Darkest Mercy

Chapter 23

Seth stretched his legs out as much as he was able to within the confines of the cell into which he’d been cast. It wasn’t as horrible as he’d expected, but the size was more fit for a small animal than a six-foot faery. The space was barren: no cot, no blanket. The cell was nothing more than a scarred and pitted floor and a dirty open grate in the back corner. Dark stains on the floor reminded Seth that he was lucky he’d only been bruised. So far, at least. The cell across from him had no visible floor. All Seth could see were broken metal spikes jutting up from somewhere beneath the empty cell. It made him extremely glad that he hadn’t actually been given the worst cell in the dungeon—neither had Elaina.

“You okay, pup?” she called from somewhere off to his right. He couldn’t see her, but he had heard no screams when she was brought down to the cells.

“Great. You?”

She snorted. “Been better.”

He stood, crouching slightly as he did so. Neither sitting nor standing allowed him to be remotely comfortable. “Been worse?”

Elaina’s low laugh carried through the distance. “A few times, yeah.”

“That’s something.” He paced to the front of the small cell.

The Hound was quiet. “Is it true that you are the High Queen’s heir now?”

“It is.” Seth closed his eyes, imagining the fury that would have been unleashed in the mortal world if Devlin hadn’t closed the gates to Faerie. Faery regents in mourning really shouldn’t be allowed loose. He sighed. It wasn’t his mother who was running amok this time, though. Instead, it was the grieving, infuriated, sleep-deprived, volatile, no-longer-balanced Dark King.

Seth weighed the benefits of telling Niall that the closing of Faerie had unbalanced him. He had seen the madness lurking in Niall’s eyes; he had watched dark fey cringe as they approached their king with battered bodies. Now that the Shadow Court balanced the High Court, Niall was left untethered. Unless I can figure out a way to help him. Unlike with Sorcha’s recent spate of instability, Seth couldn’t see a solution to Niall’s.

“You still there?” Elaina called.

“I am.” Seth squatted in front of the door, examining the bars that kept him caged. They were woven of something no other faery could weaken. If it had been sunlight, Donia could negate it; if it were ice, Aislinn or Keenan could remove it. If Seth were in Faerie, Sorcha could undo it with a thought. He was in the mortal world, though, and trapped by bands of darkness that were the material of a regent without an opposing court in this world.

And Faerie is sealed.

The same fact that comforted Seth also removed hope of any rescue.

This is on me to sort out.

There was only one faery of the High Court in the mortal world, and the High Queen had only one heir. Of course, that didn’t provide any grand insight on how one became the balance to a grief-mad, tether-free king.

Maybe there is a strong solitary who can balance him.

Once they got past the grief of losing Irial, Niall and the other regents could talk about it. Seth might not know who could balance the Dark King, but assuming Niall released him, Seth would try to find that answer—even if it meant going to Keenan for help.

For now, Seth tried to sift through the ever-changing threads of possible futures, hoping for some clue that would help him reach Niall. Not all of those threads revealed things Seth wanted to see; some made his chest constrict in fear; and none of them offered any more clarity into the immediate future.

He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed as he sorted through future possibilities, but eventually a thistle-faery approached the cell.

“Come.” The faery opened the door to the cell and grabbed Seth’s arm. The thistles that covered her skin pierced him.

“You don’t need to hold on to me: I’m not going to run,” Seth said. “You have my word. I will walk beside or in front of or behind you to where your king wants you to take me.”

The faery reached out with her other thistle-covered hand and grabbed his shoulder. “I follow my king’s precise orders.”

“Right,” Seth said.

As he was escorted from the cell and through the hall, Seth tried to ignore the stinging of the thistles. Body piercing was perfectly fine—and sometimes pleasurable—but the sensation of dozens of tiny cuts was far from appealing. Later, if there was a later, he and Niall would have work to do in order for their friendship to stand a chance of recovering from the injuries they’d both inflicted.

