Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (18 page)

Cedric had taken a seat on an uncomfortable piece of Human furniture that Mabb had collected when she was Queene, a tall-backed chair with no room for wings, bound or unbound, to lay without being crushed. He adjusted a cushion behind his back, then tossed it to the floor with a noise of disgust.

She almost spoke, to tell him that he did not need to wait here. But it would do as much good as it had done before. So, she found a more comfortable spot, the long bench with the back that curved over one of the seat’s rounded ends, and she laid on it the way she imagined it was designed to be used, propping herself up with cushions. The healers had begun their song, low and droning behind the door. All she could do now was wait.

“Do you believe him?” Cedric asked, after a long time had passed. So long, that she wondered at first what he meant by asking such a question.

Then, she remembered Malachi’s hesitation before answering their questions in the council room, and Flidais’s seeming suspicion. “Does he have a reason to lie?”

Cedric shrugged elegantly, as though the answer did not matter to him. “No, I would not say that he did. But his behavior was strange.”

“He is wounded.” That, certainly must have been the answer. Unless…“What was in the letters?”

“Letters?” A wrinkle of confusion marred Cedric’s brow.

“The letters,” Ayla repeated, sitting up. “The papers we found in Cerridwen’s chambers. He brought them to you, to read.”

Cedric shook his head. “I have not seen Malachi since before I took the governess to the dungeon.”

The door to Malachi’s bedchamber opened, and an apprentice healer exited. He did not look at his Queene or her advisor, did not offer any words of reassurance as he hurried to, and through, the outer door. Ayla and Cedric fell silent until he was gone, and until the door to Malachi’s room closed again, shutting out the low hum of the healers’ song.

“If he did not come to you, why would he go looking in the Darkworld for Cerridwen? I assumed he had found some clue in her letters…why would he think she had gone there?”

She narrowed her eyes at her advisor. “Is there something else you need to tell me, something that you have told Malachi but not me?”

“No,” Cedric answered quickly. “No. I do not know why he went to the Darkworld. Perhaps he thought the worst had occurred, and his premonition was right? Or perhaps he searched the Strip and did not find her, so he kept going? There could be a very simple explanation as to why he chose to go to the Darkworld, and only he can tell us the answer. Although…”

“Although?” This was not, Ayla thought irritably, the moment for suspense. Not when her daughter was missing, when Malachi was injured, when her hold on the kingdom was slipping from her grasp.

Cedric, however, did not intuit this. He seemed to be considering something very thoroughly before speaking, and the wait was maddening. Finally, he looked up and said, “Did you notice the strange way Flidais questioned him? The way she warned him of what the consequences of the Elves kidnapping Cerridwen could be?”

The unease of that moment had been swathed in surprise and concern, but it had not been totally disguised. Ayla nodded.

“Do you think…” Cedric stopped himself. “I am jumping at shadows that are not there.”

His shadows had raised prickles on Ayla’s skin, as well. “You do not believe that Flidais would…” She thought of Malachi taking the letters to her, though that seemed impossible.

“Malachi does not like Flidais. Perhaps he would trust her, but I do not think she would trust him with anything of importance. She thinks he is…unworthy of his position. Because he is mortal.”

“She thinks most of us are unworthy of our positions,” Cedric said with a surprise note of sullenness. Then, as though he remembered himself, he said, “I had noticed, of course, the way she reacts to Malachi.”

“Would she have been willing to read those letters to him, to help him without coming to me?” That sounded impossible. He’d gotten a guard, then, or a Courtier he could trust. But there were no Courtiers he could trust, no guard that would not report back to her immediately, if he wished to keep his place.

The apprentice healer returned, bearing a stack of linens in his arms. Cedric stood in his path to stop him. “You. When they removed the Royal Consort’s garments, did he have anything, any papers folded away in them?”

“I did not paw through the Royal Consort’s garments,” the apprentice said, gravely offended. He made to walk past Cedric, but was blocked again.

“I understand that I must have insulted you with my question. I apologize, for that was not my intent.” Cedric smiled, and it looked kind, but Ayla saw the tension at the corners of his eyes. “As a favor to the Queene, bring me the Consort’s robes.”

