Fragile Eternity Read online

  As if mortals born Sighted weren’t more than enough trouble.

  But trouble was what Bananach craved. Small troubles led to larger disorder. On this, at least, they agreed. The difference was that one of them sought to prevent disorder and the other sought to nurture it.

  Hundreds of moments of seeming insignificance combined to create Bananach’s desired results. She had been the voice urging Beira, the last Winter Queen, to smite Miach—the centuries-gone Summer King and Beira’s sometimes lover. Bananach was the voice that whispered the things they all dreamt in silence, but generally had the sense not to act upon.

  Sorcha was not about to have another small problem evolve into chaos-causing troubles. “Mortals have no business meddling with Faerie,” she said. “They shouldn’t be involved in our world.”

  Bananach tapped her talon-tipped fingers in a seemingly satisfied rhythm. “Mmmm. This mortal has their trust, all three of the courts-not-yours listen to his words. He has influence…and they protect him.”

  Sorcha gestured for more. “Tell me.”

  “He lies with the Summer Queen, not as a pet, but as if a consort. The Winter Queen gave him the Sight. The new Dark King calls him ‘brother.’” Bananach retook her seat and assumed a somber demeanor, which always troubled Sorcha—with good reason: when Bananach was focused, she was more dangerous. “And you, sister mine, have no influence over him. You cannot take this one. You cannot steal him as you have the other Sighted pets and half-mortals.”

  “I see.” Sorcha did not react. She knew that Bananach waited, holding back something to needle her last reserves of calm.

  Bananach added, “And Irial had a pet, a little mortal thing he bound and caressed like she was worthy of being in the presence of the Dark Court.”

  Sorcha tsk’d at Irial’s idiocy. Mortals were too fragile to bear up under the excesses of the Dark Court. He knew better. “Did she expire? Or go mad?”

  “Neither, he gave up his throne over her…so corrupted was he by her mortality…sickening, how he cherished her. That’s why the new one sits on the throne that should be mine.” Bananach’s storyteller’s guise was still in play, but her temper was growing uglier. The emphasis of words, that rise and fall of tones she adopted when telling tales, was fading. Instead random words were emphasized. Her covetousness over the Dark Court’s throne upset her; her mention of it didn’t bode well for her state of mind.

  “Where is she?” Sorcha asked.

  “She’s of no influence now….” Bananach fluttered a hand as if to brush webs from in front of her.

  “Then why tell me?”

  Bananach’s expression was unreadable, but the constellation in her eyes shifted to Gemini, the twins. “I know we’ve shared…much; I thought you should know.”

  “I have no need to hear of Irial’s discarded pets. It’s a deplorable habit, but”—Sorcha shrugged as if it didn’t matter—“I cannot control the depravity of his court.”

  “I could…” A yearning sigh followed those words.

  “No, you couldn’t. You’d destroy what little self-control they have.”

  “Perhaps”—Bananach sighed again—“but the battles we could have…I could come to your step, blood-dressed and—”

  “Threatening me isn’t the way to enlist my help,” Sorcha reminded, although the point was moot. Bananach couldn’t help but dream of war any more than Sorcha could resist her inclination toward order.

  “Never a threat, sister, just a dream I hold dear.” In a blur too fast for even Sorcha to see clearly, Bananach came to crouch in front of her sister. Her feathers drifted forward to brush against Sorcha’s face. “A dream that keeps me warm at night when I have no blood for my bath.”

  The talons that Bananach had tapped so erratically took on a regular cadence as they dug in and out of Sorcha’s arms, pricking the skin with tiny moons.

  Sorcha kept to her calm, although her own temper felt close to surfacing. “You ought to leave.”

  “I should. Your presence makes my mind blurry.” Bananach kissed Sorcha’s forehead. “The mortal’s name is Seth Morgan. He sees us as we are. He knows much of our courts—even yours. He is strangely…moral.”

  Some whisper of fury threatened to surface at the feel of her sister’s feathers drifting around her face; the calm logic that Sorcha embodied was only challenged by the presence of the strongest Dark Court faeries. Neither Summer nor Winter faeries could provoke her. The solitaries couldn’t ripple the calm pool that rested in her spirit. Only the Dark Court made her want to forget herself.

