Chapter 7

Whatever complaints one might have about Nicanor of Myron’s house, he was undeniably brutally efficient.

By the time Thysandra had scarfed down a quick breakfast of bread and goat’s cheese, Bereas had been given a stern enough talking to that he had relinquished the notion of glorious revenge for the foreseeable future. A handful of fae had taken up position around the entrance of the ruined bone hall to prevent anyone from entering the Labyrinth. Some of Nicanor’s most trusted people had been appointed to replace the slain commanders of other regiments, and orders had gone out to pause all unauthorised activity among the military, especially battle preparations of any kind.

Perhaps most important of all, the news of the new Lord Protector’s appointment had spread through the court like wildfire. Which meant that everyone Thysandra encountered on her way through the wine- and perfume-scented corridors, every envious courtier and grudge-bearing rival, knew she was no longer a lone ruler with a target between her wings .

It wasn’t enough to feel safe. It was never enough to feel safe. But it took an edge of urgency off her fear, and that was already more than she’d dared to hope for.

The archives were her next destination, she’d decided once she’d left Nicanor’s chambers and taken stock of her plans. All the demon murders in the world hadn’t changed anything about the precarious food situation the court would soon find itself in, and as long as she didn’t know how bad it was, she could hardly expect to solve it. The archivists could get her numbers. Once she had those …

Well. She’d see.

I could kill a few more people ? she could already hear Naxi suggesting, the voice in the back of her mind accompanied by a vision of guileless blue eyes. Fewer mouths to feed means your provisions will last longer. That’s simple mathematics.

An annoyingly stubborn smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she descended the next flight of stairs.

Not that she should be thinking of Naxi, of course. Naxi was wholly irrelevant to the daily reality of this court. Soon she might not even need any demon assistance anymore, if it turned out she could keep herself alive perfectly well without it, and—

‘Thysandra?’ a voice yelled behind her.

Her hand already lay against the dark red of her dress.

Miraculously, though, the curly-haired male jogging towards her from a lush courtyard did not seem about to murder her in cold blood; if anything, he gave the impression he was about to complain about a hair in his soup. Symeon, she recalled after a moment, or at least she thought that was his name. In any case, there were so many Symeons at the court that it was a reasonable guess.

‘Yes?’ she said tartly, wondering if she should be making a point of using the proper titles of people who weren’t close allies. ‘Is it urgent?’

‘Quite, yes.’ The young male rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. His skin was so dark she only then noticed the bloodstains on his fingers; his black leather trousers and velvety, half-buttoned shirt of the same colour made it hard to estimate just how bad the situation was. ‘It’s about that gory mess the Alliance’s demon left behind. Usually we’d send the servants to clean it up, but … well, you know …’

No more humans.

No more servants.

For the bloody gods’ sakes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to curse Emelin and her meddling or shake this fool and his utter lack of problem-solving capacities until some bright ideas miraculously fell out of his mind.

‘I suppose you know what a mop is?’ she said.

He blinked at her, apparently stupefied. ‘Beg your pardon?’

‘A mop,’ she repeated, more of a bite to her voice than intended. ‘And a bucket of hot water with some soap. No human assistance necessary. It’s not exactly a fun job, I’ll grant you that, but it’s significantly better than living with the stench of rotting blood. Anything else with which you need my help?’

His hollow expression suggested he was far from done. ‘You … you’re suggesting I clean it?’

‘Or anyone else you persuade to do it in your place,’ she added, sending him a forced smile in a belated attempt to soften the blow of her irritation. Behind her, someone was unmistakably sniggering. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have some other matters to take care of. Thanks in advance for your efforts.’

He was still stammering half-hearted objections behind her as she strode off. Around her, small groups of fae hastily made way, conversations quieting as she passed – all of them sharing the worry, no doubt, that she might appoint them to the cleaning force as well if they made the mistake of catching her eye.

Perhaps she should. She’d consider it if the bloodstains weren’t gone by the end of the day.