Before Seth had become a faery, he hadn’t truly understood the weight of the decisions the fey made. Now, he was facing the possibility of an eternity of seeing the threads of those around him. Interfering with the future could change the future. At what point is that my right? At what point is it wrong to act? To not-act? He didn’t know if he’d have been able to make the same decisions if the faery who had fallen to Bananach’s poison that day had been someone else. If it had been Niall, could Seth have let him die to save Faerie? What if it had been Aislinn? Those were choices he was glad he hadn’t had to make.

“Up.” The thistle-faery released Seth’s arm, but immediately pressed the flat of her hand to his back and shoved him forward.

She took every opportunity to inflict stinging pain on Seth as she conducted him from Niall’s house, through the streets, and into the warehouse where the Dark King currently held his court.

The same Dark Court faeries who’d trained him to fight now watched Seth as he was shoved into what looked like an enormous metal birdcage. It was tall enough that he could stand and wide enough to walk several paces. Many faeries in the court could reach through the bars to injure him if they so desired, but it provided just enough room for him to try to dodge them. Got to make it sporting. In the moment, Seth clearly saw the side of the Dark Court that Niall had once said he wanted to keep hidden from Seth. And here I am.

Niall sat on his throne, silently watching as the cage—with Seth in it—was raised to the ceiling. He remained still and silent until the denizens of the Dark Court began to shift nervously. All the while he stared at Seth.

Seth sat in the middle of the cage and stared back at the Dark King.

As if he were a bird, he’d been provided with a bowl of water, a bowl of dry cereal, and a pile of newspapers in the corner. The only concession to civility was the bucket beside the newspapers. Seth couldn’t decide if the cleaner but very public cage was better or worse than the too-small cell. All he did know was that both were preferable to the cell with the metal spikes in place of a floor.

When their king finally looked away from Seth, he seemed surprised by his faeries’ presence. He frowned and said, “Depart. All of you.”

Niall watched as all too eagerly they fled. His rage and grief had made him capable of cruelty they hadn’t expected. What he hoped to do now was a step beyond grief. He was willing to bargain for things that he shouldn’t, but he felt as if his mind was only barely in order. Even before Irial died, Niall had stopped feeling anywhere near sane. He’d heard of humans “snapping,” and that was as close to an explanation as he could get. In one sudden moment, he’d felt like the parts of himself that weren’t already grieving, worrying, or raging were all swept away. Something inside of him tore.

If I had been clearheaded, could I have found a way to save Irial?

The Dark King shook his head. He wasn’t clearheaded. Great chunks of time had vanished, and he had no idea what had happened in them. Yesterday, he came to himself with Seth caged, and he wasn’t sure how long they had conversed or what had been said.

“What are you going to do?” Seth asked.

“You see the future. You know what I’m about to do.” Niall glanced at the warehouse door. “Will it work?”

“Niall—”

“Tell me. He’ll be here any minute. How do I make him give me what I want?” Niall’s abyss-guardians flashed into their semisolid state and patted his arms consolingly.

Mutely, Seth shook his head.

And then the Dark Man walked into the warehouse.

Death had entered the Dark Court’s center, and Niall bowed low to him as if a supplicant before a deity. “I ask a boon.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I seek.” Niall’s voice was barely more than a snarl, but it wasn’t offensive.

Yet.

Far Dorcha sighed. “You seek what they all seek when grief becomes madness.”

Undeterred, Niall offered, “I would trade my life for Irial’s. Another’s life. Anyone.”

“Listen to yourself,” Seth hissed. “This is not how you make a faery bargain, Brother.”

Neither of the faeries present looked at Seth.

Far Dorcha prompted, “Anyone?”

“Anyone.” Niall leaned forward in his throne. “There are those I’d gladly give you, but there are others I would mourn. . . . Tell me which faeries you would accept. We can make an exchange.”

Far Dorcha waved his hand, and a table and chairs of carved bone formed. One of the chairs slid out as the Dark Man approached it. The bone legs scraped across the cement floor.

“What about the girl? Leslie.”

“Leslie’s not of your domain. She’s mortal,” Niall protested. “You cannot . . . no.”

“Irial lent her his strength, let her leach bits of his immortality, bound her to the Dark Court with tears and blood. His essence is in her flesh.” Far Dorcha sat in the chair at the head of his bone-made table. He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together in front of him. “These things are so, yet you say she is not mine? If I ask for her, would you bargain?”

