She was trapped inside a gilded cage, and she saw no way to escape.
11
Imogen
Imogen was tired of her plaything. Unfortunately, her plaything just so happened to be the High King of the Air Court. When they had first married, he had promised her the world, even the lands beyond Tir Na Nog, but he had given her nothing more than boring nights alone in her bedchamber.
That was, until she’d met the male standing before her now. He had come to them in the Great Hall while the rest of the court was distracted by her son’s arrival with his new betrothed. Standing beside her husband’s throne, Imogen gazed out at the empty space. Usually, the angular room was packed with tables and feasting guests. Now, the lofted ceilings with their white stone arches seemed steeped in shadows without the bustle of the court.
“Aengus,” she said with a slight nod when he knelt before her and her unfortunate husband. “Why have you come to see the king?”
Her lover smiled, his narrow grey eyes twinkling with delight. His glossy ginger hair hung to his shoulders, the ends whispering against his leather armor. As always, his rapier hung on a belt around his waist, but Imogen was certain he’d never used it. A slight male, a warrior he was not. Cunning, on the other hand…
“My liege. I have come to you with some unfortunate news.” Aengus spoke with an odd accent. No one quite knew where he originated. When asked, he refused to tell. At first, Imogen had worried that he was a shadow fae, but he had proven himself incapable of telling a fib. He cast an almost imperceptible glance her way, but she could do no more than merely press her lips tightly together.
He continued. “It seems there is a vile rumor spreading throughout the realm.”
Imogen’s husband leaned forward and frowned. He was a shell of the male he used to be. Once a powerful fae of brute strength and charm, he now sat withered in his Seat of Power, an imposing throne of black vines and thorns that grew from the very stone beneath their feet. He had cropped his hair short when it had transformed from golden into grey, and his once bright eyes were now dull and faded. Wrinkles stretched across his pock-marked skin. He was no longer immortal as he had once been.
He braced a forearm on his knee, his hand dangling limply to the side. It was his signature move, Imogen knew, intended to make him seem nonplussed and unconcerned. But she also knew that it meant the very opposite.
“What vile rumour?”
“One about you and…well, your power, my liege.”
High King Sloane stayed silent and still, but his blood was no doubt boiling in his veins. He did not like his power being questioned, and Imogen knew why. His power was all a front. How he had managed for so long in a world without lies was remarkable.
“This sounds like a baseless rumor,” he said with a frown. “You should not have bothered me with it. I have much more important matters to attend to.”
“My liege, I am certain it is the truth.” Aengus’s narrow eyes flicked toward Imogen again.
Sloane whirled toward her, his withered hands clutching the thorny arms of his throne. “You are not involved in this, are you? You wouldn’t dare.”
She merely smiled a toothless smile.
“This is treason,” he said in a hiss, jerking his head back toward Aengus. The sudden movement caused his thick golden crown to go askance. It was a perfect symbol of the truth of the High King of the Air Court.
“There are letters waiting,” Imogen’s lover cut in before the king could call for his guards. “If anything happens to me, or to the High Queen, those letters will be sent immediately. All of the realm will then know.”
Sloane sneered. “Perhaps I shall call your bluff and have my guards take you straight to the dungeons. You will need no trial, not when your crime is treason. I will see your head on a pike.”
“Go on then,” Imogen’s lover replied with a slight smile. “Call the guards, if you dare for all of Tairngire to know your secret.”
Imogen swore beneath her breath. Aengus was playing with the king, as he was wont to do when it came to his enemies. But she knew that Sloane would not bend if he were given too much time to consider the implications.
“Aengus,” she said sharply. “There is something you wanted to suggest to my husband, I believe.”
“Oh yes. Your liege, I have come here to suggest that you abdicate your throne. And to allow the High Queen to rule in your stead.”
Sloane scoffed, and the loose skin beneath his chin wobbled. “You do not honestly expect me to bend to this baseless blackmail. I am High King Sloane of the Selkirks, the Conquerer of Tairngire.”
“You are the bastard son of a human and Lady Moina Selkirk, not the son of Lord Piran Selkirk. You sit on a throne of lies. And you have no power to prove otherwise.”
The king’s face went as white as the snow on the ground outside of the city. She had long since suspected that Sloane was not a true ruler in the eyes of the Dagda. There had been rumors, of an age ago, of his mother lying with a human male. Lord Selkirk had forbidden anyone of ever speaking of it, calling it a crime deserving death. The rumors had vanished into the darkness of the night, but Imogen had never forgotten.
And when her husband’s strength had faded in time and when his beauty had dimmed with age, she had known the truth of him. He had blamed it on the Fall, the day that every living fae in Tir Na Nog had collapsed onto the ground unconscious. When they had finally come to hours later, magic had vanished. But Sloane had aged so much faster than those around him. As High King, he should outlast them all. He had the power of his throne.
“The shadow fae must be behind this,” Sloane hissed. “Liars, the lot of them. I will prove it.”
