She breathed in slowly, and then exhaled, taking control of her emotions. As she opened her eyes, she stared ahead at the empty, vine-twisting throne. For a moment during the coronation, Imogen had not been certain the throne would accept her son as the High King of the realm. He was part-human, blemished. Imogen often swore that fae was not his dominant side. Still, the throne had once accepted Sloane, who was far more human than Thane could ever be.
Imogen had often wondered if human blood worked the same way that fae blood did. If a female of the Air Court mated with a male of the Ice Court, their son or daughter would be born a full air fae. The female’s side was always dominant.
So few fae had ever mated with humans that no one quite knew the result. Sloane had always seemed part-fae to Imogen, but had that merely been a front? He’d always put forth the image that he could not lie, same as anyone else. But...had that been a lie in and of itself?
Imogen was certain she would never know.
With a sigh, she pushed up from the floor and strode across the cool, slick stone toward the throne. She should find somewhere better to hide. If the assassins had pursued her, this would be one of the first places they would think to check. Even in the most holiest of places, Imogen was not safe.
She closed her eyes and called up to her god. Why had the Dagda allowed this to happen? Had she not served him well?
No, she thought, her gut twisting. She had not served him well at all. Imogen had been the one to encourage that spy to kill the former king. Even though Sloane had not been there, the damage had still been done. When Mariel had dropped from the rafters, the slaughter had begun. Was this punishment of some sort? And, if so, when would it end?
“I am sorry,” she whispered to the throne, imagining how the Dagda once looked when he sat on his Seat of Power. The strongest and tallest and most powerful of them all, black wings flaring out on either side of his broad frame. A crown of twisting thorns on his head and gold bands around his muscular arms. A pair of golden trousers spun from hoarfrost worms, the only material covering his body. Ears so long and sharp that they sliced through his long, shadow-kissed hair.
Imogen wished that she had walked these lands when the Dagda had first come here. As such, he was gone, punishing them, watching their wars and their follies from his place within the Court of Death, far beyond the lands of Tir Na Nog. Many had tried to sail there. None had ever returned to tell the tale. To sail to death meant never coming back.
He had abandoned them. Because they were corrupt, cruel, wicked, and weak.
He had let them Fall.
Breathing deeply, she stood. She needed to find her son.
Memories threatened to consume her. Memories of her other children, the ones that had been brutally taken from her so many years past. But she could not let the sorrow fill her soul. She had to pull her walls tighter around her and focus on the here and now. Thane needed her.
Imogen could feel that he was safe. She had seen Reyna jumping into the fray to protect him, and then the warrior dragging him to safety. Perhaps Imogen had misjudged the girl. Bravery in battle did not a High Queen make, but she had been far too harsh on the Darragh clan. Anyone who protected her son, she would forever be in their debt.
She could only imagine how her son felt right now. He had only just taken his Seat of Power, and an enemy court had already attacked. His father and beloved uncle had missed the coronation. Courtiers and servants had been slaughtered. He would need his mother, for once.
Based on his training, his warrior guard would have taken Thane to his chambers, which had yet to be moved to Mistral Tower. Casting one last glance at the throne, she moved toward the door in the rear of the room.
Several cloaked figures spilled out before her, seemingly from nowhere. Imogen sucked in a gasp and took a step back. She whirled to run back toward the massive doors, but several more figures jumped in front of her, blocking the escape.
Her hands fisted; her heart thumped hard.
Face hidden in the shadows of his cloak, the figure directly before her drew an arrow from his back and slid it into his bow.
51
Mariel
Mariel watched from the rafters of the Great Hall as half a dozen cloaked wood fae surrounded the former High Queen. Somehow, the assassins had found her here. And, if Mariel didn’t do something, Imogen would die.
Heart thumping in her chest, she stared down below. Mariel had considered Imogen her enemy for quite some time. Recent events had begun to shift that perspective. Imogen had not been the one to slaughter her family. Imogen had not been the one to send so many low fae to their deaths. She had not formulated the crippling tax policy. She had not desired an alliance with a gruesome king.
Mariel had followed her here, desperate for answers on the slaughter. Clearly, it had not been Imogen’s intention to draw the wood fae out to attack. The pure terror she’d shown could not have been faked. But still, she had been the one to hint at an assassination aimed at Sloane. Imogen had said there would be a signal. And yet, that signal had gone wrong.
Sloane hadn’t even been there.
As a wood fae lifted his arrow to stare down the aim, Mariel knew that her questions would have to wait.
For the second time that day, she leapt from the rafters, air hurtling past her, her clothing flapping around her body like banners in the wind. She landed in a crouch as the hard stone slammed against her booted feet. Golden braid thumping against her back, she slowly stood, narrowing her eyes at the attackers.
Imogen gasped.
“I will give you one chance to leave this place. If you stay,you will die.”
The wood fae pushed back his hood and sneered. “We outnumber you. Six of us. One of you. I don’t count your queen back there. She’s the most helpless noble of the lot.”
