Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

He said nothing. The rune of Quietude the Cohort had put on him had been removed almost immediately after the meeting, but that didn’t mean he had anything to talk to Zara about.

“And to think,” she went on. “If you’d played your cards a little differently, you might have been living in the Gard tower with me.”

“And that wouldn’t have been cold and unwelcoming?” spat Diego. “Living with someone I hate?”

She flinched a little. Diego was surprised. Surely she knew they hated each other?

“You have no right or reason to hate me,” she said. “I’m the one who was betrayed. You were a convenient marriage prospect. Now you’re a traitor. It would shame me to marry you.”

Diego let his head fall back against the wall. “Good,” he said wearily. “You have taken everything from me. At least I no longer have to pretend to love you.”

Her lips tightened. “I know you never intended to go through with the marriage. You were just trying to buy time for your vigilante brother. Still—I’ll make you a deal. You claim Jaime still has the faerie artifact. We want it. It should be in government hands.” Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk. “If you tell us where to find it, I’ll pardon you.”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Diego. “And carrying that sword around won’t make you Emma Carstairs.”

She glared at him. “You shouldn’t have said that. Or the thing about how I’ve taken everything from you already. You still have a lot left to lose.” She turned her head. “Milo? Bring the second prisoner forward.”

There was a blur of movement in the shadowy corridor, and the cell door opened. Diego strained forward as a dark figure was hurled into the cell alongside him.

Milo slammed the door shut and locked it as the new arrival groaned and sat up. Diego’s heart turned over in his chest. Even bruised and bloody, with his lip cut and a burn scar on his cheek, he would recognize his younger brother anywhere.

“Jaime,” he breathed.

“He seems to know no more about the artifact than you do,” said Zara. “But then, without the Mortal Sword, we can’t make him tell the truth. So we have to fall back on more old-fashioned methods of dealing with liars and traitors.” She traced the hilt of Cortana with loving fingertips. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Jaime,” Diego said again. The ceiling was too low for him to stand up; he crawled across the floor to his brother, pulling Jaime against him.

Jaime, half-conscious, lolled against his shoulder, his eyes almost slitted shut. His clothes were torn and wet with blood. Diego felt a cold fear at his heart: What wounds lay underneath?

“Hola, hermano,” Jaime whispered.

“During his discussions with the Inquisitor about the location of the artifact, your brother became overexcited. He needed to be subdued.” Now Zara did smile. “The guards accidentally, shall we say, injured him. It would be a shame if his injuries were to become infected or if he were to die because he lacked proper medical care.”

“Give me a stele,” hissed Diego. He had never hated anyone more than he hated Zara in that moment. “He needs an iratze.”

“Give me the artifact,” said Zara. “And he can have one.”

Diego said nothing. He had no idea where the Eternidad was, the heirloom that Jaime had suffered so much to protect. He held his brother tighter, his lips pressed together. He would not beg Zara for mercy.

“No?” she preened. “As you like. Perhaps when your brother is screaming with fever you will feel differently. Call upon me, Diego dear, if you ever change your mind.”

* * *

Manuel strode into the throne room, smirking, Oban on his heels.

Manuel couldn’t help the smirking; as he sometimes told people, it was just the natural expression of his face. It was true that he also liked chaos, though, and right now, there was chaos aplenty to please him.

The throne room looked charred, the rock walls and floor smeared with black ash. The place reeked of blood and sulfur. Bodies of redcaps were strewn on the floor, one covered by an expensive-looking tapestry. On a far wall, the shrinking Portal showed a beach at night, under a red moon.

Oban clicked his tongue, which Manuel had learned was the faerie equivalent of letting out a low whistle. “What happened in here? It looks like the aftermath of one of my more famous parties.”

Manuel poked at the tapestry-covered mound with his toe.

“And the fields outside are full of fleeing Seelie fey, now that their Queen is gone,” Oban went on. “Manuel, I demand an explanation. Where is my father?”

Winter, the somber redcap leader, came over to them. He was streaked with blood and ash. “Prince,” he said. “Your father lies here.”

He indicated the mound Manuel was poking with his toe. Manuel bent over and yanked the tapestry back. The thing beneath did not look human, or fey, or as if it had ever lived at all. It was the blackened, crumbling outline of a man drawn in ash, its face a rictus. Something gleamed at its throat.

Manuel knelt to take it. An etched glass vial of scarlet liquid. Interesting. He placed it in his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?” said Oban. For a moment Manuel felt a spark of worry that Oban had chosen to take an interest in something important. Fortunately, it was not the case—Oban had caught sight of a gleaming elf-bolt necklace among his father’s remains. He bent to grab the shining thing, letting it dangle from his fingers. “Kieran?” he said incredulously. “Kieran killed our father?”

“Does it matter?” said Manuel in a low voice. “The old man is dead. That is good news.”

It was indeed. The previous King had been an uneasy ally, if one could call him an ally at all. Though the Cohort had helped him spread the blight in Idris and that had pleased him, he had never trusted them or interested himself in their greater plans. Nor had he warned them of his intention to seize the Black Volume, an event which had irritated Horace greatly.

Oban would be different. He would trust those who had put him in power.

He was a fool.

“It might give Kieran claim to the throne if it were known,” said Oban, his slack, handsome face darkening. “Who saw the King slain? What of Kieran’s Nephilim companions?”

“My redcaps saw, but they will not speak,” said Winter as Oban moved to the throne. The King’s crown rested on its seat, gleaming dully. “Prince Kieran has fled with most of the Nephilim to the human

world.”

Oban’s face tightened. “Where he might brag of slaying our father?”

“I don’t think he will do that,” said General Winter. A look of relief crossed Oban’s face. He did tend to respond like putty to anyone in authority, Manuel thought. “He seems to love dearly those Nephilim he has befriended, and they him. I do not think he wants the throne, or would endanger them.”

“We will keep a watch out,” said Oban. “Where is Adaon?”

“Adaon was taken prisoner by the Seelie Queen.”

“Adaon taken prisoner?” asked Oban, and when Winter nodded, he laughed and tumbled into the throne’s seat. “And what of the Queen’s son, the brat?”

“Gone with the undead witch, through the Portal,” said Winter. “It does not seem likely they will survive long.”

“Well, the kingdom cannot go on without a ruler. It seems my destiny has found me.” Oban handed the crown to Winter. “Crown me.”

With the death of the King, the Portal was disappearing. It was now the size of a porthole on a boat. Through the small circle, Manuel could see a dead city, ruined towers and broken roads. Something lay in a heap on the floor near the Portal, among the signs of a fight. Manuel stopped to pick it up; it was a bloody jean jacket.

He frowned, turning it over in his hands. It was a small jacket, a girl’s, slashed and bloody, one sleeve partially burned. He slipped his fingers into the breast pocket and withdrew a ring stamped with butterflies.

Fairchild.

Manuel returned to Oban just as Winter placed the crown on the prince’s head, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Manuel shook the jacket in Winter’s direction. “You said most of the Nephilim returned to the human world. What happened to the girl who wore this? The girl and the boy, the Nephilim prisoners?”

“They went through the Portal.” Winter gestured toward it. “They are as good as dead. That land is poison, especially to those such as they.” He stepped back from Oban. “You are King now, sire.”

Oban touched the crown on his head and laughed. “Bring wine, Winter! I am parched! Empty the cellars! The most beautiful maidens and youths of the Court, bring them to me! Today is a great day!”