Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (28 page)

Or, would there be nothing but black emptiness ahead of her? That, she could not comprehend. She at least had the intelligence to realize that. But even if she willed her mood to become darker, she could not believe that end awaited her. She had seen a Goddess, had been given proof that more waited. She thought of Garret, whom she’d dispatched twenty years before. Would he wait for her on the other side, revenge in mind?

She stood, paced to banish the evil ghost. Now was not the time to fear death, but embrace it. And she was ready. If only death would not be so long in the coming. It was selfish, she knew, to will her death prematurely. Whatever might come to destroy her could also destroy her subjects as they cowered in the Great Hall, and she did not wish for them to be harmed. Ultimately, if the plan worked, the Elves would be dead and the Waterhorses banished. The Lightworld would be safe, though she would not be. Her end loomed before her without escape.

How would it come? If their plan failed, she had no doubt that all of the Faeries would be slaughtered, and her with them. If the warriors returned victorious, she would die some other way. By Cerridwen’s hand, as Cedric had suggested? That, she could not bear. From loneliness and despair, once Malachi was gone? That seemed far too painful. She looked to the vanity, where she had sat the night before her duel with Garret. Mabb’s ghost had appeared to her, then, and showed her the poisoned blades she could use to avenge her murder. They were still there, cleaned of Garret’s blood and returned to their deadly jar. Ayla had told no one of them, save Cedric and Malachi, and they had remained, so untouched that a thick, sticky veil of dust coated their handles.

She went to the vanity and seated herself before the tarnished mirror, and this time, the ghost that visited her was her own. She knew what she would do, if the time came. She would die, and remove herself from the path of her daughter’s destiny, but she would not allow the fates to dictate how. Gripping the dagger’s filthy handle, she lifted it out of the jar. The blade dripped with poison, clean and polished despite the dust that had settled over the rest of the weapon. Ayla reached for a gown she’d thrown to the floor in haste and used the skirt to dry the poison and brush the dirt away. The handle gleamed, the blade was dry, but still deadly. She coiled her hair onto the back of her head and carefully jabbed the knife through it, then carefully cleaned and inserted the other dagger in the same fashion. It was heavy, the combined weight of her hair and the knives, but the weight was as reassuring as the thought of what those weapons would easily do to her, the way they would effortlessly fulfill her destiny.

“I am ready,” she whispered to the mirror. “I am ready.”

A loud knock at the door startled her; as if death itself would have the courtesy to knock. She almost laughed at herself, but the door to her bed chamber was already opening, and she stood to receive the guard who entered.

“What is it?” she demanded, not caring for the way he had entered without waiting for admittance. It was their duty to protect her, but it was not her duty to let them walk over her.

“I trust it is important, or else you would not barge into my chambers.”

“A runner, Your Majesty. Fresh from the battle. He has urgent news.”

This was not something she had been prepared for. Of course, news would come, it would have to. But so soon? She smoothed her skirt with shaking hands. “I will come.”

She followed the guard, her breath an immovable force in her chest. All at once, she wished to race to the Throne Room, and yet race back to her bed, to pull the blankets over herself and stave off certainty for another night.

Fickle hope had returned to her, and she did not wish to see it flee again. The runner cowered before the dais. His wings were unbound, and smeared with soot and blood. He trembled as he knelt, his dirty arms and bare legs scored with cuts and scrapes. When the door slammed closed behind her, he trembled even more at its echo.

“Rise,” she told him gently as she ascended the steps. She sat in her throne, because she feared whatever news he brought her would take her knees from under her. He climbed to his feet, revealing the whole of his burned and torn clothes. “Your MMajesty,” he stammered. Shocked from battle, Ayla recognized. He would never recover; they never did. The pity she felt overwhelmed her, and her fingernails dug into her palms as she willed herself not to stand and comfort him.

“You have brought me a message of great importance,” she said, after a silence in which she took long, deep breaths. “Tell me, how do we fare in the Darkworld?”

