Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

After fleeing from Smith, I did the only thing I could manage: I acted royal. I visited as many Unseelie underclassmen as I could. Most had fled the party together and could be met as a larger group. A few returned to their rooms to pack and leave campus. Those discussions were more difficult and require Mother’s immediate counsel.

It’s nearly four in the morning by the time I stumble into the sídhe. No one expects me. I only sent one quick message announcing my arrival to my personal servant Bridget, who is already waiting for me.

“Prince Lyne,” she chirps, ducking into a low curtsy.

“I’m too tired for formalities,” I warn. “Please tell me you brought me some food.”

Her tiny, wrinkled face lights up at that and she holds out a lace-edged napkin. She flicks open one corner and my mouth waters at the sight of her berry scones.

I swallow and reach for them. “Is there—?”

“Orange honey butter? Of course, young master.”

She clucks over me, helping me out of my ruined suit jacket and tsking about how much weight I’ve lost. Her fussing is a comfort I’ve never taken for granted. That’s why it hurts to see threads of grey working their way through her hair.

She inspects my jacket while I stand in the middle of the hall and devour the meal. I’m so ravenous, I don’t care if I’m dropping crumbs everywhere.

“Do you need the healer before you see your mother?” she asks. My mouth is conveniently too stuffed for me to speak, so I shake my head.

“After?”

I swallow, wipe away the stray crumbs, and let her reclaim the napkin. “I doubt it. Will you draw an herbal bath instead?” Unseelie magick is not well suited for healing or rebirth, so I would rather trust Bridget’s herbal blends to speed my recovery.

She checks my injuries once more so she can plan her mixture, but soon pats my shoulder in a gentle dismissal. “I’ll prepare it for you right away, Your Highness. I believe Her Majesty has already retired to her chambers for the evening.”

Every step taken toward my mother’s chambers forces me to refine the news I’m about to deliver. Mother will want the pertinent details first: count of the injured, most reliable witnesses, other pantheons impacted. The qualitative details of our subjects’ reactions will come next.

She won’t like what I have to say. I’ve never seen our people in such clear panic. I can tell her to expect six returning tonight or early tomorrow morning. The rest choosing to remain on campus were given my promise to meet on Monday with an update. Which means I need to coax Mother into giving me some information to share.

The pair of redcaps guarding her doors exchange a concerned look as I approach.

“Prince Lyne,” one says, lowering his halberd, “we didn’t know you were home.”

“Unexpected trip. I need to speak with Mother.”

“Of course, Your Highness. A moment, please.”

The second knocks on the door, waiting for Mother’s command before pushing it open and slipping inside. I tap my foot as I wait, glad to see the guard’s discomfort. A moment later, the door swings open and the other guard emerges.

“She’s waiting for you, Your Highness.”

Mother’s chambers are a glittering expanse of ice and shadow. She dislikes carpets and drapes, and considers such trappings of warmth better suited for humanity. There’s a sleek elegance to the space as a result, but even as a child I recognized that its design reflects the austerity of its mistress.

She’s seated in front of her vanity when I enter, checking herself in the polished ice of her mirror.

“Roark, darling, I didn’t expect you home this weekend—”

Then she sees my reflection in all its battered glory. She spins toward me, the yards of delicate gossamer making up her robe billowing with the movement. “What happened?”

“There was an attack at the Summer’s End Ball.”

She crosses the distance between us and lifts her hand toward my face with gentle ferocity. “Mo leanbh...” she whispers.

Her fingers dig into my shoulder and she spins me, inspecting me from all angles. She hisses when she notices the slice across my back. By the time she turns me back to face her, she’s composed herself.

“Sit,” she orders, gesturing to the chairs near her fireplace.

She settles herself across from me and I’m struck by our similarities. Especially the darkness in her eyes and the subtle frown.