Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)
“I just arrived,” Mab says, “and was looking for my son.”
“He’s in there.” I point to his room. And, uselessly, add, “He wanted water.”
“Oh?” The amount of insinuation she gives that single word is impressive. Only the guilt of making Roark wait is enough to shake me from my terrified stupor.
“He couldn’t get it himself.”
He must have learned the eyebrow trick from his mother. I can’t blame him; Mab’s is flawless, reframing all the planes of her face to show my explanation does nothing but confirm her earlier, unspoken suspicions.
“He’s hurt.”
Like that, her expression returns to cool indifference, although her body tenses like she wants to lunge at me.
“Fine, too. I mean, he got hurt, but he’s going to be okay.” I hate myself. I hate her for leaving me on the edge of full-blown panic from a single movement. I hate how standing in her presence draws my skin so tight the scars across my chest threaten to reopen. I hate how every time I look at her, I’m back in that tiny room with nothing but the ley line and my prayer for a quick death. Maybe that lingering wish is why I confess, “It was my fault.”
“I see.” Flat disbelief.
“I lost control.”
She continues to watch me, but the edge of violence leaves her limbs. “You lost control,” she repeats softly. She tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Fetch the water.”
I’m not struck dead when I give her my back, so I obey. When I return with the full glass, she’s moved closer to Roark’s room. She waits for me to approach as close as I dare, then reaches out and plucks the glass from my hand.
She examines it to avoid looking at me. “You hurt my son because you lost control of your ley line.” I can’t tell if she’s processing the information or genuinely angry.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Roark’s eyes are pale and I’ve grown used to their weight on me. Mab’s eyes are dark, iris and pupil nearly indistinguishable, and her gaze is as timeless as the winter sky.
“Why would you presume to control it at all?”
Without another word, she goes into Roark’s room and closes the door, leaving me shaken and wondering why no one has asked the question before this moment.
Chapter Six
Roark
I’m waist-deep in stacks of ancient books helping me decipher the counter-curse to a Sillan flooding spell when Mother calls. After my assurances a few days ago that I was well, despite the massive loss of glamour which brought her to my side, she stepped back to let me have my space. For her to call now means there’s important news.
I don’t bother to look at the scrying bowl when I answer, more concerned with not losing my train of thought before I finish writing down a particularly tricky phrase.
“The Pantheons have reached a verdict about the recent escalations,” she says.
“That was fast.” Damn, wrong verb tense. I circle the offending word and continue on with the phrase.
“Your actions toward our students the other day was one of the deciding factors.”
A twist in my gut. Train of thought derailed. Fuck. I grimace and set down my pen. “Is it bad?”
“I’d prefer if we could discuss their findings in person. I just finished meeting with the dean. Join me for lunch.”
Refusing clearly isn’t an option, so I close up my work, end the call, and leave the apartment. She and her redcap guard are waiting for me in the small garden outside the dean’s house.
“Roark,” she calls when she spots me.
I wave a greeting, hyperaware of the few people around us. Fortunately, today’s morning classes haven’t finished yet, so I may be able to get her off campus before too many people know we’re here. As much as I love my mother, I’ve worked hard to craft my own identity at university and have no intention of it being eclipsed by her celebrity.
Fortunately, no one dares invade the bubble of space the redcaps form around us as we walk away from the dean’s residence. Mother’s car is in the visitors’ lot, the location all non-students have to park regardless of their dignitary status. It’s not a long walk, but it promises to be uncomfortable, judging from the awed looks other students give us as we pass by.