She glares up at him. “I’d rather put that dagger through my heart.”
The faery doesn’t reply. He kneels next to Sorcha and grips her roughly by the chin. “You’re even more spirited than your mother. A hundred years down here and she would have done whatever I asked. Some days I regret accepting your offer to take her place. I regret wanting you so badly to begin with.”
Sorcha flashes her fangs. “Good.”
His fingers tighten around her jaw. “Then I think about how it will feel when you finally accept.” With his other hand, he traces the line of her throat, down to the base of her neck where I see markings I didn’t notice before. Markings Sorcha doesn’t have now. I stare at her sharply. A vow? To him? “One day you’ll look at this and no longer think of it as a burden. You’ll come to me willingly.”
Her laugh is rough, mocking. “One day this mark will be gone, and the first thing I’ll do is slice open your throat.”
His eyes harden. “You force me to be cruel. Fortunately for you, I am also very, very patient.” He releases her and stands. “Another hundred years, then. This time, I won’t even bring you a dying human to feed on. Let’s see how long you last before you’re willing to beg for one.”
The door opens into the beautiful, beautiful sunlight and then cruelly slams closed to leave her in the darkness with the dead.
The memory shifts. The dark walls fade into a rich, opulent room in a massive tent. A large cot, covered in white silk sheets, looks minuscule at the back of it. The tent is composed of intricately woven tapestries depicting battles. Dark against light fae. Kiaran against Aithinne.
In the middle of the tent, taking up most of the room, is a wide, sturdy oak table. Kiaran is there, standing with Sorcha’s master. No, not Kiaran. His eyes hold that same deep, dark, and hopeless gaze I’ve come to recognize. This is Kadamach.
He’s staring down at a map that covers almost the entire breadth and width of the table, an intricate rendering of Seelie and Unseelie lands.
“If we send a fleet of ships,” the other faery is saying, “we can take the port villages easily. Interrupt their supply lines from there and force a retreat.”
Sorcha is crouched at Kiaran’s feet, buckling a protective metal guard around his shin. Preparing him for battle. She works quietly, deftly pulling the leather strap through. Bloody hell, she looks terrible. Much worse than before. The purple smudges beneath her eyes have darkened, and those beautiful green eyes have dulled with hunger. She’s so thin that she looks like one of Kiaran’s victims, so close to death I don’t know how he hasn’t noticed.
When she moves to put the shin guard around Kiaran’s other leg and he merely straightens his leg without looking down, I understand why.
She’s a servant. He doesn’t even see her.
Kiaran flicks a finger at the pieces on the map that mark their ships and strikes them down, one after another. “Is that what you think, Strategist? Am I wasting my time attacking the eastern front?” He looks up and I shiver at how cold his gaze is. “Tell me, why do you think I keep my soldiers at our shores rather than sending them out to sea?”
“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.” The Strategist’s voice trembles slightly in fear.
“No,” Kiaran says, “you didn’t. Answer the question.”
Sorcha reaches for the breastplate on the cot. Weakened from not feeding, she staggers under its weight and drops the metal to the floor with a heavy clatter. She freezes, her breath coming out in a terrified gasp.
Kiaran looks over at her, as if he’s noticed her for the first time.
“You stupid girl,” the Strategist snarls at Sorcha. He seizes her roughly by the arm. “This time I’ll keep you in that cave until you can’t even move—”
“Take your hand off her.” Kiaran’s voice is low, dangerous. When the Strategist hesitates, he adds, “Now.” Kiaran nods to the chair at the other end of the tent. “Sit there and be silent. If you make a sound, I’ll cut out your tongue and make you swallow it.”
Sorcha remains still, her gaze downcast, as Kiaran approaches her. “Look at me,” he commands.
Her eyes meet his. Though she’s clearly afraid, there’s defiance in her features. As if she’s saying, Do what you will. Punish me. I won’t plead for my life.
Kiaran’s lips twitch, and I know he sees it, too. “Why don’t you tell me what my Strategist couldn’t?” he asks her, almost gently. “Why do I keep my soldiers on our shores?”
Sorcha purses her lips. “The Seelie—” Her voice trembles, and she takes a breath before trying again. “They can speak to the sea, learn secrets from the water. They would know we were coming.” At Kiaran’s expectant expression, she explains with a hint of bitterness, “I have a brother. He’s Seelie.”
The way Kiaran’s eyes gleam, I know she answered correctly. “What would you suggest instead?”
“I’m not a Strategist.”
Kiaran waves a hand toward the map. “Indulge me.”
I watch as Sorcha silently takes in the geographical features. Her mind goes over possibilities, attacks, counterattacks. She plays out battle scenarios the way I plan inventions, as if it’s second nature.
Finally, she slides her finger across the map and taps the mountain pass. “There. It’s close enough to the sea that the Queen will consider her position an advantage. The cliffs on either side are high enough that our soldiers can pull the shadows to hide their true numbers.” She looks up at Kiaran. “You might send some of the soldiers at our coast to lead the Seelie toward this pass.”
“You’re suggesting I sacrifice them.”
Sorcha lifts a shoulder. “I told you; I’m not a Strategist.” Kiaran looks at the map, at Sorcha, at his Strategist. “I think you are. I think you’ve decided the victory would be worth their deaths.” She says nothing as he sits in the chair next to the table and looks her over. His eyes take in the design around her neck. “You wear a mark of servitude.”
Sorcha stiffens. “Yes.”
“You don’t strike me as someone foolish enough to make that vow without a convincing reason. Tell me.”
“He tricked my mother into making it first,” Sorcha says. “I saw what he did to her. How the mark forced her to obey his every command, no matter how badly it hurt her. She wasn’t going to live much longer if she stayed with him.” She lifts her chin. “So I offered myself in her place, because I was foolish. I was a child.”
Kiaran’s expression doesn’t change. “He ordered you to kill her.”
The other faery’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t make a sound. He isn’t going to risk Kiaran making good on his threat.
“He did,” Sorcha says, her voice trembling with anger this time. “Of course he did. She wasn’t the one he wanted.”
Kiaran’s voice is almost soft when he asks, “When was the last time you fed?”
She draws a shuddering breath. “Almost two hundred years ago.”