Grave War Read online

  Everyone in the room stared at me, and my cheeks heated. Yeah, that had been a ridiculous thing to say.

  Maeve made a scoffing noise deep in her throat and shook her head. “Of course Faerie produced the ring, you twit.” She stormed across the room, her hips swaying almost violently with her movements. She all but elbowed Rianna out of the way, snatching my hand from my friend’s grasp where Rianna had still been examining the ring. Maeve stared, her lips twisted into a scowl, but her eyes glimmered with something else, something covetous. She’d worn this ring before. And she wanted it back. She might have spent the last few weeks arranging prospective consort meetings for Falin, but there was no mistaking the desire in her gaze as she stared at the ring on my finger. Oh, I doubted she wanted to bind herself to Falin in particular. She just wanted the power that went along with the title. “There had to have been some proposal, some request, for Faerie to produce it. Do not act as if we are fools.”

  “Maeve.” Falin’s voice was cold, controlled, and, if you knew him at all, far more terrifying than if he’d yelled. “You are speaking to the woman wearing the winter consort ring. My consort ring. And you are precariously close to me deciding I need to defend my love’s honor in a duel.”

  Maeve dropped my hand, jerking back so fast you’d have thought I’d stung her. The blood drained from her face, her already pale cheeks going deathly white as she spun to face Falin. Then she fell to her knees before him.

  “I . . . I was shocked, my king. I forgot myself.”

  Falin stared at her for several tense heartbeats, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression hard. Oh shit. He wasn’t seriously going to duel her to the death just because she was acting like a jerk to me, was he? I mean. He was king. He did have to maintain a certain image to hold his throne, but . . .

  “It is not my forgiveness you need,” he said, his gaze flicking to me.

  Maeve’s shoulders twitched. Not a full jerk of surprise, but definitely a small hitch. Then she twisted to face me, still on her knees. Her expression was not kind, not apologetic. She didn’t like me. She didn’t think I could hack it as consort—hell, I agreed with her on that one—but after a moment, a look of resignation fell over her face. If she apologized, she’d be indebted to me. If she didn’t, well, that would be a second insult and I’d put money on the fact that Falin would duel her to set a precedent. Maeve was old, and no doubt powerful, but that didn’t mean she wanted to try to best Falin in a duel.

  “My apologies, Consort,” she said, the words hissed out like they’d put up a struggle in her throat.

  A debt opened, hanging between us, awaiting my response. It wasn’t a large debt, because she wasn’t genuinely sorry and the offense hadn’t been great, but it was a small bit of leverage. If I was going to survive in Faerie, I probably needed every edge I could gather.

  “Apology accepted, but don’t call me consort.”

  Maeve’s frown deepened. I wasn’t sure if that was because of the weight of the debt locking in place or because of my words. I should have discussed this whole consort ring situation a little more in depth with Falin while we were alone. I needed to be careful. Would the ring vanish if I publicly denounced being the consort? Would I be stuck with the role if I didn’t dispute the title?

  I pressed two fingers to my temple. A deep throbbing was starting there, a headache I didn’t have time for. There were much more important things at stake than my love life.

  Turning my attention to the Shadow King, I tried to get the conversation back to a topic other than the ring on my finger. “Falin said the other courts offered truces, but no aid?”

  Nandin was frowning, watching me, and I realized there might be more repercussions from this stupid ring than I’d first realized. After all, technically, I was still betrothed to Dugan. Yes, the Shadow Prince and I had both agreed to refuse that marriage, but the original agreement had been created by Nandin and my father, so Dugan and I deciding not to go through with it didn’t actually mean the betrothal had been canceled.

  “They offered only truces,” Nandin agreed, nodding slowly, the frown still affixed to his face. “Which means we are likely in for an arduous day. We should probably dine and determine our next plan of action.”

