Melissa Marr - Fragile Eternity

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “When I’m around her I feel like I’m enthralled. She doesn’t love me, but I want her to. If she did, my court would be stronger. It’s like buds opening in the sunlight. It’s not a choice, Don. It’s a need. She’s my other half, and her decision to be ‘friends’ weakens me.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t…and I don’t know if it’ll get any easier.”

“I can’t help you with this one”—she entwined her fingers with his—“and I hate you both sometimes for it. Talk to her. Find a way to be with her or find a way to be free enough to be truly mine.”

“She doesn’t hear me when I try to talk to her about this, and I don’t want to quarrel with her.” Keenan’s expression was that of enchantment. Even talking about her distracted him.

Donia looked at him, the same lost faery she’d loved for most of her life. Too often she’d been the one to soften when they were at odds, too often she’d helped him because they’d both wanted the same goal: Winter and Summer to balance. She sighed. “Try again, Keenan, because this is going to end badly if something doesn’t change.”

He kissed her pursed lips softly and said, “I still dream that it was you. No matter how many times I’ve looked, in my dreams it’s always been you who were meant to be my queen.”

“And I would be if the choice were mine. It isn’t. You need to let me go or find a way to distance yourself from her.”

He pulled her closer. “No matter what happens, I don’t want to let you go. Ever .”

“That’s a different problem altogether.” She watched the frost form on the steps beside her. “I’m not meant for Summer, Keenan.”

“Is it so wrong to want a queen who loves me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But it’s not working to want two queens to love you.”

“If you were my queen—”

“But I wasn’t.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

They sat there like that, leaning together carefully, until morning came.

Sorcha had summoned Devlin after breaking her fast. True to form, he was there within mere moments. In their eternity together, her brother had never been anything other than reliable and predictable.

He stood just inside the doorway, silent as she crossed the expanse of the hall. Her bare feet made no sound as she stepped onto the dais and sat upon the single polished silver throne. From here, the cavernous hall was beautiful. There was a symmetry of design that was pleasing to behold. This room—and only this room—did not fold under her will. The Hall of Truth and Memory was impervious to any magic but its own. Once, when the Dark Court resided in Faerie, this was where inter-court disputes were resolved. Once, when they shared Faerie, this was where sacrifices were made. The slate-gray stones held those, and many more, memories.

Sorcha slid her feet over the cool earth and rock upon which her throne was placed. When one lived for eternity, memory grew hazy at times. The soil helped her keep focus on Faerie; the rock tied her to the truth of the Hall.

Devlin wouldn’t move until she was settled. In some ways, her adherence to order and rules was essential to Devlin. The structure helped him keep to the path he’d chosen. For her, order was instinctive; for him, it was a choice he made every breath of every day.

The words were rote, but he said them all the same: “Are you receiving, my lady?”

“I am.” She settled her skirt so that the bare tips of her feet were hidden. Silver threads shimmered in her hands and on her cheeks; they shimmered elsewhere that she’d sometimes reveal, but her bare feet stayed covered. The proof of the nature of her connection to the Hall was not something to show her court.

“May I approach?”

“Always, Devlin,” she reassured him again, as she had for longer than either of them could recall. “Even without asking, you are welcome.”

“You honor me with your trust.” He dropped his gaze to her concealed feet. He knew the truth she shared with none other. Reason made clear to both of them that her trust in him was going to be the source of her stumbling someday. Reason also made clear that there wasn’t a better choice: trusting him secured his loyalty.

And we haven’t fallen yet.

He was her eyes and hands in the mortal realm. He was her violence in times when such a thing was needed. But he was also Bananach’s brother—a fact that none of the three of them ever forgot. Devlin saw their sister regularly; he cared for the mad raven-faery, even though her aims were utterly disorderly. His affection for their sister made it so that no amount of time or service could erase Sorcha’s slivers of doubts in his loyalty.

Will he side with her someday? Does he now?

“Dark fey have drawn the blood of one of your mortals…on Faerie soil,” Devlin began. “Will you judge them?”

“I will.” Again, the words were rote: she always judged. It was what Reason did.

Devlin turned to retrieve the accused and the witnesses, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

“After this I need you to visit the mortal world. There is a mortal who walks among three courts untethered,” she said.

He bowed. “As you wish.”

“War thinks he is key.”

“Would you have me eliminate the mortal or retrieve him?”

“Neither.” Sorcha wasn’t sure what the right move was just yet, but hasty action wasn’t it. “Bring me information. See what I cannot.”

“As you will.”

She refocused on the trial. “Bring them in.”

Moments later, four Ly Ergs were brought into the room by guards under Devlin’s command. In the land of mortals, the red-palmed faeries’ habit of drawing blood wasn’t a concern; out there, most of the depravities that happened weren’t Sorcha’s concern. However, these four weren’t in the mortal world.

Several score of her own court followed the accused into the room. Hira and Nienke, handmaids and comfort to her these past few centuries, came to sit on the stair at her feet. They were clad in simple gray shifts that matched her only slightly more ornate garb, and like her, they were barefoot.

She motioned to Devlin.

He turned so he was angled, not putting his back to her but facing the Ly Ergs and the court attendees. Standing thusly, he could see everyone.

“Does your king know you are here?” he asked the Ly Ergs.

Only one replied: “No.”

“Does Bananach?”

One of the four, not the same Ly Erg, grinned. “Lady War knows we act to bring about her wishes.”

Sorcha pursed her lips. Bananach was careful—not acting to overtly sanction an attack on Faerie ground, but undoubtedly encouraging it.

Devlin looked to Sorcha.

She gave a curt nod, and he slit the Ly Erg’s throat. The movement was steady, but quick enough that it was silent.

The other three Ly Ergs watched the blood seep into the rock. The Hall absorbed it, drinking in the memory of the dead faery. The Ly Ergs had to be physically restrained from touching the blood. It was their sustenance, their temptation, their reason for almost every action they undertook.

Scuffling ensued as the Ly Ergs tried to reach the spilled blood—which both displeased and pleased Devlin. He smiled, scowled, and bared his teeth. It was a brief series of expressions that the court would not see. They knew not to look to Devlin’s face when he was questioning uninvited guests.

Sorcha listened to the truths the Hall shared with her: she alone heard the whispered words that shivered through the room. The High Queen knew that the Ly Ergs weren’t acting on direct order. “She did not specifically instruct them to come to Faerie.”