The unseen, p.25
The Unseen, page 25
Granted, all Aedyn’s father had ever done was judge him. Only now he had a stage and an audience.
As the Grand Hall emptied, the Undine Guards bid Aedyn’s friend to rise. “You are in luck,” said the friendlier of the pair. “Regardless of your reasons for being here, you are guests in this palace. You may take your recess in the royal banquet hall, apart from the school of sharks. Or, rather, with a school of classier sharks.”
Lydia and Brannon stepped swiftly forward, but Elwyn remained seated. “If possible, I’d prefer to wait here,” she said. “I need time to think, and it will be easier apart from all the ruckus.”
“If that is your desire.” The soldier shrugged. “There are guards stationed at every door and window, so it’s not as though you’ll slip away.” Her eyes slid over to Aedyn. “Joining us, heir?”
“In a moment,” he mouthed.
The guard shook her head but started for the banquet hall, waving for Brannon and Lydia to follow. It would have been far easier for Aedyn to join them—to spend the recess drowning his worries in wine and witty repartee—but the easy option wasn’t always the best one.
So, he waited until the Grand Hall was empty of all but soldiers, then took a seat beside the girl he hoped was still his friend. She didn’t shy away this time, but she didn’t acknowledge him, either.
He folded his hands in his lap, taking a moment to think before he spoke, for once. Though he’d developed and extensive log of lines for appeasing disgruntled women, none would fit this particular situation. He’d been bound to Eloana since before he even knew what a betrothal was, so he’d long avoided forming attachments, but this one had caught him unawares. It had felt much like his friendship with Amatha until just hours before the trail, when Elwyn sat on the edge of his dining table, dripping frosting and floral wine and filling the air with her rare, intoxicating laughter. Even then, he hadn’t suspected she’d feel the same. She was much too smart for that.
“That’s quite a dress,” he tried, hoping to chip away at the ice. “I’m not certain whether I should be enchanted or terrified.”
Elwyn frowned. “I may be unarmed, but I assure you, it’s the latter.”
Not the right path, then. Aedyn took a deep breath, running through his options. Being fae, he could not speak outright lies, but he’d never been particularly honest either. Perhaps it was time to give it a go.
“I’m sorry, Elwyn,” he said. “Really, I am. I hadn’t intended to give you the wrong impression...” Was it the wrong impression? “I only meant to cheer you up.”
“Well, you’ve done a phenomenal job of it.” She pulled her knees to her chest, perching her boots on the bench. Aedyn could practically see the walls rebuilding around her—one brick for every ounce of trust rescinded. “If you truly want to make me feel better, leave me be. Honestly, Aedyn, that’s all I want from you.”
It was the opposite of what Aedyn wanted, but his wants were not the point. Begrudgingly, he forced himself to his feet and toward the banquet hall. It took far more effort than it should have, being such a short walk. Guilt tugged on his heels with every mournful step.
It was all his fault—not just his and Elwyn’s thwarted friendship—all of it. He’d failed to protect Lydia, and now she was falling apart before their eyes. He’d failed his father for the hundredth time, and now the man wouldn’t even look at him. He’d failed to adhere to the most fundamental code of his kingdom, and now he was going to be condemned before the very pulpit he was destined to inherit.
If he had been content to tend his own business instead of meddling in that of another world, none of this would have happened. But he hadn’t been content, and he had meddled, and everything he’d touched had burned to the ground. Like always.
An emerald curtain fluttered aside, and too many faces turned Aedyn’s way. Brannon and Lydia weren’t among them, but that was no surprise. They’d probably slipped out onto one of the many balconies, seeing the Seelie aristocracy for the hornet nest it was.
Post-holiday trials always drew a sizable crowd, but this was the densest Aedyn had ever seen. He was well aware they were there to watch him fall, but at least they knew how to celebrate in style. The buffet tables boasted more food and drink than many a humble woodland hamlet. Beautiful women and men flitted between them, dressed in stunning gowns, elaborate suits, and painted plaster smiles. Guests of less upstanding repute lurked in the corners and beyond the archways, hands shoved in their pockets as they waited for listless elites to inquire about shadowroot or essence.
Every petty distraction Aedyn could imagine hovered within arm’s reach. The breadth of the bounty turned his head to a hurricane. He wanted all of it and he wanted none of it and he wanted something more though he knew it would leave him wanting, and he wanted, and he wanted, and he wanted, and he needed it to stop for one fucking heartbeat!
Furious at himself and everyone like him, he pressed gracelessly through the hall, ignoring a storm of empty platitudes of false friends and a wealth of pitying glances tinged with mirth. He grabbed two glasses from a silver tray and ran them beneath a poppy-orange fountain.
“Aedyn?” Eloana placed a hand on his arm. As usual, he hadn’t noticed her approaching. “Surely one of those is for me.”
“If you’d like a drink, grab a flute,” he replied, eying her from bejeweled slippers to braided updo. “I see you’ve dressed up for my demise, we might as well toast it, too.”
Eloana’s smile flickered. “I have an image to uphold,” she hissed. “And you know well I would gain nothing from your downfall, only your ascent.”