  All eyes turned to Falin because this was his court and his private dining table. He gave me one last look, as if silently asking if I was okay with everything that had just transpired. I wasn’t, but there wasn’t much I could do about it right now. Then he turned and walked toward the large table in the center of the room. It was bare, not even a plate or glass of water on the icy surface, but as Falin approached the head of the table, covered trays appeared, complete with fancy settings and several lit candelabras. He stepped around the chair at the head of the table, pulling out the one on the right and standing behind it before looking at me.

  It took me a moment too long—and Rianna elbowing me in the side—before I realized he was holding the chair out for me. It was a gentlemanly gesture. Sweet . . . but weird. It wasn’t something I was accustomed to. I felt awkward as I made my way to the chair, aware once again of all eyes on me.

  Yeah, I wasn’t made for this court thing—and this wasn’t even the whole court. This was just a few advisors and a couple allies.

  “I feel rather overlooked,” a voice announced before I could sink into my chair.

  I whirled toward the voice. In the time it took me to turn, everyone else in the room materialized weapons. Falin’s long daggers were in his hands as he stepped protectively in front of me. Dugan’s sword dripped shadows, as did the blade Nandin had produced. Lyell wielded what appeared to be a frozen halberd, Maeve held an icy whip, and Rianna had produced her magical spear. Even Brad produced a small knife from the folds of his cloak, though he stepped behind Nandin, letting the king shield him. I was apparently the only one stupid enough not to immediately grab my dagger. Totally not made for this Faerie court thing.

  My gaze landed on the source of the voice. The man who’d spoken had propped himself against the far wall in a shadowy corner, one knee bent, arms crossed casually over his chest.

  “Wow, check out that aggression. I think I’ll sit next to the planeweaver; she’s the only one not threatening to gut me just for speaking,” he said, flashing a very Cheshire cat–like smile. He tipped his head slightly in my direction, eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “What are you doing here?” Nandin ground out the words, lowering but not vanishing his blade.

  “A little nightmare told me you were searching for allies against light. I’m hurt no one called me,” the man said, not straightening from where he leaned against the wall. He pressed a hand against his chest, feigning injury from the slight of not being called for aid. Did he not care that most of the people in the room still held drawn weapons? “I’m here to join the good fight. To save all of Faerie.” That last bit almost sounded sarcastic.

  Dugan scoffed under his breath, but his sword vanished. “You, fight?”

  The man pushed off the wall and made an exaggerated grimace. “You mean like with weapons, and blood, and pain? No. You’re right. I better leave that to a brute like you,” he said, flashing a mocking and not quite friendly smile at Dugan. Then he grabbed the long staff beside him and strolled across the room.

  Most of the fae in the room still had their weapons drawn, but he didn’t seem to care. He was in no particular hurry as he made his way across the space, his focus on where Falin and I stood. If it had been any other fae, I likely would have felt threatened and a little worried about his lack of concern for the dangerous situation he was willfully ignoring. But I knew this fae. Not well, certainly not enough to trust. But I found myself more curious than nervous about his presence. Falin hadn’t lowered his weapons, though, so clearly he didn’t feel the same. But I felt no need to go for my dagger. Not yet at least.

  Lyell stepped forward, his halberd raised, moving to
block the path to his king. The newcomer paused, then, looking around the other fae, his gaze found mine. He cocked an eyebrow over an eye lined with dark makeup. He expected me to intercede? There were two kings and a prince in this room. I was not the top authority here.

  I studied him. As Dugan had implied, he certainly didn’t look like much of a fighter. He was just as tall as the shadow royals and Falin, but he wasn’t nearly as broad or muscular. He wore black leather, but not the fighting armor Nandin and Dugan wore; more of a punk goth style than anything that would protect him. That look was accentuated by the thick eyeliner and his short hair spiked around his face. He carried no visible weapons—not that that seemed to mean much in Faerie—but aside from some black chains dangling from his belt loops, he carried only a long staff. And not a fighting staff. More like a thin pole topped with an hourglass. Sand trickled steadily from the top globe of the hourglass into the bottom, a third having already fallen.