She made it two stairs down before the next interruption, a flock of fae demanding to know what burial arrangements would be made for those who had fallen in battle at the White City. Unwilling to admit she hadn’t spent that much thought on the hundreds, if not thousands of dead warriors yet, she promised them a plan would be announced the next morning – enough to send them on their way again, except that they were replaced within minutes by an even more unwelcome arrival.

Orthea of Orontes’ house.

The Mother’s Master of Ceremony was dressed in a lavish golden dress, its skirt so voluminous it seemed to fill half the hallway – the sort of dress that pointedly ignored the fact that any sort of battle had taken place in recent days, let alone a defeat . Her smile was honey-sweet as she gave the most minimal curtsy in the history of faekind. Her green eyes, on the other hand, glared daggers.

‘How fortunate to find you here, Thysandra.’ It didn’t sound as though the meeting was at all coincidental; knowing Orthea, she’d lain in wait ever since she’d heard the demon threat had been taken care of. ‘I was just wondering about the upcoming Hunter’s Moon festival, as it happens. Do you have any instructions for the celebration, perhaps?’

Gods damn it. The casual cruelty of Hunter’s Moon was the last thing she wanted to think about.

‘Let’s keep things small this year,’ she said, not slowing down so that the other female was forced to hurry along with her, skirts whooshing dramatically. ‘No big banquets. Just the hunt itself, I’d say, followed by a relatively simple meal.’

It came out a little curter than she’d aimed for.

Once, she’d believed them friends, herself and Orthea. Once they’d roamed the academy halls together, studied together, giggled their way through feasts together; Thysandra had pilfered the other girl’s wardrobe and returned the favour by writing in a larger hand at tests. Then Creon had been born, the Mother had no longer graced her with a seat at the royal table – and all of a sudden, she’d sat alone during meals.

She’d stopped caring long ago. She thought she had, at least – but the power felt unnervingly good in her hands all of a sudden, and she couldn’t help a twinge of spiteful satisfaction at the twist of the other female’s face.

‘ Small .’ There was an unequivocal glint of contempt in Orthea’s scowl. ‘Because of the gods-damned Alliance starving us?’

‘No,’ Thysandra impatiently said, although that was in fact exactly why she’d suggested the approach. ‘Because our High Lady died three days ago, a thousand of our people aren’t even laid in their graves yet, most of us have lost family and friends, and maybe a night of lavish feasting and fucking is not entirely appropriate right now, don’t you think?’

‘Oh – oh yes, of course .’ Orthea might be an opportunistic viper, but she’d never been slow to adapt. ‘I was absolutely planning to include a memorial theme this year – I thought that would go without saying. But to keep things so small …’ An affected peal of laughter. ‘Do you really think the Mother would want us to neglect ourselves and our sacred days in her name?’

A hysterical laugh burst free from Thysandra’s chest with such speed that it was all she could do to disguise it as a muffled cough.

Have you gone mad ? she wanted to shriek. The Mother drove me to neglect myself even while she was still alive. I promise you she never cared about your wellbeing either. Actually, it turns out she never cared about anything other than keeping herself on that throne of hers – so now that she’s failed to do that, do you really think she’d give a shit about the size of your bloody Hunter’s Moon festival?

But Orthea had never been called a traitor’s daughter. Orthea wouldn’t know the meaning of sacrifice if it hit her in the pretty green-eyed face.

And Thysandra really shouldn’t be making any new enemies if she could at all avoid it. Her former friend might have grown into one of those bone-idle courtiers whose job had only ever been to provide the Mother with endless entertainment, but even if her ties with the army were weak, she held far too much sway with the others of her kind.

‘Regardless of what the Mother would have wanted,’ she said, quickening her strides, ‘ I am not in the mood to celebrate her violent death, nor am I planning to give the impression that I’m doing so. I imagine I might not be alone in that.’

Not a threat. A reminder, though, that those who had been at the White City might feel more inclined to mourn their High Lady and the many others fallen in battle, and that not all of them would be kindly disposed to the notion of feasting their grief away.

A warning, too, that Thysandra would be the last to soothe those inevitable misgivings.