“It is a slaughter, Your Majesty.” His words came out on choked sobs. “M-many Elves were killed. They did n-not expect us.”

She relaxed a little at this, felt the evil hope swelling in her. She tried to evict it, but it had already set itself up in the trunk of her tree of life, infested itself like a scourge of beetles.

“Get him some water, and a blanket,” she ordered the guard.

When he moved to do her bidding, the runner cried out. “They did not expect us! But they were ready for us!” His wide eyes showed shocking white in his smudged face. “They are coming!”

Ayla leaned forward, gripping the arms of her throne. “The Elves?”

The runner shook his head, struggled to speak against the stammer that had possessed him. Finally, it burst out with horrible clarity: “The Waterhorses!”

Ayla’s gaze snapped to her guard. He looked back. Both of them stared for the space of a heartbeat, expecting the other to do something, for someone must do something if those terrible monsters were coming for them.

Then, Ayla realized that only she could do something, for everyone else would follow her command. So, she gave the only order she could think of. “Move everyone to Sanctuary. Now.”

The guard took a few steps back, almost uncertain, then turned and raced from the throne room. Ayla came down from the dais, where the runner still swayed and trembled like a dead vine in the autumn wind.

“Come,” she told him gently. “Come with me, it will be all right.”

The runner would never run again; his steps were slowed to the shuffle of an aged mortal’s. As they made their way to the Great Hall, her guards returned to her, all six with grim faces.

“Is the hole above Sanctuary covered over?” She had given the order, but was not sure if it had been done. One of the guards nodded. “Can it be uncovered with little trouble?”

“Counselor Flidais made it back through,” one of them pointed out.

“Good.” Her mind raced. She did not wish to send all of her subjects fleeing to the Upworld, not just yet. There was still an army that fought in her name, and she would not desert them.

“We will move to Sanctuary. If the Waterhorses find us there, at least we will be able to escape the way the others did. But I want no mention of the creatures. I will address my subjects in the Great Hall. You will station yourselves at intervals to guide them to Sanctuary and ensure their protection. It will not be easy to cover so large an area without the benefit of extra men, but I do have faith that you will manage.”

“What about him?” one of the guards asked, gesturing to the runner. “If they see him, in the state he’s in, it might cause a panic.”

“That is a good thought,” Ayla admitted. “Take him with you. See him on his way to Sanctuary, and make sure he arrives there safely.”

“Which one of us will escort you?” another guard asked.

“No one. When every last Faery has been evacuated from the Palace, I will follow them. You may then follow me, and guard my passage, if it will put your mind at ease.”

When none of them spoke or moved, she added, “It will be all right. I have faith in your abilities, as you must have faith in mine.”

“Right,” one of them said, marking himself out as unofficial leader of their ranks. “The Queene has given us an order.”

“Go,” she urged them, prying the runner’s clutching hand from her arm. “Go, and see that he is safe.”

Then, she turned to the doors of the Great Hall.

How would she tell them, so that they would not fear? She silently begged the deities that they believed had deserted them to let her find the right words, the right manner with which to address them. Then, she pulled the doors open and entered.

At first, they did not notice her, and for a moment she could take in their numbers, the vast sea of them. Some huddled over the possessions they’d brought with them. Others wandered, empty-handed, gaping in awe at the sights of the Palace they had never before seen. Faery children played chasing games, hopping off their feet to fly over the heads of the adult Faeries, who swatted at them in annoyance. The children did not realize how dire the situation was. The adults did, without realizing exactly why.

She squared her shoulders, projected her energy into the room, so that each head turned toward her. Some of the Faeries had the presence of mind to bow; she wished they had not. In situations of extreme calamity, she did not like to be reminded that it was her duty to help, that she was the one who had all the power, and therefore, all the blame.

“Rise,” she commanded, speaking louder than necessary. The hall was dead silent. “I thank you all for coming here. To know that, in times of great need, you rely on my counsel and protection is an honor I am not due.”