Aedyn fought a smirk. Eloana was not an illusionist, but he’d long suspected her of wearing a disguise. It was almost refreshing to see through it, for a change.
“Of course, they’ll talk. It’s all they ever do.” He downed both drinks and marched into the throng, leaving her to seethe. Not a full minute passed before soft fingers slid down his arm and a gorgeous Glaistig slipped into view, all velvet-draped curves and wild crimson curls. Her name was…fuck, what did it matter? He’d known her in every sense of the word except the one that counted.
“Why so worried, darling?” She leaned in close, flashing a fanged smile. “I’m sure you’ll emerge from this ordeal with your reputation unharmed. Shall we meet up after and soil it?”
For whatever reason, the offer brought bile to Aedyn’s throat.
“Sounds fun.” He tore his arm away. “But I’ve frankly had my fill of low-hanging fruit.” He pressed toward the nearest staircase, desperate for distance.
There’s not enough light in the room for the illusions these people are casting.
The staircase spilled onto a sandstone balcony set aglow by the eternal sunlight. He grasped the railing with trembling fingers, drinking in the green-apple air and trying to will the pressure from his veins.
It should have been midnight, by now. What he would have given to sit around a campfire with his friends, staring up at the stars.
By the time he forced his grip to soften, the marble had cut patterns into his palms. At this rate, he’d be in the throes of a full-on meltdown by the time he was called to testify. What in light’s name is wrong with me?
“May I join you?” The voice belonged to Amatha.
Aedyn turned to face her, propping his elbows against the railing. “You’re probably the only person in the worlds whose company I’d welcome right now.”
“That is hard to believe.” She broke into a brilliant smile. “But then, you did just reject Cela. I would not have done the same.”
So that was her name, Aedyn thought, forgetting it before he formed his next sentence. “I’m sure she’s feeling insecure right now, if you’d like a go at her.”
Amatha crossed her burly arms. “You wound me.”
“Sorry.” His gaze dropped to his gilded boots. “I have no right to take this out on you. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”
“You are worried about what your father thinks.”
Aedyn laughed coldly. “I know what my father thinks.”
“I do not think you do.” Amatha leaned against the railing beside him, attempting to imitate his posture. Her crystalline pauldrons threw off her balance, and she tipped awkwardly to one side. “This is not as easy or comfortable as you make it look.”
“Nothing is ever as easy or comfortable as I make it look.”
Amatha laughed, punching his arm. “There is the Aedyn I know and love.”
Flippant as the words were, they raised his spirits. There were only a handful of people in the worlds who both knew and loved Aedyn, and that number was dwindling.
“I messed up, Amatha,” he said, hanging his head. “Even more so than usual.”
“By visiting the Mortal Realm?”
“That too.” Aedyn sighed. “To be fair, I didn’t know for certain where Deilin was sending me.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“That is just you, and it is no crime,” Amatha replied, shrugging. “You live on wants and whims, bursting from passion to passion like a little fire. That is what Aedyn means in the old language—little fire. I have always thought it suited you.”
Aedyn twisted over onto his elbows, looking out over the city below. The streets were nearly empty—unsurprising, given half the city had crammed into the palace, eager for entertainment. He wasn’t any different, really. How many people had he exploited to quell his own boredom? How much damage had he wrought? If he was ever a little fire, the flames were steadily growing, and his every reckless act had been committed in service of feeding them.
“I spotted a tray of citrinecakes inside.” Amatha patted him on the shoulder and started for the stairs. “I will retrieve them. Surely, you are hungry.”
“That’s all I ever am,” Aedyn whispered.
ARYN
Aryn sat brooding in Talune’s Heart, his eyes fixed on the circlet that graced the throne beside his. He shuddered at the thought of what Tearan might have said, where she truly seated there. She had loved their son, but that love would not have prevailed over her passion for her kingdom. She would have sacrificed everything for Talunasa and its denizens. In fact, she had sacrificed everything for them.
In the end, Aryn could hold no illusions on the matter. If forced to choose between her realm and her son—the only child they’d ever conceived in all their many lives—Tearan would have snapped the boy’s neck at birth.
A familiar duet slipped beneath the throne room doors as the light singer sentries bid it open. Aryn bristled. He’d demanded solitude for the duration of the recess. His anger evaporated like a dewdrop in a sunbeam when Soen peeked into Talune’s Heart, a half-moon smile on her lips.
“I do not mean to be a bother,” she said as the throne room doors closed behind her. “I only thought that, before the trials resume, you might like to speak to someone who can yet speak back.”
“Come in, friend,” he said, rising to meet her midway down the emerald carpet. “You have never been a bother.”
They spoke for some time, pacing the gilded marble tiles. Rather, Aryn paced and spoke, while Soen fluttered and listened. If the other judges had been present, he’d have kept still and quiet for fear of showing weakness. Soen had been a presence in many of his lives, in one form or another. She had always encouraged vulnerability—in this life, more than any before it. The Sylphs were healers by nature, and that gift was not confined to physical ailments.
“I cannot help but question your findings,” he said, forcing the conversation toward loftier matters. “She is only a child, and from the Mortal Realm, no less. What connection could she possibly have to the Sluagh?”