‘Ah,’ Orthea said curtly – more displeased, presumably, by the fact she had been outmanoeuvred than by the outcome of the discussion itself. ‘I see. I’ll make some appropriately modest plans, then, Your Majesty .’

The title was an unmistakable sneer.

Thysandra smiled as if it had been a genuine token of respect and continued her walk to the archives without pause, shedding her conversation partner within seconds. Perhaps a glimpse of centuries-old fury did still show on her face, though, because no one else approached her on the last staircase to her destination; she reached the fireproof steel doors of the archives unbothered by anyone, although observed by at least fifty pairs of ogling eyes.

She slipped into the parchment-filled halls beyond so swiftly her wings almost caught between the doors.

The archives were strangely unchanged, her first reflexive scan of the hall told her, although they were quieter than the last time she’d visited them – rows of towering cabinets, equipped with slender ladders to prevent wingbeats from disturbing the perfectly organised piles and folders. Usually, a small army of human scribes would be flitting around the aisles. Now only dusty silence answered her as she cautiously strode into the hall, her hand once again on her dress just in case someone tried to exploit the lack of witnesses.

‘Hello?’ she called when nothing happened.

A dull thud sounded from an adjoining room.

Then the rhythm of irregular footsteps, limping closer at surprising speed. She whirled around just in time to see a ruffled fae male appear from behind the cabinets, his brown hair bound into a messy queue, his hands stained with ink. The blocky shape of his left boot suggested a clubfoot or some similar disability. His russet-brown wings propelled him forward with measured slaps, though, betraying hidden strength and agility.

His white and grey clothes seemed harmless. She let go of her dress with some hesitation, the silence around them a threat rather than a reassurance.

‘Hello?’ she warily repeated.

The clerk – or at least she assumed that must be his function – came to a standstill, looking her up and down twice before he met her gaze again. ‘Yes?’

He sounded, if anything, a fraction impatient.

Hardly the welcome she had expected. It was nonsensical to feel miffed about the lack of proper regard – all the more so because she had done exactly nothing to deserve it – and yet she couldn’t help the crackle of ice in her voice as she said, ‘I’m looking for Anysia.’

‘Ah.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, clearing his throat. ‘That is unfortunate. I’m afraid she died in the battle.’

‘She— Oh.’ For some reason, Thysandra hadn’t expected the head of the court archives to have been on the battlefield of the White City at all … but then again, it stood to reason that a mage of her capacities would not stay at home waiting for the war to pass. Without doubt, the Mother had enlisted many of her civilians to temporarily join the army when the threat posed by the Alliance had grown. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Could I see the second archivist, then?’

The brown-haired male cleared his throat once again. ‘Also dead, regrettably.’

A slow, deeply worrying suspicion rose. ‘Is Iphis—’

‘Dead as well.’ The clerk’s grimace showed a hint of nervousness now. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

She should feel more, presumably. These were people she’d known well, people she’d worked with for decades or longer, people she had liked and respected. But through the worries and the whizzing of her mind, there was just the hollow in her chest – the sense of too many emotions to feel at once, and the sinking realisation of even more trouble than anticipated.

‘So …’ Her glance around the deserted hall was reflexive, a last spark of desperate optimism hoping a familiar face would magically materialise in the aisles. ‘Who is head of the archives now, exactly? ’

‘Ah.’ A sheepish cough. ‘I suppose that would be, um, me.’

She blinked at him.

‘I’m officially the supervisor of the education department,’ he clarified, pointing a half-hearted thumb at the section in question. ‘Which appears to be the highest position left. Of course, if you’d prefer to appoint someone else to the post, I fully understand. Your Majesty.’

The title wasn’t a jab from his lips. Rather, it sounded as though he simply realised half a second too late that he was probably supposed to attach it to his sentences.

‘Right,’ Thysandra said blankly, which was about the most insightful response she was able to come up with on the spot. She’d vaguely assumed she’d solved the worst of her problems by dealing with the army … but at least she was familiar with the military. The already minimal numbers of archivists she knew well enough to trust them had now officially shrunk to zero. ‘And your name is?’

