A Court of Champions

Chapter 4: The Queen's Punishment

Feyre could hardly keep upright. Between the tears obscuring her vision, the nausea that Bryaxis' magic had left in its wake, and the horrific realization that they'd failed, she could hardly find a reason to keep going. Only her survival instincts - the same indomitable will to live that had kept her battling all those years of hunger and poverty in the ramshackle cabin with her sisters and father - could account for Feyre's feet continuing to march along the tunnel. She couldn't even catch Lucien's eye for some sliver of reassurance or strength; the guards had him shackled and bound a good five paces in front of her and she couldn't see around them to catch his gaze.

With the aid of torchlight, the climb out of the network of tunnels that had taken Feyre and Lucien almost four hours to tiptoe down into lasted all of fifteen minutes. Before Feyre could organize her thoughts, she found herself forced onto her knees on the cold, smooth marble of Amarantha's throne room. The queen was perched atop the throne, regarding Feyre and Lucien with a gaze so devoid of emotion that Feyre wondered if the queen's wicked sneering mouth had ever known a genuine smile. Tamlin was nowhere to be found, a fact that made Feyre tremble. The thought of dying here without getting to see him again, even a stolen glimpse, extinguished any last vestiges of courage she may have had. Feeling like a hollowed out husk, Feyre kept her eyes glazed and unfocused.

She vaguely registered the sounds of servants busying themselves with setting up long, banquet-style tables at the edges of the massive throne room. A small and shrinking part of her memory reminded her that there was a Solstice celebration tonight. The same celebration where Tamlin had hoped to offer up a life to Bryaxis in exchange for Amarantha's. Feyre knew that, without Tamlin here to see her and Lucien, there was no way to warn him that they'd failed in securing Bryaxis' agreement. Feyre's throat closed up as she recognized that this meant Tamlin would fight - and could very well die - needlessly. If she could only see him, she knew he would see her failure in her eyes. Then, maybe he could convince Amarantha not to put him in the fight, or (better yet) never volunteer to participate in the sick, twisted "celebration" at all. Feyre knew that her and Lucien's death would be hard on Tamlin, that he wouldn't forgive himself easily, or maybe at all. But if he managed to live through this, to live through Amarantha, then maybe it would all be worth it. Feyre just needed to see him, to tell him somehow.

Amarantha's flat stare and frigid voice cut through Feyre's grief-ravaged thoughts.

"Lucien, I recognize you well enough, but who in the Cauldron's name is this human I've caught you skulking about with?"

Feyre couldn't even bring herself to bristle at the queen's derision. She stayed slumped on her knees where the guards had thrown her down in front of the dais, not even lifting her eyes to match the queen's.

"Speak, you whelp," Amarantha growled. A vicious blow to the back of Feyre's head - courtesy of one of her captors - caused her to whimper as her vision became murky with pain.

"The girl's name is Clare. Clare Beddor. " A new voice, one Feyre didn't recognize, answered from the shadows to the left of Amarantha's throne. Feyre looked up, her curiosity piqued amidst an ocean of despair. A devilishly handsome High Fae with dark, bluish black hair and a vaguely bemused glint to his violet eyes stood next to the queen's throne, his gaze fixed on Feyre with unusual intensity. The same, small part of her mind that continued to process her surroundings informed her that he must be the High Lord of the Night Court that she had heard Lucien and Tamlin speak so low of. She knew from listening to their discussions of reports from Under the Mountain that this High Lord - she couldn't remember his given name - was a favored pet of the queen's. Some even called him Amarantha's whore. He wasn't what Feyre expected, and neither was his odd gesture of giving a fake name. Feyre couldn't for the life of her guess why he'd done that; what purpose did it serve him, to lie about her identity to the queen. Whatever his motives, Feyre was grateful for the small act of mercy. Against herself, Feyre furrowed her brows ever so slightly at him, and she could have swore that she saw him tilt his chin in the faintest gesture of a bow.