Prologue: Sorcha
Four years after Darkest Mercy
Prologue: Sorcha
Standing before the High Queen, Irial-- former Dark King and currently the embodiment of Chaos--looked somehow more regal in Faerie than he should. He held no dominion here, hadn’t for centuries. He wasn’t even Sorcha’s balance now, but Irial was as commanding as he had been when he was ruling the creatures of nightmares. Faerie recognized it, or maybe Faerie merely reflected the High Queen’s recognition.
Either way, the sky was cloudier, simply because Irial washereinstead of in the mortal world where he lived. Once, he and all fey had lived in this world, removed from humans. Safe. Together.
But the once-Dark-King was agancanagh,a seducer of mortals and faeries. Even Faerie was too small for him when he started feeling the urge to wander. Sometimes, the High Queen had brought mortals here in hopes of forestalling his inevitable departure. Once, she’d even welcomed the first mortal he’d loved.
It had never been enough.
Irial was, in all ways, Sorcha’s opposite. And though she still thought Irialbelongedhere, Sorcha had allowed actions to pass that resulted in closing the veil between Faerie and the world of mortals. There were exceptions, of course, to the closing of the veil. Some faeries could cross between worlds—just as in the beginning--but only a few exceptions traveled from here to the land of mortals.
Irial had always been an exception, and so was his son.
“I would say I regret that you had forgotten about your children,” the High Queen explained. “But it was what was necessary to protect the threads of fate, and I have enjoyed Urian’s company.”
“You know him better than I do,” Irial complained. “He’smyson, and I’ve missed his whole li—"
“He’s barely more than a century old, Irial. A teenager, as mortals call it.” Sorcha smiled. “An angry boy child.”
“When I was his age . . .” The former Dark King shuddered. “I was a monster.”
“Do you say that you are no longer a monster? Ignoring rules. Asking favors. Believing you are an exception . . .” Sorcha said lightly.
Irial sighed. He might be almost as old as the first faery, but he was as much affect as impulse. Sorcha stifled a smile at his pout.
Gods save us, if he ever realizes I’m not as immune as he thinks.
Faerie was the domain of the fey, and their kind were all about exceptions. The entire reason behind rules was to break them. Some of the fey had forgotten that, but not Irial. Never Irial. He’d defied death itself in order to stay with his beloved. He was a fool for love and had been for over a thousand years.
“Are you absolutely certain that you can’t help me this time, love?” Irial asked the High Queen in that familiar wheedling tone. “What if you just bring Urian here to Faerie? Trap him. If you want, I could even move back, take up my old role opposite you, help with him, live within the boundaries of--”
“No.” Sorcha frowned at him, seeing the future threads of violence that would follow if Irial tried to leave Niall.
“Sorcha. . .”
“I see all of the possible futures. So why would you presume to interfere without knowing the threads?” Sorcha prompted, both curious and irritated. “Do you not recall what your beloved Niall was like when he lost you?”
“He has Leslie. In time, they’d be fine without me.” Irial paced like a caged monster. “And Ipresumebecause I have children, Sorch. A son. A daughter who raised her children to hate what I am. A son who wants my death. I had no idea that Thelma . . . that we . . . that I hadanychildren. My son, who is apparently over one hundred years old, is furious about things whichI cannot fix.”
“The boy has a right to contest the throne,” Sorcha repeated for the third time. “He has the right to contest both thrones. His mother’s and his father’s.”
“Thelma never tookthe damn Summer throne. I hid her, and apparently impregnated her, so she was never the Summer Queen,” Irial said, voice louder now.
He was no longer Sorcha’s opposition, that role fell to the current Dark King—as much as to the Shadow King within Faerie itself. Since Irial hadn’t been the Dark King this last blink of years, his temper was merely interesting, not a cause for concern.
Still, Sorcha crossed her arms.
Oppositionwasinteresting, and Irial, for all his machinations, had always forgotten how to use any sort of logic when love entered the equation. His beloved Niall and Leslie were not likely to bring the Dark Court home to Faerie, and leaving Niall was how the courts had been drawn to war a blink ago, so Irial’s proposed solution was impossible.
Sorcha’s plan, however, had reasonable odds. She wasn’t certain it would work, but she had faith in Urian.
The High Queen tugged several clouds from the sky and fashioned them into a pair of chairs and a table. Irial flopped into a chair, reshaping it with a remembered skill that he should no longer be able to utilize.
But he does. He acts as if he owns the world.