand at me, as if the fluttering napkin in her grasp somehow cancels out my protest. “It wouldn’t be for long, darling. I don’t understand your reluctance.”

“It doesn’t matter how long I serve as the Knight,” I say, setting down my fork and reaching for my wine. I force myself to remain calm, aloof, in control. It’s difficult. “You used to tell us stories of how quickly the Seelie Court fell after they perverted their power. They’ve never recovered from it.”

“They were cautionary tales. You and your brothers needed to learn the importance of strength.”

“It seems to have worked well. Sláine abandons us, Lugh forgets us, and I, alone, remain by your side.”

“We are nothing like them. The Summer Court fell because their princes were weak.” She lifts her wine to me in a quiet toast. “You are not.”

“Yes, me. I am loyal,” I argue, desperation seeping into the words no matter how I fight it.

The instant a blood relation to the faerie ruler takes on the Knighthood, the magick begins ripping them apart. The magick will dismantle my body, destroying me from the inside, before it starts working on my mind. My personality, my will, my memory, all sacrificed to the Knight’s power. Whatever damage is done during the course of my Knighthood will remain for the rest of my life, however short that is.

Mother reaches across the table and rests her fingers over my clenched hand. “I know, mo leanbh. That is why I chose you. You’ll last the longest.”

My throat is too tight for me to take another sip of wine. The aching burn in my eyes makes it hard to see where I’m setting down the glass. Her hand is a cool weight over mine, her glamour steady and calm, unchanged despite her callous admission.

I pull away from her touch and pick up my knife and fork. The bitter rage churning in my gut is so strong I can barely choke down another bite of the roast.

Mother has the grace to let me struggle through a few more bites before she says, “The public ceremony can be delayed for a short time. The transfer of power does not rely on the ceremony. We could complete it tonight, if you prefer.”