  “What is your hourglass counting down to this time, Kyran?” I called out.

  He flashed that Cheshire-like smile again, but Dugan visibly startled at my words, and Nandin turned to regard me with dark eyes.

  “You know him?”

  I nodded. “Self-declared ruler of the nightmare realm? Yeah. We’ve met.”

  Nandin’s lip curled back in a sneer. “Ruler? More like janitor.”

  “You always say such kind things, Father.” Kyran released an exaggerated sigh. “The planeweaver visits quite frequently. She does so love her guilt-tortured nightmares.”

  “I told you to stop watching my dreams,” I said, but the comment was mostly reflex because I was busy staring between Kyran and Nandin. Father? There was minimal resemblance between the two, but now that I was looking for it, I supposed I could see some familial traits. Faerie was such a small place in many ways.

  Kyran turned his attention to where Lyell still blocked his path. “Are you planning to let me pass?”

  The councilman turned a questioning eye at Falin, who, after a moment, nodded. Falin hadn’t sheathed his daggers yet, but he’d lowered them.

  “What are you doing here?” Falin asked as Kyran finished his casual stroll across the room.

  The slender fae lifted one shoulder in a blasé shrug. “Like I said. I’m here to join the fight against light. To restore shadow. To save Faerie. Blah, blah, blah. So on and so forth.”

  I frowned at him. “Bullshit. You’re here to watch something. What’s the hourglass counting down to?”

  Kyran’s grin grew.

  “Enough playing, boy,” Nandin snapped. “Answer the consort’s question.”

  The title caught me short, my shoulders hitching at the reference, but I did want—and more than likely needed—the answer. The last time Kyran had carried that staff, the hourglass had been ticking down to the moment that a crazed witch using a powerful plane-merging artifact would complete her potentially world-ending spell—or that I would stop her. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was once again counting down to some apocalyptic event. The sand wasn’t falling fast, but the hourglass couldn’t possibly hold more than a few hours’ worth of sand. That wasn’t a lot of time before . . . whatever was set to happen happened—or we managed to stop it.

  “Consort?” Kyran exaggerated his eyebrow lift to a point that would have been comical in another circumstance. “No. Not consort, are you? You haven’t agreed to anything.”

  I glared at him. “We were talking about the hourglass.”

  “I knew it.” Kyran beamed. “You haven’t agreed. Faerie must have magicked that ring on your finger. Your commitment issues do leave such nice openings for others still hoping to win your affection.”

  Now I wasn’t the only one glaring at the nightmare kingling.

  “Hey, what’s with all the aggressive looks?” he asked, his smile never slipping. “I’m not speaking for myself. Planeweaver, you are fascinating, but not my type.”

  “Nandin said you were the realm of dreams’ janitor. Did he mean jester?” I mumbled under my breath, which earned a snorted laugh from Dugan.

  Kyran’s smile finally dimmed. “You’ve used that joke before.”

  “What is the hourglass counting down to?” Falin accented the question by lifting one of his daggers. Kyran was close enough now that the blade touched his throat.

  Kyran lifted one hand in a placating manner, palms out—the other hand still gripped his staff. “It is counting down to the end, of course. Or maybe to the beginning?” He frowned. “Or is it more like a semicolon? A to-be-continued.”

  “Can you be less annoying and more specific?” Nandin growled.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one with a dysfunctional relationship with my father.

  Kyran gave another one of those lackadaisical shrugs. “I’m here to help. My oath on it. But there are rules. Don’t ask about the hourglass again.”

  There was a long moment in which no one moved. No one spoke. I didn’t even breathe. Finally Nandin shook his head.

  “What could you possibly do to help?”

  Kyran smiled at his father, and I winced on his behalf, even though no pain at the words showed in his expression. “The realm of dreams is crumbling into the same chasm the shadow court is slipping into. I like the home you’ve deigned to allow me to establish there. So it is in my best interests to see Faerie restored. I’m offering what aid I can.”

