Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (17 page)

In the antechamber, members of Bauchan’s retinue lounged on the pallets hastily constructed for their imprisonment. The alcove in the back, which should have been discreetly concealed with a curtain, was exposed, and Bauchan himself lay on the bed, his back to the room.

“I have come to speak to the Ambassador,” she said, loudly enough that he could hear her. He did not stir.

“Bauchan is resting,” a bored voice replied. She could not tell who had spoken. Drawing herself up to appear as tall as she could—though she was aware that was not very—

she said, louder, “It is a matter of grave importance.”

“So is his rest.” The same, bored voice, and several mocking titters answered it. It was not difficult to ignore. She’d had plenty of experience with the vapid Courtiers of Queene Ayla’s Court, and, before that, with Queene Mabb’s inner circle, who had been infinitely more obnoxious. Clearing her throat, she pronounced, “Then perhaps I should come back at a more convenient time. After the Waterhorses have overrun the Lightworld due to the rash actions of an incompetent Queene? When all the races of the Lightworld are suffering and blaming it on the Fae? Would that be more conducive to the Ambassador’s rest?”

The figure on the bed slowly pulled himself into a half-sitting position, twisted, and rolled sleepy eyes toward Flidais.

She had gotten his attention, then. She allowed herself a smirk of triumph as she watched him unfold himself to stand. “Ah, Ambassador. I am pleased to see you looking so…well rested.”

This time, the insipid snickering was on her side, and shameful as it was to realize, she was glad of it. Bauchan, however, was not. He stalked out of the alcove like a cornered animal looking for a target to strike, glaring at his entourage as he looked from side to side to take them in. “What would the handmaiden of our gracious hostess want with us, lowly prisoners that we are?”

“A moment of your time, nothing more.” Flidais said this with the proper deference, careful not to insult Bauchan any further. She knew his type; if wounded too deeply, he would lash out unhelpfully, not caring what might fall. She could not afford that now.

“Well.” He made a gesture with open arms, as if to display his helplessness. “You have me. I am not going anywhere, that is painfully certain. So, speak your piece.”

“My piece?” As if she had carefully planned what she would say. In truth, she had, but she would not admit as much to him. “I have no carefully crafted statement. I merely come to strike a bargain with you.”

“A bargain? Like the one your Queene struck with that poor, misshapen creature who traveled with us? Struck his head from his body, as I understand it.” There was bitterness in his tone that did not come from grief for the maimed Elf. He was as relieved to be rid of the sorry article as anyone. But it was something he could take umbrage to, Flidais knew, in order to appear less amenable to what she would offer. He would, of course, accept anything she gave him. He did not wish to stay in captivity, and even his pride would not allow him to remain behind these walls.

“An unfortunate misunderstanding, I assure you,” she said by way of apology, and bowed slightly to him. “The wretched creature requested that mercy from my Queene. I can see how very deeply he is missed.”

“Get on with it,” Bauchan ordered, dropping all pretense. “What does your Queene wish to do with me?”

“My Queene would like nothing more than to leave you here to rot for the rest of your days.”

It was true, as far as Flidais could tell. “She is far too occupied with other matters to give even a thought to you.”

That worried him. Flidais could see it in his eyes, and in the way his antennae buzzed against his matted hair. “Then why are you here?” he asked cautiously, as if he knew what would come.

She let him have it all out. “I do not believe my Queene is in her right mind. Several things have happened of late that distract her from the real terrors that the Fae, and all of the Lightworld, face. I do not wish to stay here to the bitter end—for that is what it will be. Bitter and cruel. Our kind are not used to tolerating cruelty. We are much better at dispensing it.”

He smiled at this, and nodded. “And what cruel thing do you propose? Assassination?

Revolt?”

“No, nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed quickly. His ruthless ambition shocked her. She had seen a hint of it before, when he’d stood before the Queene at his royal audience, but she had not thought it would run so deeply. “Your Queene did not send you here merely to warn us. She expects you to return with more followers, more admirers for her to revel in.”

He opened his mouth as though he would cut her off; she stopped him with a raised hand and a shake of her head. “Do not deny it. I have served under two Queenes, and I know their way of thinking. If you displease this Queene Danae, you will lose your place in her Court. And I can tell, simply from looking at you, that you could not survive such exile.”

