Achlys’ servants disperse without a word, and her three personal guards lean against the walls. Gone are the casual poses, as if they can feel the shift in the air. Thus far, things have been good where Achlys is concerned. She’s showered me with praise and anything I may need, gave me the answers I desperately wanted. But something has seemed off since I returned, like she’s hiding something behind that false smile. The guards can feel it too, though rather than blame their queen, they eye me like a threat, a necessary evil they’re forced to endure for the benefit of the realm.
Terrible things have been done in the name of the greater good, and I want my name as far away from the history books as I can get.
I’ve had more than enough blame lobbed my way; I don’t need any more. Let me live and die invisible, to be as forgotten in death as I want to be in life.
“Of course, my apologies,” Achlys smooths over.
Snapping her fingers, someone approaches without so much as a word, head dipped in greeting. Just painted smiles surrounding the gorgeous woman holding an enchanted brush, a web of an artist rather than a spider.
Instead of luring in her food, she keeps these people trapped simply for company. I imagine after several centuries, you either prefer solitude above all else, or can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts after witnessing countless horrors. If you’re alone to think, the memories might truly drive a person mad.
“I wished to speak with you and see if you’ve come up with a plan to get the changelings back to the prison. Because of your...condition,” she finishes lamely, attempting to soften the blow.
“Because my wings were severed, my back burned and mutilated beyond recognition.“ I watch her cheeks tint as she looks away. “If we’re going to bring up my ‘condition’, at least have the nerve not to gloss over it like it’s a broken finger or a petty inconvenience.”
I turn to Luce as my cheeks heat with annoyance, giving him a pointed look. With agonizing slowness, he withdraws his abilities, stops projecting his indignant rage onto me. Achlys watches the entire exchange, filing away the weakness, what it could mean for her to exploit, no doubt.
With another breath, I continue. “I was rather busy staying alive and finding a way back here. So no; I haven’t had time to commission a hot air balloon.”
She licks her lips, and one of her guards steps closer, not bothering to be discreet about it. The tension in the room seems to heat, all of our cheeks and necks stained red.
“Perhaps you might ask your mate to wait at the house so we may have a peaceful conversation?” Her voice is full of forced civility as she plasters yet another smile on her face.
Fake, fake, fake. Everything and everyone in Faerie; a polished mirror reflecting back only what they want to be seen.
“Now, your majesty, if you wanted to get me alone, I must warn you; I have expensive taste.”
She hesitates as she interprets my meaning before chuckling, and the suffocating tension starts to dissipate. “As delightful as always. I imagined that may be the case, so I’ve been reaching out to some people that owe me favors to see if anyone may be able to help.”
I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees, legs spread casually as I face her. “Favors don’t come cheap.”
She shrugs, a glimmer of something in her eye that I can’t discern. “Some things are worth the cost.”
I can’t hate her for wanting to keep her people safe, or be willing to sacrifice one person for the sake of saving herself along with them. But Azazel changed things. He’s content so long as he isn’t hungry, hasn’t even attempted to hurt Atlas or Lucien after a stern word from Dorian and him seeing they weren’t a threat.
Which means that before their imprisonment, Achlys did something to bring their wrath down on her kingdom. So while I may have had some form of respect for the woman before, it’s been lost in the wasteland.
“And some things are worth sacrificing everything,” she continues. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
My eyes flick around the room, on the one woman with her hand resting on top of the hilt of her blade, of the white knuckles on one of the men’s tightly clenched fist. A flicker of panic courses through my chest.
I refuse to be locked up again. No, she wouldn’t risk it, not when she needs me. Unless she truly believes that her abilities can keep me in line as much as the fae around her, imprisoning me to only be brought out when the right time comes. But fuck, that’s a hell of a gamble on her part.
“Of course.” I shrug a single shoulder, like it’s a silly question with an obvious answer. “The changelings must be truly horrifying for you to be willing to give my mates and I a house, let alone keep us fed.”
Her expression is tight, and not for the first time, I wished I shared a similar form of telepathy with Lucien as he does with Dorian. The sort of communication that only comes from years of knowing a person so well that you can anticipate their every reaction, every thought. Nerves flood my system, but they feel like a cool wave of water. And shifting a hand to my stomach to combat the sudden rush that sends a wave of nausea through me, I realize for the second time in recent days that I need to be more careful what I wish for.
I can’t hear Luce, but I can feel him. I know what he’s thinking simply based on the foreign tug in my gut along with my own reservations.
“The least I can do, to ensure my people remain safe. Their wellbeing is my highest priority.” She grins, and a lurch of loathing replaces the anxiety, sending me on an emotional roller coaster. But I weather it, breathing slowly to give Luce a chance to rein in his temper.
“So did you get anywhere in your search?”
A wave of her hand, leaving it outstretched for a small card to be placed upon it by a silently summoned servant. She passes it to me and I narrow my eyes at the scrawled name and address, already knowing that I’m going to torch it the second we’re home.
“A man with the ability to manipulate vegetation may very well be able to accomplish the task of getting you up there.” Her self-satisfied grin showcases her pride in potentially figuring out an easy solution, but it falls at the deadpan expression on my face.
“Rickon is dead.”