  “Another ally in this fight wouldn’t be a bad thing,” I said, my words barely above a whisper.

  Nandin shook his head again, but after a tense moment, Falin lowered his arm, his daggers vanishing.

  “We will require oaths.”

  Kyran wiped away the thin line of blood trickling from his throat, the smile never falling from his face. “I expected nothing less.”

  Chapter 29

  While Falin and Nandin extracted whatever oaths they required from Kyran, I settled in my seat at the table. I was starving and curious what was under the fancy silver domes covering the food. It smelled like pancakes. I really hoped it was pancakes.

  Maeve shot a glare full of daggers my way when I reached for the closest covered platter, but she didn’t say anything to me. I hadn’t planned to actually eat before Falin made it to the table anyway—not because he was king but because it would have been rude. I just wanted to check what Faerie had served. Instead I settled back in my chair, waiting not so contentedly.

  Maeve busied herself assigning seats to everyone present. Despite this being Falin’s private dining hall, not the court banquet hall, Maeve attempted to arrange everyone by their court standing. Which meant she didn’t want to put Rianna, Desmond, or Brad at the table at all.

  I, of course, objected to that plan.

  Rianna ended up seated beside me, which put her third from the king of the winter court, to Maeve’s obvious chagrin. I’d have insisted Desmond receive the next seat, just to irritate the uppity Sleagh Maith councilwoman, but after a look at Rianna’s flushed face, I decided not to push it.

  Once Falin joined us, we finally got to eat. I was thrilled to discover pancakes, bacon, and eggs hiding under the domes. I dug in with relish, having to remind myself to slow down and actually listen to the conversations across the table as they were kind of important.

  Not very productive, though.

  “So that’s your master plan?” Kyran asked, propping his booted feet onto the table. Even I shot him a glare for that one. Not that he cared. “You are just going to issue a handful of formal challenges against the light throne?”

  Nandin set his fork down and turned toward his son. “You have a better plan?”

  Kyran shrugged. “No. But yours doesn’t seem very . . . time efficient.”

  “Ryese, if he truly has taken over as the King of Light, will have to respond to an official challenge within a day and a night.” Dugan frowned as he spoke, poking at the food on
his plate. “Granted, if the first challenger does not make it all the way to Ryese, there will be a break before he has to accept a second challenge, but that is just the way of things.”

  Kyran didn’t answer but shot a meaningful glance at his hourglass. How much sand did it have left? Two hours? Four?

  “I don’t think we have that kind of time,” I said, scraping the last of the syrup from my plate with the side of my fork. “Even assuming Kyran is screwing with us and his hourglass is just counting down when his dry cleaning will be ready—”

  The fae in question snorted at my implication, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “—the fae in the mortal realm are trapped and fading. We need to stop Ryese from destroying any more doors, and we need to secure the amaranthine tree he’s been offering in exchange for me. Summer saw it, so we know he has it.”

  “Assuming he is the hooded figure who contacted them,” Nandin said. That was the second ambiguous comment that had been made about Ryese’s involvement this morning. I frowned at him, though I guessed that if he were the one telling me his long-standing nemesis was the source of all of Faerie’s problems without any proof to back it up, I’d likely be skeptical as well. Still, I didn’t like it.

  “Well, the fastest way to secure the tree would be to turn over the planeweaver,” Kyran said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning his chair back on two legs.

  “No,” Falin and Dugan said, simultaneously.

  “He has a point.” Maeve looked at Falin, her face open and earnest, without a hint of malice. “It would bolster our court and allow us to rescue at least some of our people and independents.”

  “And it would further the plans of the man trying to destroy Faerie—which includes our court. Is that the sage advice you are offering me?” Falin asked, his voice cold enough that Faerie responded by dropping the temperature in the room.

  Maeve ducked her head, suddenly very focused on the half-eaten breakfast on her plate.