Niall came to stand beside the other chair. It slid out for him, but he did not touch it.

“If I said I would trade her still-briefer-than-fey life for his, what would you say?” Far Dorcha watched Niall with cavernous eyes. “Would you sacrifice one love for another?”

“No, but you can have my life,” Niall proposed. “I would offer myself at the table.”

Far Dorcha stood, but his hand remained on the chair. “Are you sure? She has some of his immortality.”

“Not Leslie . . .” Niall’s words faded as the table vanished.

“Then we are done,” Far Dorcha said. “She would’ve done it if you asked, and the only trade I will take is one who is willing and one you will mourn.”

“There are numerous faeries in my court who would—”

“Not by choice.” Far Dorcha’s gaze darted to Seth, acknowledging him for the first time. “Would you offer him? Sorcha’s child.”

Niall scoffed. “He wouldn’t offer himself willingly.”

“And if he would? Would you mourn him?”

“You’re trying to distract me.” Niall’s mind grew clouded. “Tell me how to get Irial back. The court needs him.”

“No,” Far Dorcha said.

In the next heartbeat, Niall stood looking down at his own hand—and the knife in it. Between the words he’d heard and the moment he was now in, he’d shoved his knife hilt-deep into Far Dorcha’s stomach. He didn’t realize that he’d even moved. The memory of doing so was absent, but the knife and the hand were his own.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that. It has never helped.” Far Dorcha reached down and covered Niall’s hand with his own. He squeezed so that he held Niall’s hand to the hilt and then tugged both the hand and the knife away from his body.

“What . . .” Niall looked at the knife in his hand; he let go, and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

“You ruined a perfectly fine shirt.” Far Dorcha motioned with his fingers in a come-here gesture. “Give over.”

“Give what over?” Niall blinked and realized he was now squeezing Far Dorcha’s throat. He looked at his hand and then back at Far Dorcha. Carefully, he released his grasp. “What . . . what happened?”

“Give me your shirt.” Far Dorcha peeled off his ripped shirt. “You ruined this one.”

Niall shook his head. “You’re a madman.”

Far Dorcha snorted. “You stabbed Death, child, so I wouldn’t be throwing around any slurs just now.” He tossed his shirt at Niall, who caught it reflexively. “It’s cold.”

Niall shucked off his coat. Then, he yanked his shirt over his head and threw it onto the ground at Far Dorcha’s feet. “Fine.”

Far Dorcha looked down at the shirt and then back up at Niall. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“I’m the Dark King.” Niall’s voice was steady. Despite the oddity of the time gaps, he was not going to show his fear.

Especially because of it.

“And?”

“And I’m asking you to help me.”

“The dead queen”—Far Dorcha frowned—“the last dead one. Beira. She asked too.”

Seth started, “Niall—”

“No!” Far Dorcha interrupted. “You will stay silent unless you want to cross me. I’ve met your beloved. I doubt you’d like me to visit her house or your mother’s.” Then he told Niall, “The dead Winter Queen asked for un-dying. She wanted me to return the Summer King she’d killed. I tell you what I told her: I cannot.”

“There has to be a way,” Niall pleaded. “I feel a . . . madness threatening. My mind . . . Please?”

Far Dorcha lifted Niall’s shirt from the ground and shook it. “There are rules, even for fey. The dead king is not within my reach.”

The Dark King grabbed Far Dorcha’s throat. “You’re Death. You can . . . help.”

“I will not.” Far Dorcha shoved the Dark King. “Accosting me again would be unwise. You know the rules. The dead cannot reveal themselves to the living, and the living cannot compel the dead—including death-fey—to obey them.”

Then, the Dark Man narrowed his gaze. “And no matter what foolish games you play here, you cannot break the rules unless you want the one you protect to die. You got into this situation; you will have to deal with it.”

“What?” Niall blinked. “What situation?”

Instead of answering, Far Dorcha pulled on Niall’s shirt and smoothed a hand over the fabric. “Very nice.”

Then he turned and sauntered away.