‘Oh. Gadyon. Galynthias’s house.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘If I’d known you’d be here …’

‘Never mind about that,’ she interrupted. She hadn’t known he’d be here either, after all. ‘We’ll make do. How many other clerks do we have left, roughly?’

‘About fifty,’ he said, looking cautious. ‘More than half of the fae died, and well, most of the humans left, of course. I sent the remaining fae archivists we home for the day. Most of them had family members to mourn. I figured we’d make a start at updating the population registers tomorrow, but of course, if you—’

‘No, no. That’s all fine.’ She briefly closed her eyes, suppressing the urge to rub her temples – headaches were weakness, and she couldn’t afford that right now. ‘I would like to take a look at the administration of our food supplies. Production within the fae isles, tribute amounts of the past decade, storage at the court – all the details. Where do I find those files?’

‘That’s Rhodia’s department,’ Gadyon said, even more nervously now. ‘Or well, she’s officially sub-sub-supervisor of the department, but there’s no one else left. I could go ask her for an overview, if you need—’

‘Don’t bother.’ How was she to predict the unknown Rhodia’s political preferences? She might be Bereas’s niece, for all Thysandra knew, and even if she wasn’t, it was best not to owe anyone too many favours. ‘I’ll take a look myself for now. Where do I find the information?’

Gadyon looked sceptical, but nodded and quickly muttered, ‘Third room through that doorway, then recent years will be on your left and historical summaries on your right. And um, if you don’t mind me asking, does that mean—’

‘Please keep the position for now,’ Thysandra curtly said, already turning for the door he’d indicated. ‘I don’t have anyone else for it at the moment. And see if you can find a bunch of new clerks, considering all the administrative changes we have coming up.’

From the corner of her eye, she could see him give a half-bow, half-salute, uneasy like a male who’s never set foot on a battlefield. The irregular tap- thump of his limping gait died away behind her as she hurried into the next room, jolting at every shadow that moved on the edge of her sight.

The third room was much, much bigger than she’d hoped – twenty-five aisles on either side of the main corridor, endless walls of drawers and shelves and leather folders, organised according to some arcane system that likely only made sense to a handful of people in the world. Still … if she applied some patience and common sense to the task, how hard could it be to find the lists and overviews she was looking for?

Unfortunately, it soon turned out the task was significantly larger than her patience.

She’d never paid much attention to the archives; information was generally provided to her whenever she needed it, sent her way by the tireless army of mages working in this realm of parchment. Now, surrounded by looming shelves and unintelligible labels, she found herself wishing for the first time in her life that she’d spent a few more hours with these dusty tomes in her hands – because surely this would have been much, much easier if at least she’d known what to make of cryptic drawer labels such as 4225 gr. c. 56b …

Perhaps it would be a better idea to find the unknown Rhodia, dangers be damned. If they made a bargain to guarantee the accuracy of the information, at least she could stop wasting time on—

‘Oh, here you are,’ a brisk female voice said.

Thysandra whipped around, grabbing instinctively for the nearest dark leather surface.

A distinctively wingless, suspiciously human-looking silhouette had appeared at the end of the aisle, drawn sharply against the frosted-glass windows. For a single heart-stopping moment, Thysandra thought it might be Naxi, having escaped her locked rooms in gods-knew-what unholy way … and then the reality of her observations came punching through, shattering that hope-like fear with something that felt worryingly like disappointment.

The silhouette was too tall. Her hair too sleek and blonde. Her voice hadn’t sounded remotely like Naxi’s, either, too blunt and too bitter.

She didn’t look young , exactly, this unknown human woman; she stepped closer with a tired determination that suggested several decades of disillusionment. All the same, there was no trace of old age to be found in her appearance. No wrinkles. Not a glimpse of grey in her long, pale hair. Really, she wore that sense of agelessness that Thysandra only ever saw on immortals … but that didn’t quite make sense, did it?

Then again, neither did that greeting. Here you are – as if Thysandra was some disobedient child caught sneaking off into forbidden places.

‘Beg your pardon?’ she cautiously said, trying to figure out whether there was any danger she could be overlooking before she got rid of the unwelcome interruption.

