“If it is any consolation,” Lileas said, as she combed out my long hair for bed, “you have become a force to be reckoned with. Faery does not stomach weakness, and you have certainly established you are not weak.”
My hair crackled with the brushing, reminding me of the crack of thunder when the guard was struck down.
I knew, on one level, Lileas was right. It was good to establish myself as a strong ruler, given I was an outsider, half-mortal by blood. It did not matter. I had killed a fae without meaning to. I swore that would never happen again.
Outside the palace, the rain still fell, relentless and heavy.
Lileas took my hand, gazing upon me with a kindness I did not deserve. “Your Majesty,” she murmured. “I could remain.”
I looked up, startled.
“Or Lyel could.” No disappointment shaded her features; she offered another option, nothing more. She turned my hand about in her own. Her skin was warm and nearly as soft as mine; she smelled of green grass and yellow broom, and in the candlelight, her hair spilled like molten gold. “In Faery, we take our pleasures—and comforts—where we would.”
I considered for a moment. I was not raised among the fae; ’twould be some time before I could simply take my pleasures where I would.
The rain eased up, drops tumbling slowly down the leaflike windows.
I gave Lileas’s hand a squeeze. “Another time, perhaps. I am gravely fatigued.”
She brought my hand to her lips and kissed it. “I shall look forward to it, my queen.”
“Under the circumstances, don’t you think ‘Fia’ would be more apt?”
“Fia.” She smiled sweetly and closed the door behind her when she left.
At least there’s one person not afraid of me, after what I did.
I was afraid enough for both of us.
I came to wish I had taken her up on her offer, for my luxurious bed felt empty and cold. And when at last I did fall asleep, I dreamed of my shepherd king.
He stood imprisoned behind iron bars, rust-colored and bloodstained already. Wine-dark roses covered his entire body, piercing with their thorns, sucking away his life substance, and pinning him in place. A tendril curved around his throat. Another had snaked its way into his mouth, cutting the corners of his lips into a lopsided rictus grin. His back arched painfully, and his fingers were curved into claws, and all the while his grey eyes stared ahead, so blank and flat they might be carved of wood.
He was a puppet, hung up mid-performance, looking most agonizingly dead.
“No!”
I grabbed the bars of his prison, heedless of how the iron burned. “Shepherd King, what have they done to you?”
The tendril slithered out of Thomas’s mouth, freeing him to speak. “What do they ever do to shepherd kings?” His head jerked woodenly in my direction. “Nay, not ‘they,’ my love. None is responsible for this but you.”
It was impossible. What he said, what I saw, I did not credit any of it. “’Tis not true. I could never—”
The iron bars rusted away completely under my touch. I ran to Thomas, who fell, like his strings were cut, into my arms. I pulled thorns from his ears and mouth, though the roses fought me, and the thorns kept growing back, until the ground was a carnage of petals, and Thomas’s skin a mess of scrapes and blood.
I could still help him, bathe his wounds in my own tears if need be, heal him good as new. I was capable of miracles once.
Almost.
This time I would be. I would stop at nothing to save the man I loved.
But he collapsed, boneless, and we both fell to the ground.
Thomas stared into the distance, head cradled in my lap, eyes no longer hard as wood but round with fear.
“I plucked the rose,” he murmured, lurching wildly. “And now she will pluck me as well.”
“Never,” I cried, and stroked his hair. “I would never hurt you, my love.” I trailed off, for the tangle of roses had consumed him completely, and I’d no hope of being heard.
