Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 49
“Please, Helen,” Mark said. “My brother went to Faerie to save me. I must be able to do the same for him. I have been a prisoner before. Do not make me a prisoner again.”
Helen felt her muscles sag. He was right. She sat down on the bed before she could start crying. “When would you be leaving?”
“As soon as Jaime gets here with the heirloom,” said Cristina. “It’s been nearly an hour since I summoned him with a fire-message, but I don’t know how long it will take him to arrive.”
“Jaime Rosales?” said Mark and Kieran at the same time.
Helen glanced between them. They both looked surprised and a little watchful, as if jealous. She dismissed the thought. She was losing her mind, probably because of the strain.
“Oh, Mark,” she said. In times of strain, the cadence of her voice, like his, slipped into an ancestral faerie formality. “I cannot bear to let you go, but I suppose I must.”
Mark’s eyes softened. “Helen. I am sorry. I promise to come back to you safely, and to bring Julian and Emma back safely as well.”
Before Helen pointed out that this wasn’t a promise he could truly make, Kieran cleared his throat. The sound was very ordinary and human and nearly made Helen smile despite herself.
“I would that I had ever had a sibling who loved me as much as you love each other,” he said, sounding very much like a prince of Faerie. The semblance was quickly dispelled, though, when he cleared his throat again and said, “In the meantime, Helen, I must ask you to remove yourself from my leg. You are sitting on it and it is becoming quite painful.”
* * *
“Some monsters are human,” said Gwyn. They were in Diana’s rooms on Flintlock Street. She lay crosswise on her bed, her head in Gwyn’s lap as he stroked her hair. “Horace Dearborn is one of them.”
Diana brushed her hand along the wool of Gwyn’s tunic. She liked seeing him like this—without his helmet or mail, just a man in a worn tunic and scuffed boots. A man with pointed ears and two-colored eyes, but Diana had stopped seeing those as odd. They were just part of Gwyn.
“I believe there are good people in the Council,” Diana said. “They are frightened. Of Horace as well as his dire predictions. He has seized a great deal of power in a short time.”
“He has made Idris unsafe,” said Gwyn. “I wish you to leave Alicante, Diana.”
She sat up in surprise. “Leave Alicante?”
“I have seen a great deal of history,” said Gwyn. “Terrible laws are usually passed before they are repealed after much suffering. Small-mindedness and fear have a way of winning out. You have told me Horace and his daughter do not like you.”
“No,” said Diana. “Though I don’t know why—”
“They fear your influence,” said Gwyn. “They know others listen to you. You are very persuasive, Diana, and startlingly wise.”
She made a face at him. “Flatterer.”
“I am not flattering you.” He stood up. “I am afraid for you. Horace Dearborn may not be a dictator yet, but he yearns to be one. His first move will to be to eliminate all who stand against him. He will move to extinguish the brightest lights first, those who illuminate the pathway for others.”
Diana shivered. She could hear the hooves of his horse pacing back and forth across her roof. “You are bitter, Gwyn.”
“It is possible I do not always see the best in people,” he said, “as I hunt down the souls of slain warriors on the battlefield.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you making a joke?”
“No.” He looked puzzled. “I meant what I said. Diana, let me take you from here. We would be safe in Faerie. At night the stars are a thousand colors and during the day the fields are full of roses.”
“I cannot, Gwyn. I cannot abandon this fight.”
He sat back down on the bed, hanging his shaggy head in weariness. “Diana . . .”
It was strange after so long to feel the desire to be close to someone, physically as well as emotionally. “Did you not tell me that the first time you saw me, you cared for me because I was so brave? You would now like me to be a coward?”
He looked at her, emotion naked on his lined face. “It is different now.”
“Why would it be different?”
He curved his big hands around her waist. “Because I know that I love you.”
Her heart gave a strong flutter inside her chest. She had not expected such words from anyone, had considered it a price she would pay for being transgender and Nephilim. She had certainly never expected to hear it from someone like Gwyn: who knew all there was to know about her, who could not lie, a prince of wild magic.
“Gwyn,” she said, and cupped his face in her hands, bending to kiss him. He leaned back, gently drawing her with him until they lay upon the bed, her heart beating fast against the roughness of his tunic. He curved over her, his bulk casting a shadow across her body, and in that shadow she closed her eyes and moved with the movements of his gentle kisses and touches as they turned sweeter and sharper, until they reached together a place where fear was gone, where there was only the gentle alliance of souls who had left loneliness behind.
* * *
Helen had gone to tell Aline what was going on; Mark couldn’t guess how late it was, but he could no longer see moonlight through the window. He was sitting on the mattress next to Kieran, and Cristina had curled herself into the chair beside the bed.