‘I’ve been looking for you.’ The human woman slowed her steps, then leaned sideways against the cabinets, crossing her arms. She was almost as tall as most fae. ‘Your demon friend said you’d be around here, but it’s a nightmare finding anyone in this maze. This is not the right aisle if you’re looking for grain stores, by the way.’

Thysandra barely even heard that last sentence.

Your demon friend .

Naxi. What game was she playing this time, sending humans for … well, for what? It didn’t seem likely that this willowy girl – or woman, whatever she was – was standing here with the intent to violently usurp her. Then again, it seemed highly unlikely any humans would still be roaming the island in the first place; hadn’t Emelin announced that she’d send all of them back home immediately?

‘Who the hell are you?’ Thysandra blurted out, realising a moment too late that High Ladies should probably ask for their information in more dignified ways.

‘Inga.’ As if that were the only answer she needed. ‘I’m one of your former slaves, in case that helps.’

Her manners weren’t those of a former servant. If anything, they were the manners of a woman who couldn’t wait to take up a sledgehammer and smash the walls to pieces – a vaguely alarming thought even if she looked entirely unarmed.

Thysandra slowly stepped away from the drawers and straightened to her full height, deciding that perhaps this matter did deserve her undivided attention for the few minutes it took her to get the other woman out of here. ‘And what exactly are you doing here, when all humans should have long since left the island by now?’

‘Not all of them,’ Inga said curtly. ‘There’s a few hundred exceptions, as a matter of fact. Some of us don’t have anywhere else to go, you see.’

What in the world?

But before she could so much as ask a single question, the servant – no, former servant – gave a scowl and tucked a handful of blonde hair aside, revealing …

Fae ears.

That explained a number of things.

‘They don’t take kindly to half fae on the human isles,’ Inga said, her voice flat. ‘Honestly, they don’t even take kindly to half fae on this bloody island, but at least I know people here. There’s others like me, too. Half fae. Quarter fae. Full humans whose families have lived here for so many generations they have no clear place of origin to return to. We’re not cattle, you know. We have a community you can’t just tear apart.’

Thysandra realised a moment too late her mouth was still hanging open; the retort she’d hoped would emerge had not, in fact, done so.

‘So.’ Inga shrugged. ‘I’m here to tell you to do something about us. Happy to offer some suggestions, if you need them.’

Suggestions ?

It took all she had to restrain her voice. ‘What exactly do you—’

‘We’d like full citizen’s rights, first of all.’ A blistering glower. ‘Meaning that it would become legally punishable to murder or assault us, just to name one thing. And that you’d have to pay us if you’d like for us to keep working. A more decent place to live than the hovels in which you’ve been housing us would be appreciated – shouldn’t be a problem, honestly, now that gods-know-how-many of you have fought themselves to death for the glorious sake of tyranny. Figure you should at least have some castle rooms available.’

So much for the servant’s manners. ‘Do you have the faintest idea of the uproar it would cause if I were to—’

‘Oh, yes.’ Inga shrugged, long hair tumbling down over her shoulders. ‘Wishing you much wisdom in dealing with that. I do suggest you deal with it, though.’

‘Who do you think you are ?’ Thysandra snapped, anger and bewilderment finally getting the best of her. ‘You can’t come stomping in here and make demands just because you’re no longer working here. I’ll make my decisions however I see fit, and—'

‘Ah, yes.’ The other woman sighed. ‘Emelin already mentioned you might be a little stubborn about the matter.’

Thysandra’s mind went blank.

‘ Emelin ?’ It came out infuriatingly breathless. ‘What in the world does Emelin have to do with this?’

‘Oh, she’s more or less my niece,’ Inga said dryly. ‘I’m Allie’s sister – you know Allie, don’t you? Very moving family reunion, I can tell you. Very useful, too. Emelin told me some immensely interesting things about your time with the Alliance. ’

Fuck.

Fuck.