The apprentice looked to Ayla, and she nodded, once, slowly. He bowed to her. “It will be done, Your Majesty.” He tried to bow again and nearly dropped the folded linens out of nervousness.

“Go now, quickly then,” Cedric said, as if to a child, before stepping out of the Faery’s way. It did not take the apprentice long to return. Ayla watched Cedric as he looked the papers over, his scowl deepening. But she waited, patient though it could have ended her life, as he read them in their entirety.

He folded the pages carefully and tucked them into his robes. He had opened his mouth to speak when the master healer came out of Malachi’s bedchamber. The Faery was old, possibly the oldest in the Lightworld. Though he was immortal, he appeared aged, his face lined as a mortal’s would be, gnarled like the bark of a very old tree. It was the healer’s art that took such a toll, and every Fae knew it; the energy the healers gave to the invalids in their charge robbed them of their own life, left them with just enough to survive. This Faery was the best of the healers, able to maintain the balance for so long. He bowed his silver head in respect, his movements slow and pained. “The Royal Consort fares well, Your Majesty,” he began without preamble. “He sustained only minor wounds. Being mortal, our art alone will not heal him, but we have used mortal techniques to clean and bind his wounds.”

“Thank you,” Ayla said, numb to her core, her mind wrapped around those simple pages in Cedric’s possession. “May we speak to him?”

The healer nodded. “He is alert, but he must rest, and let our healing settle over him. If there is nothing else…?”

If any one creature in the Lightworld could dismiss the Faery Queene, it would be this one, so Ayla mumbled, “Of course,” and motioned to Cedric to pay the healer for his services. From the time Cedric pressed a jeweled broach into the healer’s palm, to the time it took the healers to file out and leave them truly alone, was only minutes; it felt like a lifetime.

“What was in those letters?” Ayla demanded, and Cedric hushed her, his worried gaze flying to the bedchamber door.

“It will do him no good to worry him with this. You must remain calm when we see him. We do not know that Flidais told him the truth of what was in these missives.”

A cold frost of fear came over Ayla. “You believe she lied to him? Why?”

Cedric came to sit beside her, fished the letters from his robes with trembling hands.

“Because I do not believe that he would keep the truth from you.”

He unfolded the papers and began, in a low voice, to read them to her. And with each passing word, her dread grew. Dread, and horror, and grief. Grief, that her own daughter could hate her so much. And horror that she would knowingly walk into the hands of her enemies. Unknowingly, Ayla admitted to herself, wiping her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve. Cerridwen had always been kept in the dark about such matters, and that had been Ayla’s choice. What a foolish one that seemed, now. She had, of course, warned her daughter that the Darkworld was a dangerous place, full of dangerous creatures. But she had done so with a Darkling in her own Palace…as if Cerridwen would not have noticed! Of course, she would not listen to her mother’s advice, but follow her example. Ayla cursed herself a fool for ever believing otherwise.

“We must speak to Malachi and make sure that he knew what these letters said.” Cedric spoke quietly, calmly, but Ayla could feel the anger in him, the suspicion.

“You believe Flidais…what? Wished to send Malachi into danger on purpose, to harm him?”

Ayla almost laughed at that, but it seemed more likely, now. “To start a war?”

“I do not know, which is why we must ask him,” Cedric repeated firmly. They let themselves into the bedchamber and found Malachi as the healers had left him. He slept, his wings unbound and spread, his body propped on cushions. His chest was wrapped in the linen bandages, but no blood showed through. A bit of crimson stained the bandages on his arm, and an angry redness glowed around the edges of the wound, through the fabric. The healing, fighting the mortal cells, bending them to its will.

Ayla went to his side and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, not wishing to jostle him. She laid one hand on his collarbone, willed some of her own energy into him. Closing her eyes, she saw the tree of her life force, and the bubbles of peaceful blue that raced to him forced their way out of her body and into his.

“I knew you would not be able to resist meddling,” he said, his voice shocking her into opening her eyes. He had not been fully asleep. “I am not dead, so why have the two of you come to mourn?”

“We were concerned about you. Your disappearance, your sudden reappearance…” Cedric stepped closer to the bed, his expression indeed as grave as a mourner’s. “What prompted you to look for Cerridwen in the Darkworld?”