He avoided meeting her eyes. He knew he had done nothing wrong by kissing her, or she by kissing him. He remembered the last time he had spoken to Kieran alone, in the London Sanctuary. How Kieran had touched the elf-bolt that hung around Mark’s neck. It had become a symbol, of sorts, of the two of them. What Kieran had said next still rang in his ears: We will be done with each other.
He didn’t know if he could explain what he felt to Kieran, or even to Cristina. He knew only that he did not feel done: not with Kieran, nor with Cristina should Kieran choose to return to him.
“Do you feel any better, Kieran?” he said softly.
“Yes—Cristina is a very good nurse.”
Cristina rolled her eyes. “I put on a bandage. Don’t exaggerate my talents.”
Kieran gazed sadly down at his bandaged arm. “I do feel a bit odd with my sleeve missing.”
Mark couldn’t help smiling. “It’s very stylish. Big with mundanes, the one-sleeve look.”
Kieran’s eyes widened. “Is it?”
Both Mark and Cristina giggled. Kieran frowned. “You should not mock me.”
“Everyone gets mocked,” Cristina said teasingly. “That’s what friends do.”
Kieran’s face lit up at that, so much so that Mark felt the painful urge to hug him. Princes of Faerie didn’t have friends, he guessed; he and Kieran had never really talked about it. There was a time that the two of them had been friends, but love and pain had transmuted that in a way Mark now knew wasn’t inevitable. There were people who fell in love but stayed friends—Magnus and Alec, or Clary and Jace, or Helen and Aline.
Kieran’s smile had vanished. He moved restlessly under the covers. “There is something I need to tell you both. To explain.”
Cristina looked worried. “Not if you don’t want to—”
“It is about the Scholomance,” Kieran said, and they both fell silent. They listened while Kieran told them of the Hollow Place. Mark tended to lose himself in other people’s stories. He had always been like that, since he was a child, and he remembered how much he had loved Kieran telling him stories when they were in the Hunt—how he had gone to sleep with Kieran’s fingers in his hair and Kieran’s voice in his ears, telling him tales of Bloduwedd, the princess made of flowers, and of the black cauldron that raised the dead, and of the battle between Gwyn ap Nudd and Herne the Hunter, that had shaken down the trees.
Cristina never lost herself in retellings in the same way, Mark thought; she was entirely present, her expression darkening and her eyes widening with horror as Kieran told them of the Cohort, the fight by the pool, the way Diego had saved him, and how he had escaped from the library.
Helen felt her muscles sag. He was right. She sat down on the bed before she could start crying. “When would you be leaving?”
“As soon as Jaime gets here with the heirloom,” said Cristina. “It’s been nearly an hour since I summoned him with a fire-message, but I don’t know how long it will take him to arrive.”
“Jaime Rosales?” said Mark and Kieran at the same time.
Helen glanced between them. They both looked surprised and a little watchful, as if jealous. She dismissed the thought. She was losing her mind, probably because of the strain.
“Oh, Mark,” she said. In times of strain, the cadence of her voice, like his, slipped into an ancestral faerie formality. “I cannot bear to let you go, but I suppose I must.”
Mark’s eyes softened. “Helen. I am sorry. I promise to come back to you safely, and to bring Julian and Emma back safely as well.”
Before Helen pointed out that this wasn’t a promise he could truly make, Kieran cleared his throat. The sound was very ordinary and human and nearly made Helen smile despite herself.
“I would that I had ever had a sibling who loved me as much as you love each other,” he said, sounding very much like a prince of Faerie. The semblance was quickly dispelled, though, when he cleared his throat again and said, “In the meantime, Helen, I must ask you to remove yourself from my leg. You are sitting on it and it is becoming quite painful.”
* * *
“Some monsters are human,” said Gwyn. They were in Diana’s rooms on Flintlock Street. She lay crosswise on her bed, her head in Gwyn’s lap as he stroked her hair. “Horace Dearborn is one of them.”
Diana brushed her hand along the wool of Gwyn’s tunic. She liked seeing him like this—without his helmet or mail, just a man in a worn tunic and scuffed boots. A man with pointed ears and two-colored eyes, but Diana had stopped seeing those as odd. They were just part of Gwyn.
“I believe there are good people in the Council,” Diana said. “They are frightened. Of Horace as well as his dire predictions. He has seized a great deal of power in a short time.”
“He has made Idris unsafe,” said Gwyn. “I wish you to leave Alicante, Diana.”
She sat up in surprise. “Leave Alicante?”
“I have seen a great deal of history,” said Gwyn. “Terrible laws are usually passed before they are repealed after much suffering. Small-mindedness and fear have a way of winning out. You have told me Horace and his daughter do not like you.”