“My mystics could not discern much beyond her nature,” Soen answered. “It will be up to Mearalas’ seers to divine the rest.”
“Assuming she cooperates,” Aryn growled. Mearalas was an adequate ruler for her own people, but she did not play well with others. “Why not call off these trials altogether and pour our resources into this investigation?”
Pity darkened Soen’s ice-water eyes, and shame welled in Aryn’s spirit. His reasoning could not have been more transparent.
“You know how proud Mearalas can be.” Soen’s toes touched marble, and she dismissed her wings. “If we want her to support this plan, she must think it was her idea.”
Aryn nodded, tears burning behind his eyes. He would not allow them to fall.
Soen saw them anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She knew he did. Soen always knew what people wanted, and she knew whether those wants aligned with their best interests. It made her a brilliant leader and an even better friend.
“I can’t lose him, too.” Aryn’s voice nearly cracked, the words were so brittle. “I know my calling has its costs, but was Tearan not enough?”
Soen was silent as she mulled the words over, and Aryn cursed himself for speaking them at all. His peers were not aware of just how permanent Tearan’s fate truly was. They did not know he would never see her again, not in this life or any other.
And they didn’t need to know it, either.
Soen placed a hand on his shoulder, either missing Aryn’s slip-up or pretending to. “Aedyn is not yet lost.”
How Aryn wished that was the case. “There is no defending my son’s actions this time,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s strange, really. I have long feared that boy would someday be reborn into darkness. It seems death no longer need factor into that fate.”
“You speak as though his consequences are eternal,” Soen said. “Aedyn will live many lives after this one. If the Seelie can descend to darkness, who can say the opposite is not also possible?”
“Would I even remember him?” Aryn asked, chest tight. “Will he remember me? We retain so little from our former lives, and those memories are little more than dreams—distant, hollow, cold. I cannot hope to be spared a thought for my fallen son, much less a warm one. Perhaps erasure would be for the best, but then…” He didn’t believe his own words. Reminiscing about Tearan was agony, but he treasured every memory. His son would be no different. “What do you think will become of him, Soen?”
Soen wiped a solitary tear from his cheek, and he looked away, embarrassed one had escaped. His skin tingled where she’d brushed it—the residual spark of her healing aura. It did nothing to ease his pain.
“I am sorry, my friend,” she said. “I do not know.”
“That is quite alright,” Aryn composed himself, hardening like clay. “Now is not the time for sentiment, but duty.”
Soen granted him a final, pitying glance, which he returned with a gruff nod. She’d done the best she could, and he appreciated the effort.
Some wounds ran too deep for even a Sylph to heal.
“If you would pass a verdict, do so with reverent fear,
In judging someone’s flaws, your own become glaringly clear.”
Chapter 26
Judgment
BRANNON
“We hereby resume proceedings with the trial of Aedyn, Heir of the Daoine Maithe!”
The herald’s announcement made Brannon squirm in his seat, all too aware of the thousands of insipid eyes boring through the nape of his neck. One benefit of belonging to the Greyscale was that he’d never been forced to stand trial for his crimes. No agent ever had. Either they succeeded or died, or so the Father claimed.
Apparently, he and Slate were the exceptions.
He had been told he was expected to testify first, but that did nothing to stop his stomach from flipping when the Maithe King called him forward. The stakes felt, suddenly, horrendously high. When he’d first met Aedyn, he’d wanted little more than to skewer the pretentious fop with his own rapier. Through no conscious decision of his own, he’d come to regard Aedyn as an…ally. Those looked out for one another, or so he’d heard.
Brannon was unpracticed in that particular art.
He approached the golden pulpit, and the king regarded him with a somber nod. If the man cared at all for the outcome of his son’s trial, it didn’t show. That indifference reminded Brannon of his own uncaring fathers, and his palms ached for the daggers that had, once again, been stolen from him.
“Brannon, denizen of the Mortal Realm,” King Aryn began. “Do you swear to the Creator your testimony will be honest and forthright?”
Something in those keen, golden eyes told Brannon the king would see straight through any lies he might conjure. “There’s no good way to answer that question,” he replied. “Forthright is doable, but I don’t believe in a Creator, so swearing to one would be dishonest in its own right.”
“Fair enough,” the king said, impassive. “If not a Creator, what do you believe in?”
If only Brannon knew. In the past few weeks, he’d witnessed things he’d never thought possible, and the lines between reality and myth had all but vanished. “I suppose I’ll have to swear by myself, just to be safe.”
Surprisingly, no one objected to the change.
“You are new to this world and its customs,” King Aryn said, “so I will reiterate how this works. I, the High Judge of Honor, have been tasked with examining you, so my question will relate to that ideal. You will answer honestly, to the best of your ability, or risk incriminating yourself. Is that clear?”
Brannon nodded. Simple enough.
“Very good,” the king replied. “Would you call yourself a man of Honor?”
The question threw Brannon off. “Isn’t this Aedyn’s trial?’
“You can learn much of a person’s character from the company they keep,” King Aryn elaborated. “Apparently, you have been traveling with the defendant for two weeks, by mortal standards. More than long enough to qualify as company.”