  It’s logical. It’s the nature of opposition. It makes perfect sense.

  Bananach rubbed her cheek against Sorcha’s.

  The High Queen wanted to strike the war-faery. Logic said Bananach would win; she was violence incarnate. Few if any faeries could outlast her in direct battle—and the Queen of Order was not one of them. Yet, in that moment, the temptation to try grew strong.

  Just one strike. Something.

  The skin of her arms had begun to sting from so many small wounds when Bananach tilted her head in another series of short jerky moves. The feathers seemed to whisper as Bananach pulled back and said, “I tire of seeing you.”

  “And I you.” Sorcha didn’t move to stanch the blood that trickled to the floor. Movement would lead to pitting her strength against Bananach or angering her further. Either would result in more injuries.

  “True war comes,” Bananach said. Smoke and haze filtered into the room. Half-shadowed figures of faeries and mortals reached out bloodied hands. The sky grew thick with illusory ravens’ wings, rustling like dry corn husks. Bananach smiled. The not-yet-there shape of wings unfolded from her spine. Those wings had spread over battlefields in centuries past; to see them so clearly outside a battlefield did not bode well.

  Bananach stretched her shadow-wings as she said, “I follow the rules. I give you warning. Plagues, blood, and cinders will cover their world and yours.”

  Sorcha kept her face expressionless, but she saw the threads of possible futures as well. Her sister’s predictions were more probable than not. “I’ll not let you have that sort of war. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Really?” Bananach’s shadow spread like a dark stain on the floor. “Well, then…it’s your move, sister mine.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Seth watched Aislinn argue with the court’s advisors, far more vocal with the fey than she ever was with humans. On the table in front of them, Aislinn had the pages of her new plan, complete with charts, spread out.

  When she sat in Keenan’s loft, with the tall plants and crowds of faeries overfilling the place, it was easy to forget that she hadn’t always been one of them. The plants leaned toward her, blooming in her presence. The birds that roosted in the columns greeted her when she walked into a room. Faeries vied for her attention, seeking a few moments in her presence. After centuries without strength, the Summer Court was beginning to thrive—because of Aislinn. At first, she had seemed uncomfortable with being in the center of it, but she’d grown so at ease with her position that Seth wondered how long it’d be until she abandoned the mortal world, including him.

  “If we assign different regions like this—” She pointed to her diagram again, but Quinn excused himself, leaving Tavish to explain once more why he thought her plan was unnecessary.

  Quinn, the advisor who’d replaced Niall recently, plopped down on the sofa next to Seth. He was as unlike Niall in appearance as he was in temperament. Where Niall had highlighted his almost common features, Quinn seemed to strive for some degree of polish and posturing. He kept his hair sun-streaked, his skin tanned, his clothes hinting at wealth. More important, though, where Niall had been a voice that could pull Keenan from his melancholia or dissipate the Summer King’s temper, Quinn seemed to fuel Keenan’s mood of the moment. That made Seth leery of the new guard.

  Quinn scowled. “She’s being unreasonable. The king can’t expect us to—”

  Seth simply looked at
him.

  “What?”

  “You think Keenan’s going to tell her no? To anything?” Seth almost laughed aloud at the idea.

  Quinn looked affronted. “Of course.”

  “Wrong.” Seth watched his girlfriend, the queen of the Summer Court, glow like small suns were trapped inside her skin. “You have a lot to learn. Unless Ash changes her mind, Keenan will give her plan a try.”

  “But the court has always been run like this,” Tavish, the court’s oldest advisor, was repeating yet again.

  “The court has also always been ruled by a monarch, hasn’t it? It still is. You don’t need to agree, but I’m asking for your support.” Aislinn flicked her hair over her shoulder. It was still as black as Seth’s, just as it had been when she was a human, but now that she’d become one of them, her hair had golden streaks in it.