“I do enjoy the better things that life at Court can offer me,” he admitted slyly. The Faeries around them rewarded him with a few lazy giggles.

“Then let me help you keep them. I shall set you free—not this moment, of course, for this plan will take a bit more time—and you and yours will lead any of those wishing to abandon the Underground into the Upworld. You may present us to your Queene as faithful new Courtiers and servants, and reap those benefits you so look forward to.”

Bauchan’s lips twisted in a cruel, disbelieving smile. “You said this was a bargain. Are you certain that is the outcome you wish to receive, on your end? Give up your place close to your Queene to become another unimportant face to mine?”

“I wish to live.” She shrugged. “It is as simple as that. Any who stay Underground are doomed, that much is clear from my Queene’s handling of this matter. Trading luxury for life seems a fair exchange. But then, I know where true value lies. Do you?”

Bauchan’s smile widened. “You have made an eloquent point, Flidais. No doubt you will charm Queene Danae as easily as you have charmed your own Queene.” In a flash, he was upon her, crushing her shoulders under his hands, forcing her to her knees as she twisted, pained, in his grasp. “Do not think that she will fall for it so easily,” he hissed close to her ear. “Do not think that she will not hear of this treachery from my own lips.”

When he released her, he pushed her to the floor, and turned away. “We have an accord, then. You come to me when you believe the time is ‘right.’ But do not wait long. I may develop a sudden loyalty to Queene Ayla. I would hate to have to inform her of your transgression.”

Biting the inside of her mouth so as not to let loose with the string of curses she wished to hurl at him, Flidais picked herself up with as much dignity as she could manage. “Very well,”

she said, bowing with no small amount of mockery, though he did not face her. “Wait for my return. And do not do anything foolish, Bauchan. I would not wish for you to lose your head, as well. Your ‘sudden loyalty’ would not save you should I deny the charges you lay against me. And I would deny it. As I said before, I know enough to value my own life. And my Queene trusts me implicitly.”

With that, she left him.

The silence in the council room weighed heavier by the minute. Cedric, sullen and cross with his Queene, sat dutifully at his place, but he did not speak. Flidais was unusually distracted, and the smallest noise of a drip of moisture or a scrape of a stool leg against the floor caused her to jump.

Ayla let out a long breath and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “You do not have to wait here with me,” she assured her advisors, again. She knew they would not answer; they had not said anything last time. But it broke the horrible silence. They sat with her, she knew, because they feared she was not able to handle the horrible reality of a missing daughter and a missing Consort. The guards had scoured the Palace, and found no trace of Malachi. And Governess had not held any further answers about Cerridwen’s disappearance, even after she had been further persuaded to speak. Cedric had not yet apologized for his foolishness in letting Governess overhear the news he’d taken to Cerridwen, nor had he apologized for telling Cerridwen in the first place. The irritation crawled beneath Ayla’s skin as she watched him. He did not meet her eyes, but it was not out of his usual deference. It was obstinacy; the fool actually believed he had some right to be angry with her, with his Queene!

She wanted to lash out at him, but it would do no good. He would realize his folly in his own time. Or, he would run away to the Darkworld and never return. At the moment, it was not something that would bother Ayla in the least.

She turned her attention to Flidais. Her crystalline eyes, usually so clear and attentive, gazed at the tabletop but saw something miles away.

“Flidais,” Ayla began, and though her tone was gentle, the Faery jumped in her seat.

“Something troubles you. You are not yourself.”

“I am concerned at the disappearance of the Royal Heir and the Royal Consort, Your Majesty,” she answered automatically. It was a pretty speech, with no substance behind it. Ayla stretched her back, ignored the soreness of her wings, which had been bound too long.

“This waiting grows tiresome, more tiresome, I think, when it is shared. I will retire to my chambers. If you wish to wait here all night, then you may.”

She did not bid them good-night individually and hoped they felt her irritation as the reason for it. She moved for the door, but had only made it a few steps when it burst open from the outside.

When Malachi entered, her heart leaped with joy. When she spotted the bundle over his shoulders, it sank in terror. “Cerridwen? Did you find her?” She could barely form the words. Malachi threw the body down, and a fall of white hair indicated that it was not her daughter. Ayla reached for a nearby stool and dropped onto it to support her shaking legs.