“No,” said Diana. “Though I don’t know why—”
“They fear your influence,” said Gwyn. “They know others listen to you. You are very persuasive, Diana, and startlingly wise.”
She made a face at him. “Flatterer.”
“I am not flattering you.” He stood up. “I am afraid for you. Horace Dearborn may not be a dictator yet, but he yearns to be one. His first move will to be to eliminate all who stand against him. He will move to extinguish the brightest lights first, those who illuminate the pathway for others.”
Diana shivered. She could hear the hooves of his horse pacing back and forth across her roof. “You are bitter, Gwyn.”
“It is possible I do not always see the best in people,” he said, “as I hunt down the souls of slain warriors on the battlefield.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you making a joke?”
“No.” He looked puzzled. “I meant what I said. Diana, let me take you from here. We would be safe in Faerie. At night the stars are a thousand colors and during the day the fields are full of roses.”
“I cannot, Gwyn. I cannot abandon this fight.”
He sat back down on the bed, hanging his shaggy head in weariness. “Diana . . .”
It was strange after so long to feel the desire to be close to someone, physically as well as emotionally. “Did you not tell me that the first time you saw me, you cared for me because I was so brave? You would now like me to be a coward?”
He looked at her, emotion naked on his lined face. “It is different now.”
“Why would it be different?”
He curved his big hands around her waist. “Because I know that I love you.”
Her heart gave a strong flutter inside her chest. She had not expected such words from anyone, had considered it a price she would pay for being transgender and Nephilim. She had certainly never expected to hear it from someone like Gwyn: who knew all there was to know about her, who could not lie, a prince of wild magic.
“Gwyn,” she said, and cupped his face in her hands, bending to kiss him. He leaned back, gently drawing her with him until they lay upon the bed, her heart beating fast against the roughness of his tunic. He curved over her, his bulk casting a shadow across her body, and in that shadow she closed her eyes and moved with the movements of his gentle kisses and touches as they turned sweeter and sharper, until they reached together a place where fear was gone, where there was only the gentle alliance of souls who had left loneliness behind.
* * *
Helen had gone to tell Aline what was going on; Mark couldn’t guess how late it was, but he could no longer see moonlight through the window. He was sitting on the mattress next to Kieran, and Cristina had curled herself into the chair beside the bed.
He avoided meeting her eyes. He knew he had done nothing wrong by kissing her, or she by kissing him. He remembered the last time he had spoken to Kieran alone, in the London Sanctuary. How Kieran had touched the elf-bolt that hung around Mark’s neck. It had become a symbol, of sorts, of the two of them. What Kieran had said next still rang in his ears: We will be done with each other.
He didn’t know if he could explain what he felt to Kieran, or even to Cristina. He knew only that he did not feel done: not with Kieran, nor with Cristina should Kieran choose to return to him.
“Do you feel any better, Kieran?” he said softly.
“Yes—Cristina is a very good nurse.”
Cristina rolled her eyes. “I put on a bandage. Don’t exaggerate my talents.”
Kieran gazed sadly down at his bandaged arm. “I do feel a bit odd with my sleeve missing.”
Mark couldn’t help smiling. “It’s very stylish. Big with mundanes, the one-sleeve look.”
Kieran’s eyes widened. “Is it?”
Both Mark and Cristina giggled. Kieran frowned. “You should not mock me.”
“Everyone gets mocked,” Cristina said teasingly. “That’s what friends do.”
Kieran’s face lit up at that, so much so that Mark felt the painful urge to hug him. Princes of Faerie didn’t have friends, he guessed; he and Kieran had never really talked about it. There was a time that the two of them had been friends, but love and pain had transmuted that in a way Mark now knew wasn’t inevitable. There were people who fell in love but stayed friends—Magnus and Alec, or Clary and Jace, or Helen and Aline.
Kieran’s smile had vanished. He moved restlessly under the covers. “There is something I need to tell you both. To explain.”
Cristina looked worried. “Not if you don’t want to—”
“It is about the Scholomance,” Kieran said, and they both fell silent. They listened while Kieran told them of the Hollow Place. Mark tended to lose himself in other people’s stories. He had always been like that, since he was a child, and he remembered how much he had loved Kieran telling him stories when they were in the Hunt—how he had gone to sleep with Kieran’s fingers in his hair and Kieran’s voice in his ears, telling him tales of Bloduwedd, the princess made of flowers, and of the black cauldron that raised the dead, and of the battle between Gwyn ap Nudd and Herne the Hunter, that had shaken down the trees.
Cristina never lost herself in retellings in the same way, Mark thought; she was entirely present, her expression darkening and her eyes widening with horror as Kieran told them of the Cohort, the fight by the pool, the way Diego had saved him, and how he had escaped from the library.