  Tavish raised his voice, a habit he’d apparently not been prone to before Aislinn joined the court. “My Queen, surely—”

  “Don’t ‘my Queen’ me, Tavish.” She poked him in the shoulder. Tiny sparks flickered from her skin.

  “I don’t mean to offend you, but the idea of local rulers seems foolish.” Tavish smiled placatingly.

  Aislinn’s temper sent rainbows flashing across the room. “Foolish? Structuring our court so our faeries are safe and have access to help when they need us is foolish? We have a responsibility to take care of our court. How are we to do that if we don’t have contact with them?”

  But Tavish didn’t back down. “Such a major change…”

  Seth tuned them out. He’d hear Aislinn recount it all later when she tried to make sense of it. No need to hear it twice. He picked up a remote and flicked through the music. Someone had added the Living Zombies song he’d mentioned the other week. He selected it and turned the volume up.

  Tavish had a please-help-me look on his face. Seth ignored it, but Quinn didn’t. Grumbling, but eager to prove his worth, the new advisor went back over to the table.

  Then Keenan walked in the door with several of the Summer Girls beside him. They looked more beautiful by the day. As summer approached—and as Aislinn and Keenan grew stronger—their faeries seemed to blossom.

  Tavish immediately began, “Keenan, my King, perhaps you could explain to her grace that…” But his words died after a glimpse at the expression of ire the Summer King wore.

  In response to his volatile mood, Aislinn’s already-glowing skin radiated enough light that it hurt Seth to look at her. Without even realizing she was doing it, she’d extended sunbeams like insubstantial hands reaching toward Keenan. Over the past few months, she’d developed an increasingly strong connection with the Summer King.

  Which sucks.

  All Keenan had to do was look her way and she was at his side, papers forgotten, argument forgotten, everything but Keenan forgotten. She went to him, and the rest of the world went on pause at Keenan’s look of upset.

  It’s her job. Court things have to come first.

  Seth wanted to not be irritated by it. He’d worked hard to become the person he was now—a person whose temper was under control, whose sardonic streak didn’t lead to making cruel remarks. He channeled those discordant tendencies into his paintings and sculptures. Between his art and his meditation, he was able to hold on to peace these days, but Keenan tested that hard-earned progress. It wasn’t as if Seth couldn’t understand the importance of strengthening the Summer Court after centuries of growing cold, but sometimes it was hard to believe that Keenan didn’t overplay minor worries to keep Aislinn’s attention. He’d spent centuries assuming that what he thought, or wanted, was of utmost importance. Now that he had the power to go with the arrogance, he wasn’t likely to become less demanding.

  Tavish motioned the Summer Girls to him and led them to the kitchen. With Niall gone and Keenan trying to reestablish his court’s authority, not to mention forge new agreements with the other courts, Tavish had assumed responsibility for helping the Summer Girls learn some degree of independence. Seth thought it was perversely funny that spending hours making sure that a group of beautiful girls was in good spirits was considered work, but no one else seemed to find it humorous. What was important in the Summer Court wasn’t always what made sense to a mortal—a fact of which Seth was regularly reminded.

  As Keenan relayed whatever new crisis he’d run into, Seth gathered his things and stood. He waited until Aislinn looked over at him and then said, “Ash? I’m out.”

  She came to stand beside Seth—near but not touching. It wasn’t that she couldn’t reach out, but she was still tentative. They’d only been a couple for a few months. Although it was hard to resist the temptation to remind them all that she was his, Seth didn’t touch her. He stood there, waiting, not pressuring. It was the only way with her. He’d figured that out more than a year ago. He waited; the tension built; and then she leaned against him, folding herself into his arms and sighing.

  “Sorry. I just need to”—she shot a worried look at Keenan—“court stuff, you know?”

  “I do.” Seth had spent more hours than he liked to think about listening to her try to make sense of her new responsibilities, utterly unable to help her. She had a long list of things that required her attention, and he just sat there waiting.

  “But we’re still on for the Crow’s Nest tomorrow, right?” Her tone was worried.