She caught sight of Flidais, bound and gagged and tossed carelessly on the floor, and looked away quickly. “By now, I am sure you have heard that our brave guards, Assassins, Thieves and Weaponscrafters have embarked on a task far more dangerous than we would ever have imagined encountering. They have marched into the Darkworld, and engaged the Elves in battle.”

Of course, this rumor would have reached them. Now that it was confirmed, murmurs rippled through the assembly. She gave them only a moment, not wishing for them to mature into a chorus of voices that she would not be able to overcome. “I have received news that was very pleasing to me. Our army was able to take the Elves off their guard, storm their fortress, and are currently engaged in a battle they are winning.”

It was not exactly the truth. But they did not need the truth. The truth would only lead them to make poor decisions, and she could not let what might be her last act as Queene cause chaos and ruin.

“Still, I fear for them,” she continued. “They fight an enemy whose numbers we do not know, whose allies may be many. I feel it is our solemn duty to send our petitions to the Gods, to beg for help and protection for every Faery who fights, at this very moment, against this terror.” She paused, waiting for a reaction. There was none. “That is why I charge each and every one of you to go with me to Sanctuary. There, you may concentrate your energy on our current predicament, and take advantage of all the comforts that Sanctuary can offer. Food from the trees, fresh water, clean, soft grass to bed down in. I do not believe it will be safe for you to return to your homes before we know that the Elven threat has been diminished.”

They did not move. It became apparent to her, then, that she would have to explain it more fully. These were not Courtiers, but peasants unaccustomed to being ordered this way and that. “So, if you would please, take up your bundles and follow me…”

This spurred them to action. As one great tide, they lifted their bundles, gathered their children, and advanced toward the doors.

“You, hold this door,” she instructed a male Faery standing close by. She took another solitary Faery from the crowd that had pushed its way forward, and instructed him similarly. Then, she led the mass, becoming the head of a huge, seething serpent that would wind its way through the Palace. She let them follow her until they reached the first guard, then gave him the task of leading them on to the next.

“When you reach the next guard, work your way back to the end, see that no one is left behind,” she told him, marveling at how very little direction the crowd required as it moved along the corridor. She flattened herself against the wall and watched as they streamed past her, some of them bowing or curtsying as they passed. She nodded to all of them, told them it would all be all right, commended them for their kindness in caring so thoroughly for their brothers in arms.

Then, when the last one had passed, she went back to the Great Hall. The two who had held the doors had left, and when Ayla entered, she found only Flidais, lying, bound, glaring up at her.

Ayla gripped the ropes that held her former advisor’s wrists and hauled her to her feet. “Walk with me, friend,” Ayla said, venom dripping from the word, “and you will tell me all that you know about this boat in the east.”

The tunnels in this part of the Darkworld were wide, and could hide any multitude of horrors. They had been trudging on in the darkness, Cerridwen alternately beating her wings to keep herself aloft and, when that grew too tiring, limping on her injured leg. She did not speak. He knew it had been a shock to her, to see the proof that her father was not Garret, as she had always been told, but Malachi, the Darkling, a mortal for whom she had never hidden her revulsion. Cedric felt a mean sort of happiness at that knowledge. How it must twist the knife in her, to know that the mortal she’d hated so much was her father. And yet, still he pitied her. How could he not? Even after he’d heard her praise her dead

“father” time and again, to the pain of her mother and, yes, to Malachi as well, even after the times she had denounced her mother’s involvement with her “unnatural” Consort, Cedric did not believe that this was the way she should have found out. To learn that he was her father, and to know that he would soon die, with no chance for her to make amends with him if she wished to, that was almost too cruel.

Almost.

She had caused this. Because of her bizarre fascination with the Elves, her naive desire to become one of them…all children rebelled against their parents, Gods knew that. But to start a war, and to end so many lives? Was there not some part of her that had known this would happen? She was not stupid, though her diminished role at Court had fooled many into believing that she was.

His shoulders ached under their burden. Cedric shifted into the other sight, saw that Malachi was alive, if barely. He could not expend any more energy to heal him, not do that and still manage to carry him. He trudged on.