Malachi was not a fool. He looked from Cedric’s face, to the discarded garments on the floor, and took a breath that appeared to pain him. “You have read the letters?”

“We did.” The thought of what was in them brought fresh tears to Ayla’s eyes, but she forced them away. “Why did you not tell me?”

He could not answer her before Cedric cut in, “What did Flidais tell you they said?”

“The truth, I assume.” Malachi looked to Ayla. “That Cerridwen was angry with you, and that she ran away to the Darkworld to warn the Elves.”

This time, the tears could not be stopped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The reason was clear in his pitying expression. “I did not wish for this to cause you pain. I thought only to catch her, before she went too far. Then, I found those creatures, and they had no knowledge. They could not tell me where she was, and they tried to kill me. So, I brought one back, and hoped that, by telling you she had been kidnapped, we might bring her home without you knowing the truth.” He grimaced. “It seemed a much more intelligent plan when I thought it up.”

“Why didn’t Flidais tell me?” The anger that flared in Ayla caused her antennae to buzz against her forehead. “She has a duty to me!”

“I agree.” Cedric sounded as angry, if not more so. “You should have her locked up, and arrange a trial. What she has done is nothing short of treason.”

“No,” Malachi said, trying to sit up. He groaned and fell back to the pillows, his face a mask of pain. When it passed, he said again, “No. She did not tell you because I asked her not to. She knew my reasons, and I forced her to swear, threatened her. I know that once given, the word of a Faery is binding, even if given under protest. Do not harm Flidais for this.”

A loud pounding broke the silence that followed Malachi’s plea, and Cedric moved out of the bedchamber. Ayla held one of Malachi’s large hands in her own small ones, silent as they listened to the door in the antechamber open.

“An urgent message for the Queene,” an unfamiliar voice rang out from the other room, and, with a look and a nod from Malachi, Ayla got to her feet and raced to the door. A guard stood in the hall, and at the sight of him Ayla blurted, “You’ve found her?”

“The Royal Heir,” Cedric clarified for the momentarily puzzled guard. When the Faery shook his head, Ayla’s heart dropped.

“I come with urgent news. The Captain of the Guard wishes to inform you that Ambassador Bauchan and his retinue have escaped. A member of your council sent him orders for their release, written in Council Member Cedric’s own hand, but he now believes them to be a forgery.”

“They absolutely are!” Cedric roared. “Did he send someone after them?”

The guard nodded. “It was too late. Bauchan’s party was seen leaving the Palace, headed toward Sanctuary. None of the sentries on duty questioned them, because Council Member Flidais accompanied them.”

“She was taken hostage, then?” What had she been doing with him in the first place? Ayla wondered. “Did they demand a ransom?”

As if afraid to speak the news, the guard stumbled over his answer. “N-no, Your Majesty. The Captain of the Guard believes the orders were forged by Flidais, herself, as she was the one who delivered them into his hands.”

Ayla staggered to the uncomfortable Human chair and sat down heavily. She needed to think, and she could not do that on her feet, not when the problem before her demanded so much energy.

“Thank you.” Cedric moved to close the door as he spoke. “The Queen and I will speak on this and contact the Captain in haste.”

The guard put his hand out to stop the door from closing. “He says it is urgent, Your Majesty,” he called past Cedric. “He says that more Faeries are leaving through Sanctuary…and that the sentries are not able to hold all of them back.”

That was the fear that had kept Ayla awake. Like a nightmare coming true, her only allies, her Court, were fleeing and leaving her to the Waterhorses.

She looked to Cedric, her body suddenly as hollow-feeling as her voice. “Well, then. It seems we are doomed.”

Twelve

T hey put her in a cage. A cage, like an animal.

Her prison sat on a ledge that ran round the middle of the Elven great hall, the dark room she’d been so afraid of before. She had been right to be afraid; now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she saw clearly what the Elven Court was like.

Long tables constructed of rough materials hosted piles of raw meat that the creatures picked over. It smelled horrible, rotten. Flies buzzed on every morsel, but they paid them no mind. Those not gorging themselves on their spoiled feast were playing games of dice, or worse, testing their bravery and strength by burning their flesh or plunging knives into each other. It was hot, and loud, with Elves shouting and laughing and fighting like drunken mortals on the Strip.