  “I’ll meet you there.” He felt guilty for being selfish, for adding to her worry. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, tugging it gently until she tilted her head back and kissed him. It burned his lips, his tongue, when she was nervous or upset—not impossibly painful but enough that he couldn’t pretend that she was the girl he used to know. By the time he pulled back, the burn had faded. She was calm again.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know that, don’t you?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go either; holding her in his arms was the best answer he could give her. She would be without him sooner or later: he was mortal, but that was a conversation she refused to have. He’d tried to talk to her, but she stopped every conversation with either tears or kisses—or both. Unless they found a way for him to belong in her world, eventually he’d be gone, and Keenan would be the one holding her.

  To go from not wanting to make commitments for the next night, to putting everything aside in hopes of convincing Aislinn to trust him, to thinking about forever was unsettling. He hadn’t figured himself for the whole getting-married-and-settling-down thing, but since she’d been in his arms and in his life, he’d hated the thought of being anywhere but with her.

  The Summer King had walked over to the table and was examining Aislinn’s diagrams, notes, and charts. Despite how weird the situation was for all of them, he often made a point of letting Aislinn and Seth have privacy. It was obvious, though, that moving away was not easy for Keenan.

  Or Ash.

  Quinn cleared his throat as he reentered the room. “I’ll walk you out if you’re ready.”

  Seth wasn’t ever ready to walk away from Aislinn, but he didn’t see the sense in sitting around watching her murmur with Keenan either. She had responsibilities; they both needed to keep those in mind—even if those responsibilities included late nights and parties with Keenan. She had a job to do.

  And Seth had…Aislinn. That’s what he had: Aislinn, Aislinn’s world, Aislinn’s needs. He existed on the fringe of her world, with no role, no power, and no desire to walk away. It wasn’t that he wanted out, but he wasn’t sure what to do to be further into her world.

  And she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “See you tomorrow.” Seth kissed Aislinn once more and followed Quinn to the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  Donia was at her house—Beira’s house—when Keenan and Aislinn intruded on her. It wasn’t her preferred place, but she’d taken to conducting business there and keeping her cottage for personal matters, space only Evan and a few select guards could enter.

&nb
sp; And Keenan. Always Keenan.

  When Keenan came through the ridiculously carved door—his copper hair shining like a beacon—Donia wanted to go to him, just for a brief moment to pretend that what they shared, that their decades of history entitled her to such easy comfort. It didn’t, especially when Aislinn was beside him. Keenan’s attention to his queen’s every thought and action bordered on obsession.

  Would Ash care if I went to him?

  To some degree, Donia doubted it: the Summer Queen had been the one to arrange Donia’s tryst with Keenan at Winter Solstice. She’d been the one insisting that Keenan did, in fact, love Donia although he’d never said the words. Yet, Keenan wouldn’t risk even the briefest display of emotion around Aislinn.

  So they all stood awkwardly in the foyer, surrounded by a number of Hawthorn Girls who calmly watched from the church pews that lined the walls. Sasha lifted his head from the floor where he was resting. The wolf glanced at the summer regents briefly, closed his eyes, and resumed sleeping.

  Evan, however, wasn’t so calm. He eased closer to Donia. “Shall I stay with you?”

  Mutely, she nodded. Evan was her closest friend these days; she suspected he’d been so for years before she acknowledged that his omnipresent protectiveness was not simple duty. She’d thought his guarding her was because so many other of Keenan’s guards were afraid of her, but when she’d become the new Winter Queen, Evan had left Keenan’s court to stay at her side. She reached out and squeezed his hand in silent gratitude.

  “The others?” he murmured.

  “They stay inside. We’ll go out back.” She raised her voice then and said, “If you’d like to join me?”

  Keenan was beside Donia. He didn’t touch her, not even a casual brush of her hand. He opened the door as they approached, as familiar with the house as she was. It was his mother, the last Winter Queen, who’d lived here before. After holding the door for her and for Aislinn, Keenan entered the garden. Snow and ice melted in his wake. Better that than having the Summer King and Queen inside where my fey are. Donia wasn’t willing to risk endangering her faeries, and while Aislinn might do fairly well at containing her emotions, Keenan was volatile even on his best days.