A Court of Desires and Darkness

Chapter 9

This morning I walk to the throne room alone. Well, mostly alone. Per usual, two soldiers trail behind me, their distance away expanding each year it seems. After breakfast this morning--which I ate in my chambers because one meal a day with the King is all I can handle--my two handmaidens, who's names I found out are Daethia and Neia, dressed me in a curvy silver gown. Elegant stitching was woven to accent my features. They assure me that they chose this gown, not the King. After several conversations, I have learned that almost the entire servant staff dislikes the King. No surprise there. 

Most nobles and other court guests evade the halls that I frequent the most. Word gets around when you start letting loose. Today, I see only a handful of High Fae, all in formal attire. The King has called for an audience, which only means that someone has done something that displeased him. 

"The Queen whore is on her way," my shadows whisper in my ear the words a noble says all the way down the corridor. They turn on their heels to scurry away.

"Stop," I yell to them. They freeze. Two younger High Fae nobles turn to face me as I walk calmly over to them, my head slightly cocked to the side. The brown-haired one in a lilac colored gown was the one with the fowl mouth. 

They curtsy, their heads low. "We are sorry, Your Majesty," their voices laced with venom and a tinge of fear. I stop a couple feet before them. 

"Stand," I command. 

They do so, glancing at each other. "Than--" With a flick of my hand I steal their voices. A concerned expression flashes across their faces. I can sense the soldiers behind me stiffening, their breathing sharp. 

I grab the brown-haired female's arm. Her eyes bulge from the sockets with pain as my shadows slither down my arm and around hers. I lean in to her ear, "Never refer to me that way again," I hiss. "Understand?" A tight, quick nod and I release her arm, my power lingering for a moment. When the shadows retreat, a dark burn mark is left behind. I walk away from them, not bothering to return their voice until I am well down the hall. I hear them gasp and flee in the opposite direction as the throne room, their heels clicking rapidly on the marble flooring. 

The throne room is already quite full. The crowd parts for me as I walk down the center, everyone bowing their heads as I pass. I keep my eyes fixed forward, my head high. No one says a word until I find my spot standing next to the currently empty, grand throne. The two soldiers who were trailing me before stop at the base of the dais. Some conversations start up again, most about the weather or the court. My shadows whisper of a pair of eyes that are fixed on me from the left. I look and see a male standing, his green eyes glued to mine. Beside him are three soldiers. The reason we are all here, no doubt. 

All noise ceases when the double doors open once again. The King, clad in his silver armor, a matching crown atop his head, saunters into the room. My own crown, a thin silver band with a glorious sparkling jewel set into the front weighs heavy on my head. The King looks at me momentarily before stepping up onto the dais. The only place I bow to him is in this room, with all these eyes on us. And every time I do so, he smirks in response, knowing that it boils my blood. When he turns to face his subjects, everyone bows deeply to us both. 

He takes his seat and waves the still gawking male over. "Please, let me live," he whispers as they push him along. No one else seems to have heard him, not even the soldiers behind him, and I wonder if I imagined it. I watch him stone-faced, my emotions unreadable. I could swear his shoulders slump in defeat. The soldiers stop, pushing the male to stand in front of the dais. He wears simple, lightly stained clothing. A farmer, if I had to guess. 

"You are accused of lending a canoe to a handful of humans," the King spits with disdain, as if the word was something fowl on his lips. The male shifts his wide eyes to the powerful fae in front of him. The King sits relaxed in the chair, his head resting in a hand. "What say you to this?"

"I--I did no--no such thing, Your Majesty," the male stutters. 

The King lifts a brow, "So, you are calling my soldiers behind you liars, then?" He gestures to the fae in armor who stand within arms reach of the farmer. 

"No--no, sir," he winces. Either answer could be a death sentence for him. I fight the urge to stand up for the male. Keeping a solemn expression is difficult. 

"Then you are claiming guilt, no?" 

The male starts shaking, sweat dripping from his forehead. The soldiers behind him put their hands on their weapons. As he opens his mouth to say something, one of the King's advisors steps up onto the dais, making his way to the King's opposite side without waiting for approval. He leans into the King's ear and whispers ever so quietly, "The Attor has returned, Your Majesty. He wishes to speak with you." Once finished, he stands, awaiting the a response. 

The King contemplates for a moment. I remember the Attor, a stone-skinned, horrible creature with sharp teeth, large bat-like ears and black eyes. Horrible in every sense of the word as he thoroughly enjoyed preying upon the weak. The King nods, "Send him in." The advisor bows his head in acknowledgement before exiting. 

"I tire of this." He sidelong glances to me, "Queen, please handle him."

I look to the male who is practically melting with terror before returning my gaze to the King. "My King," I respond, "surely you would not want to rid your lands of the last remaining honey maker?" Again, he raises a curious eyebrow. "The residue in his hair, the red pelt on his left hand. All indications of one who works in an apiary. Last I recall, the industry has exponentially decreased throughout the centuries. I'm sure you would want him and his family to continue their work, no?"

The King stares at the male--who is holding his breath--for a moment. He waves a hand. "My wife has a point. Remove him from my castle. Your taxes will be doubled this year as a payment for lost slaves."

The farmer nod mechanically. As the soldiers pull him away, their faces disgusted, he looks to me, his eyes full of gratitude. The fae in the room watch him get hauled away. 

"Careful, I might start to think your mask is slipping," the King warns quietly. I glare at him, my teeth clenched. 

The room lets out a gasp as the large stone-skinned creature makes his way to the dais. His black eyes land on me for a moment, a curiosity filling them, before returning to the King. He bows dramatically when he stops walking. "Your majesties."

"Why are you here," the King asks, his voice bored. "Where is Amarantha?" That red-haired female commander of his. I remember the King granting her access to Prythian. 

"She has been killed, Your Majesty." More gasps from the crowd.

He purses his lips, "A pity. Still, I warned her." The King taps his fingers on the throne. "How?"

The Attor swallows nervously, "A human girl broke her curse on the High Lord of the Spring Court."

The King tilts his head back, "Ah, yes. Amarantha's obsession with Tamlin was always going to be her downfall."

The Attor nodded in agreement. "But, it was the High Lord of the Night Court who actually killed her," he added.

His fingers stopped, "Rhysand," he hissed. Though I have never met the High Lord of the Night Court, I have heard his name, of course. The Faerie Realm knows him as Prythian's most powerful High Lord. I wonder how Amarantha has lasted these five decades if the tales of his power are true. The King looks to the nobles of the court, who's eyes are fixed on his, curious to see how he will avenge his fallen commander. "Leave," he commands firmly, leaving no room for negotiation. They listen and exit the room within a matter of minutes, the doors closing behind them, leaving the King, the Attor, and I alone with a few soldiers. 

"So it begins," he says finally.