Melissa Marr - Darkest Mercy

Irial’s shade took form and stepped out of Niall’s body.

Aislinn gasped.

The dead Dark King ignored everyone but the living Dark King. He turned to face Niall. “You’re as stubborn as ever.”

“But not insane,” Niall said.

“True.” Irial lifted a hand as if he would touch Niall’s battered face. “You defended our court admirably. I knew you were meant to be the Dark King.”

Niall shook his head, but he was smiling now. “You aren’t ever satisfied, are you? You were right , Irial. They are mine. The court is mine.” Niall held up bloodied hands. “I will kill or die for them.”

“And they for you,” Irial said.

“There has been enough killing today.” Far Dorcha’s words drew all of their gazes to him. In the midst of the bruised and wearied faeries, Death alone seemed untouched. He folded his arms over his chest and looked at them.

“In all of forever, this has not happened. She”—the Dark Man paused and motioned toward the warehouse—“was one of the first of two. Said to be unkillable without damning us all. There must be balance.” The Dark Man’s gaze flickered to Aislinn. “You have first right.”

Aislinn’s hand tightened on Seth’s. “No.”

“And you?” Far Dorcha’s attention turned to Seth. “Would you fill the vacant role of Discord? By right of your mother’s heritage, you are entitled to fill this. Your Sight is already in place; you travel between the worlds. You walk in the four courts and as a solitary. Unless you are planning to keep your new role . . .”

Seth glanced at Niall. “I don’t suppose the consequences of not being who I am would be good.”

Far Dorcha shrugged, but made no comment.

“I’ll pass.” Seth might not be able to see his own future, but he saw—and suspected that Far Dorcha saw—the increasingly probable futures of several of the faeries around him. Irial and Niall still had choices to make. Seth was all but certain what those choices were, but the decisions still must be made manifest.

There are always choices.

Far Dorcha continued as if nothing was certain. “Niall? Your sword ended her.”

“No. I am the Dark King.” Niall stared at Irial as he spoke. “I didn’t fight for my throne, bleed for the court, only to step away.” Then, with visible effort, Niall pulled his gaze from Irial and asked Far Dorcha, “The role must be filled, right?”

Far Dorcha sighed. “It must, and as much as it pains me to offer it to the one who avoided dying . . . Irial?”

The shade of the dead king did not even glance at Death—or at anyone there. As if no one else stood with them, he asked Niall, “Are you sure? I could stay. . . .”

“Dead?” Niall snorted. “An eternity of you in my head isn’t exactly ideal for either of us.”

At that, Irial glanced at Far Dorcha. “Are there other options?”

“You can remain as you are now, unconnected to the live king; you can resume your possession of him; or you can assume the vacant role.” Far Dorcha scowled at Irial. “If you are not this, I need to find another to fill it. There will be balance. Discord is—”

“Right.” Irial waved his hand as if brushing words away. “If I am unconnected, will they see me?”

“Not unless I am near or they are dead too,” Far Dorcha said.

“So possession, absence, or War.” Irial turned his back on all of them again. “Niall? I can stay, help mind the court, advise you; being tied to you means that our dreams are real.”

“I don’t want you to be a shade,” Niall said. “War belongs in the Dark Court, and . . . This is what I want.”

“Not War,” Far Dorcha corrected. “She was Discord—just as her twin is Order. Bananach forgot what she was. The aim of Discord is not solely one of violence. To do your work, you will be able to walk through the veil to Faerie as well. I will remedy that problem: the veil will be open to you . . . if you are Discord.”

“Discord.” Irial flashed a wry smile at all of them. “I’m sure I can stir up some discontent.”

The Dark Man snorted, but said nothing.

As they all stood there, Irial grew serious. He reached out with an insubstantial hand that hovered over the Dark King’s forearm. “You can’t trust me after this. Not the same way you do now.”

“I don’t tr—” The words Niall attempted to say became unpronounceable. “I don’t want you dead, Iri. I can find a new advisor. . . . Tell him yes, so we can get to work setting things in order.”

“Discord doesn’t generally work at putting things in order.” Irial’s smile returned.

Far Dorcha shook his head. “No one else has ever tricked Death, so I suppose it’s fitting that you fill the unkillable role.”

“I never have been much for rules.” Irial’s insubstantial form became solid as they watched. “You have to admit that it was a good loophole.”

The incredulous look Far Dorcha gave him made quite clear that he wasn’t going to admit anything, but as the Dark Man turned his back to Irial and Niall, he winked at Seth.

As Seth watched, threads became steady and stretched into the future.

Death was smiling as he walked toward Ankou; Niall’s tension seemed to vanish as Irial murmured something too softly for anyone else to hear.

Then Aislinn leaned her head on Seth’s arm. “Let’s get out of here?”

He had unresolved business with Niall, but given the option of dealing with Niall or being with Aislinn . . . there was no choice. He tightened his arms around her, but before they took two steps, the Summer Court’s advisor cleared his throat.

“If I could borrow you for a moment, my Queen?” Tavish said as he joined them. “I will handle what’s here, but I need you to make a few decisions before you depart.”

The Summer Queen looked at Seth. “Give me a sec?”

He nodded.

Tavish led Aislinn a few steps away, and Seth was left standing with Niall and Irial.

With a smile, Irial turned to Niall. “Far Dorcha deserves just a little more discord in his life. See you inside?”

After a grateful look at Irial’s departing figure, Niall turned to face Seth. They stood in silence for only as long as it took to assure that no one overheard them.

“I was angry,” Niall said.

Seth folded his arms.

The Dark King rubbed a hand over his face. “If Ash had been killed, you would’ve been unwell too.”

“That’s a reason , not an excuse.” Seth gestured at the burn on the side of his face. “You were going to burn my eye , man. That’s so far from forgivable.”

“I didn’t.”

“Because Leslie stopped you.” Seth stepped closer. “You considered letting Far Dorcha kill me.”

“I didn’t offer you to him,” Niall said.

“You told me last year that you didn’t want me to see the ugly part of the Dark Court, that you didn’t want the whole bastard thing”—Seth paused, weighing the words, trying to balance hurt and logic—“to affect me . . . that I wouldn’t see you the same if I did.”

The hope in Niall’s expression was at odds with the battered state he was in. “You told me I was wrong.”

“You were right .” Seth stared directly at Niall. “I don’t see you the same way.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall said.

“I’m not an idiot. I knew what you were. Objectively, I got it. If you weren’t capable of horrible choices, you wouldn’t be a faery. If you weren’t capable of doing those things, you wouldn’t have been able to be the Dark King.”

“You mean horrible like keeping secrets that lead to deaths and violence and chaos?” Niall snorted.

“And caging your friends? And getting unthroned by War because you’re unbalanced and acting like an ass?” Seth clasped the Dark King’s upper arm. “I don’t see you the same, but I can live with what I do see. You’re my brother .”