“He told me his people kidnapped Cerridwen.” His gaze flickered to Flidais, and Ayla wondered at this, but Malachi continued. “When he wakes, he can tell you from his own mouth.”

“Kidnapped?” Cedric sounded incredulous. “I do not mean to doubt your story, Malachi, but Governess said that Cerridwen had run off. And certainly an Elf would have been spotted lurking in the halls of the Palace.”

“Perhaps they grabbed her from the Strip.” The answer came a fraction too late, and Ayla wondered at that, too. “You did say you found her there before.”

“An action taken against a member of the Lightworld on neutral ground would be cause for war, Malachi,” Flidais said, as though cautioning him. “You are certain this is what happened?”

“I do not know. You’ll have to ask this creature,” he snapped, his voice seething with irritation. Then, he swayed on his feet, and Ayla looked closer at the dark stains on his robes. There was too much blood on him to be only from the Elf he carried, and far too much to be only his and the Elf’s combined. But a hole in his garment, and slash across the sleeve gave testimony to Malachi’s contribution.

Ayla jolted to her feet and stepped over the creature on the floor. “You have been hurt.” It was stupid and obvious, but nothing else would come past the sudden block of numbness that paralyzed her throat. Cedric was on his feet then, too, and Flidais. They helped Malachi to a stool, positioning him on it just as his legs gave way and tumbled him down.

“There were four of them. I killed the other three.” He smiled, then winced as Ayla tugged the hole in the fabric over his chest wider. “We only needed one.”

Probing her fingers inside the garment, Ayla located the wound easily by the broken shard of wood protruding from it. He’d snapped the arrow off close to the skin, but not close enough to hide it completely. “You fool! You could have been killed!”

He nodded, looking truly apologetic, but his words were anything but an apology. “I had to do something. For Cerridwen’s sake, if not your own.”

“Flidais, go, get the healers,” Cedric commanded stiffly. “Tell them to hurry to the Consort’s chambers.”

“It can wait,” Malachi insisted, nodding to the Elf on the floor. “If he wakes, we will want to question him. And I wish to be there.”

“What you wish is immaterial,” Ayla snapped. “Cedric, call in the guards, have this thing removed to the dungeon. Then, help me move Malachi.”

“I do not need your help,” he protested, but the words were weak, at best.

“You cannot admit that you need our help. Pride is not the same as strength,” she scolded as Cedric went out the door. When it closed behind him, she softened. “Why did you do this? I had no idea where you were. If you had been hurt—you have been hurt!—but if you could not get back to the Lightworld, if you had been—” Tears choked off her voice, and she stood, turning away from him. Too much was still in chaos to let herself fall apart now.

“She is my child, Ayla,” Malachi said quietly. “And this is the only time I have truly been able to do anything for her. Do you know what that is like? To watch her grow without having a hand in it, to know that she is mine but that I can never touch her? Oh, she does not grow ill and needy like a mortal child, but I have seen her hurt, Ayla. I have seen her hurting and wanting her father, thinking that she could not have him because he is gone. And knowing that my silence is causing that hurt…” He let the words die. “I do not say this to guilt you, not now when you have so many other concerns pressing on you. But I thought that if I could find her, and save her, perhaps I could protect her the way I have never been allowed to. And I could protect you, as well.”

Ayla wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded, but still she could not look at him. “I do not need your protection, Malachi. I do need you, but not because I am weak. I need you because I chose you, all those years ago. I love you. If you wish to protect me from anything, protect me from the pain of your death.”

The door opened, and she quickly wiped her eyes, took a fortifying breath before whirling to face her guards. “That Elf is a prisoner. Secure him, and notify me immediately when he wakes.”

After they had cleared the room of the loathsome creature’s body, Cedric returned and, with Ayla on one side and him on the other, helped Malachi to his rooms. The healers waited there already. Ayla did not know, or care, if it shocked them to see the Queene doing so menial a task as helping an injured mortal, but they immediately took Malachi and hurried him to his bed, closing off the doors and leaving her alone with Cedric in the antechamber. For a moment, she stared after them, uncertain of what she should do. Malachi’s care was out of her hands now that he rested with healers more experienced than she. Other matters demanded her attention: the situation with the Waterhorses, her missing daughter. But she could not take action on either, not until she had heard what the imprisoned Elf had to say. Her head ached, her body begged for rest, but she would not be able to sleep with so many crises surrounding her.