Читать книгу Queene Of Light - Jennifer Armintrout, Jennifer Armintrout - Страница 10

The Queene did not leave her chambers until long after sunup. It annoyed Garret to know the reason for his sister’s laziness. It was either Cedric, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, or Tristan, his Second-in-Command. It could even be Robin Goodfellow, that low-class Trickster, just because he amused her.

Disgusting, the way Mabb carried on. In her hunger for an heir, it seemed she would bed any attractive Fae that could charm her with pretty words. It was ridiculous, really, for an immortal ruler to worry about her lineage. Especially when she had a younger, more qualified brother who would gladly assume the throne should something happen to end her reign.

Gods forbid.

He waited in her personal drawing room, easily one of the most extravagantly decorated rooms in the Palace. No bare cement for Queene Mabb. She had real wood panels shielding her eyes from the rough sight, and thick grass grew to cushion her delicate footsteps. The furniture had been fashioned of real wood, intricately carved, and somehow she found fresh flowers to garland the round doors. The entire Palace was a wonder to behold, but only in Mabb’s private rooms was there such sumptuous detail. Garret thought of his own dwelling outside the Palace, one room, large for the Underground but still minute compared to the Palace. And why was this not his? Because he had been born second.

He was welcome to live in the Palace, of course, if he wished to be subject to his sister’s scrutiny. She had a keen insight and wielded it against her brother like a sword, but could she turn it on herself? Of course not, Garret thought bitterly, watching maids scurry to and fro with bowls of hot water and towels for her morning beauty rituals. The water had come from Sanctuary, no doubt, for Mabb found it inconvenient to leave the Palace and demanded the springs brought to her.

“Don’t you make that face at us, Garret.” Scota, a pretty maid with butterfly wings the color of saffron, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at him. Her tone was reproachful, but her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your sister works hard and deserves a bit of pampering.”

“Oh, I agree on that score. My only doubt lies in who exactly she has been working hard.” He gave the maid a drowsy smile, knowing the effect it had on the low-class females of the Palace. Scota had lovely fair skin and yards of curling dark hair, but he would never consider someone of her station for more than a bit of sport. Still, it did not hurt to leave his options open, especially when he had not enjoyed such diversions with Ayla yet.

Scota blushed prettily and dipped her head, but Garret’s mind now centered firmly on his student. Ayla. Low-class if ever an urchin was born. Half-Human, and how that tormented his dear, dear sister. But there was a wild sort of elegance to her, the way she moved as though she were meant to be a dancer, the way her hair snapped like red ribbons all around her. Of common birth, yes, but not so fragile as his dear, worthless sister. Ayla would give him heirs, and his sister would despair.

But it wasn’t all to torment his sister. His affection for Ayla ran deep and true. Of all the Faeries at Court he could take as consort, it suited him that the only one he wanted was the one who would not have him. Oh, she would, and soon. He sensed her will bending like a reed under a stiff wind. Still, his prey would succumb only after a long and satisfying hunt.

Another maid exited the Queene’s bedchambers and bobbed a small bow to him. “She will see you now, Your Grace.”

“So soon?” He snapped, knowing this quivering servant was not to blame for the delay and not caring. Forcing down his anger, he fixed his most charming smile and strode into the Queene’s bedchamber.

If the sitting room was extravagant, the Queene’s bedchamber surpassed it. The floor here was marble, polished to a deep green shine. No other place in the Underground could boast such splendor. Mabb’s bed sat on a dais, and curtains of sheer gauze were pulled back, displaying the mountains of rich fabric pillows and bolsters Mabb nested amongst. The tall, carved posts reached almost to the ceiling, where, in a marvel of Underground ingenuity, an illusion of the sky had been fashioned to disguise the broken tiles and pipes that had been there before. Mabb detested anything mortal, but she condescended to allow electricity for this one purpose, to keep a facsimile sun glowing down on her in the day and thousands of tiny, fake stars twinkling above her at night.

In the middle of all the disgusting excess, Mabb stood before a floor-length mirror held by one of her maids while two others fussed over her appearance. Like a beautiful statue, she stood straight and tall, her pale skin appearing even paler above the lavender gossamer of her gown. As always, her wings were bound and covered. Garret was not certain he had ever seen her wings, even when they were children. Mabb was such a beauty, there could be no part of her that was less than fair, and perhaps that was why she kept them covered.

One of the maids adjusted Mabb’s sleeve and Garret spied a pattern of flowers comprised of amethyst and peridot. The stones practically sang their outrage at being used for no real purpose other than to decorate a spoiled Queene’s garments.

Mabb’s gaze met her brother’s in the mirror, and her expression brightened by cool degrees. She waved away the servant fussing over her hair, so ice-blond as to appear white, and jerked her sleeve from the other maid. They did not need a verbal cue to dismiss them, and they scurried from the room as Mabb turned to her brother. “Garret. When I heard you waited for an audience this morning you could not imagine my deep pleasure.”

“I am sure I cannot.” He had come to her prepared to charm, but now he could only snipe at her like a petulant child. “I am sorry, I did not sleep well.”

“Did the patrols not return your errant student?” She punctuated the sentence by flicking a piece of nonexistent lint from her shoulder. “No matter, I am sure she will come back on her own.”

“She did come back, no thanks to the patrols. But it was an upsetting experience I do not wish to repeat.” He eyed the elaborate writing desk in the corner, piled high with sheaves of parchment bearing the Guild symbol and hoped Mabb’s gaze would follow.

“Garret, would you really hold her back from her ambition for your own comfort?” A mothering tone colored Mabb’s words.

It was meant to grate on him, Garret knew, not guide him. “We have discussed this before. When she is my mate—”

“She has not yet accepted you as her mate, has she? Nor have you declared her.” Mabb waved a dismissive hand. “If you have only come here to argue with me—”

“I have not come here to argue. I have come to request your permission, as head of the royal family, to name Ayla my mate.” If he could have frozen the moment in time, he would have chosen this one, when his sister’s icy facade showed rare cracks, her mouth gaping open with shock and outrage.

Mabb sputtered a few times before she spoke coherently. She pressed one long-fingered hand to her chest as if suffering mortal pangs. “She is a commoner.”

“There are no rules in creating a royal match apart from a mate not being mortal, and Ayla is not.” Garret had spent long hours poring over the Scroll of Succession and could quote whole passages against his sister if she brought the argument to such a point.

“She is half mortal!” Mabb raged, her face coloring an unhealthy pink. The slender antennae at the crown of her forehead buzzed and throbbed vibrant red, and she smoothed them down, her mortification at having lost her temper distracting her from her anger for the moment. “I am sorry, Garret, I forbid it.”

“Ah.” Garret shrugged, walking a wide circle around his sister. “Well, no matter. I will take it before the council. They have grown tired of your excesses, Mabb. They will read the laws of succession and find no fault with my match. They would not, even if I proposed mating with a Troll, such is their desire to rule against your wishes. Would you like that? A half Troll waiting for the throne of the Lightworld?”

Mabb whirled to face him, her fists clenched tight at her sides. “You would not dare! We are the only ones left of Mother’s line! Only a Queene can ascend to the throne, and you would put that…that common whore in my place?”

Overcome by his rage, Garret slapped her. A bright red hand print glowed on her alabaster cheek, and flames of anger flared in her eyes. “How dare you strike me!”

“How dare you drive me to these ends!” He turned away before he would strike her again, for if he started to hit her now he might never stop. “Do you think I enjoy threatening you? Do you think I like speaking with any of the council? The only reason they would grant me this is because they wish to see our line disestablished! They want to rule the Lightworld, they want to rule the whole Underground. They will side with me only because it makes you appear weak. But if you do not acquiesce, if you do not allow me to have Ayla, you will bring it upon yourself!”

In the silence, so crashing after his outburst, Garret listened to his sister’s muffled weeping. It sent a dagger through his heart. Curse her for making him so vulnerable with such poor playacting. But he knew his role well, and knew he would not achieve his ends if he did not participate in her disgusting performance. She had sunk to her knees on the cold, stone floor and he went to her, kneeling beside her to put his arms around her, ever the strong, supportive brother. “There now, I did not mean to be angry with you.”

“I have done everything in my power to keep her from you,” Mabb wept against his shoulder. “So many times I have sent her on assignments knowing in my heart the task would be the death of her, and still she lives to take you from me. To take the throne from me.”

It was not true, but Garret would not tell her so. Those assignments had gone to more qualified Assassins, and it was the Guild Master who had done it. Not out of malice for his Queene or from any pressing by Garret, but because the Assassins were his charge. It was his duty to keep them from harm, and he would not send an Assassin on a mission if he knew them to be unprepared for it. On Garret’s end, he had kept Ayla woefully unqualified for the most dangerous assignments, but what he had failed to teach her she had learned on her own from watching the other students. That was, perhaps, her only flaw. She was a bit too intelligent. It was another quality he tried to tamp down in her. No sense in letting a common half-breed think above her natural capacity.

“Mabb, I will never be able to take the throne from you. You would have to die first, and that is something I would prevent with every last part of myself. I merely desire some of the happiness that has eluded me. Remember how Mother and Father were, how they loved each other?” Another lie. Their parents had barely spoken to each other. But in the centuries since their death, Mabb had romanticized the Sidhe Court. It helped that the rending of the veil had destroyed any evidence of the bitter feud between the former Queene and King. Without anyone to correct her, Mabb had lost herself in the love story she had constructed for their parents, the grand tales she told of events at Court that had never happened. Her subjects were just as desperate as she, and if they could not have happiness in the present, they were content to rewrite history.

She sniffled against his sleeve and gripped his arm, pulling it tighter around her. “Yes, I do. And I wish you all the happiness in the world. But you know me to be a selfish creature. I want to keep you for my own happiness.”

“You will never lose me.” That was a sad truth. No matter how he might try to escape her control, only death would free Garret from his sister. He cursed the immortality of the Fae. “I will always be here for you.”

“I will let you have your silly half-breed.” Mabb sat up, wiping her eyes. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?” Garret demanded, then forced a more neutral tone. If he angered her it would undo all the painstaking work he had just done. “You understand I am eager to tell her the joyous news.”

Turned to stone once again, Mabb glided across the room to the writing desk. She withdrew a sheet of parchment, sealed by her own hand and addressed to Ayla. “She has an assignment.”

“Then I shall deliver it to her.” He turned to go, eager to see what fresh torment his sister had laid upon his student—no, he thought, my mate, and that cheered him some—and how he might manage to avoid it.

“Deliver it to her, and then return to me.” Mabb settled onto her bed, though she had only just risen from it. “And send in my healers. This argument has taken a grave toll on me. I so detest this family strife.”

“I will return to you,” he promised warily. “But I will take Ayla as my mate tonight. I have waited long enough.”

Mabb laughed at this, a sound like crystals singing. “You assume she will have you.”

“She will.” Of that, he was more than certain. He hadn’t spent the past five years grooming her to be his only to allow her to refuse him.

He tucked the assignment into his robes and left his sister to play the part of the invalid. In the antechamber he dispensed curt orders for Mabb’s healers and ladies-in-waiting, then fled the stifling order of the Palace altogether. No space in the Underground was big enough for him now that his heart soared with joy for the victory he had won. By morning, Ayla would be his mate, declared before the council and consummated in his bed. The anticipation spurred his steps faster on his way to the Assassins’ Guild.