‘So I strongly suggest you make a good attempt at securing a decent future for the humans living under your rule.’ Inga finally pushed herself off the shelves she’d been leaning against and straightened, still unsmiling as she stuck her hands into the pockets of her servant’s frock. ‘Would be a shame if someone got carried away by vengeful feelings and slit your traitorous throat. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, though – I can usually be found in Rustvale.’

Thysandra barely even heard that last sentence, standing paralysed between the looming bookcases as the weight of yet another complication came crashing onto her shoulders. Funerals and festivals. Miles and miles of archives she couldn’t for the life of her make sense of. And now the bloody humans wanted rights , as if saving a court full of bloodthirsty fae wasn’t enough of a burden already?

There was absolutely no way she was going to explain to the likes of Bereas and his friends why they would be sharing the court’s scarce resources with a huddle of former servants. Worse, she might not even be able to explain it to Nicanor.

And then they would wonder …

Fed to the hounds.

‘Anything else I need to clarify?’ Inga added, her impassive voice coming from miles away. ‘It’s my first free day in months. I’d prefer not to spend all of it at work anyway.’

Lightning struck.

This is not the right aisle if you’re looking for grain stores …

‘Wait.’ Too loud, too abrupt – her voice was a thunderclap in the eerie silence of the archives. ‘Wait a moment, please. You’re saying you work here?’

Inga’s eyes narrowed. ‘Worked.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Thysandra hastily agreed, because damn it all, verb tenses were not what she was concerned about right now, ‘but you know your way around the place? You’ve been here for a while?’

‘The last twenty years.’ A snort. ‘Agenor got me this job to keep me safe after Al was banished from the island. Pretty decent of him, considering that I refused to talk to him at the time, but I suppose he isn’t the worst in general.’

Hardly high praise – for the male Thysandra had respected more than perhaps anyone else at the court – but she decided to let that point go. ‘So if I need someone reliable to dig into some numbers for me, could you do it? I’ll look into the human issue in the meantime. We could make a simple bargain—’

‘Oh, no,’ Inga interrupted, visibly inching backwards. Her face twisted into a disgusted scowl. ‘You’ll keep your foul magic away from my body, Your Majesty. I can look into the registers if it helps you, but you can trust me on my word or don’t trust me at all – I’m not going to bind myself to you.’

Oh, come on .

‘Not even if it means you can hold me to my promises too?’ Thysandra tried, fearing the worst and seeing her suspicions confirmed as that almost-human face darkened even further. ‘If I bargain to do something about the human position …’

‘I don’t need a bargain for that,’ Inga said, huffing. ‘If you fail us, I’ll just let your people know that you sold them out by blathering about the bindings to the Alliance. Should kill you faster than any bargain would.’

Hell take her; it would.

Thysandra closed her eyes. The last of those hard-won illusions of security were rapidly dissolving.

‘Alright.’ Deep breaths. Swift thoughts. She had to keep herself together now; crumbling on the cold floor of the archives wouldn’t keep her alive. ‘Let’s try another approach. What can you tell me about Gadyon?’

‘He’s mostly alright,’ Inga said, sounding unwilling to admit it. ‘Has been sneaking us extra food whenever the village supervisors put us on rations.’

Which suggested some moral compass from the brand new head of the archives. A certain defiance towards the Mother, too, and a willingness to do the sensible thing rather than making decisions based on nothing but pride and glory – not much to go on, but at least it was something .

‘Good,’ she said, giving herself no more time to think. ‘I’ll make that bargain with him, then. He can help you and any other volunteers with your work, and I’ll leave it to him to double-check the numbers once you’ve gathered all the relevant information. You can join us when we discuss the results. Does that work?’

‘If it makes you feel safer to never trust a single soul around you,’ Inga said, and the glimpse of mockery in her grey eyes suddenly made her resemble a particularly caustic Naxi, ‘I suppose that works, yes. Anything else?’

‘Just be careful.’ The words slipped out before she could think twice about them – hell, why bother warning this woman when she was the one flinging threats around? ‘People aren’t going to be happy about any of those changes you’re looking for. Worst case, they’ll attack you outright, and—’

‘Of course they will,’ Inga said with a snort. ‘So? I’m a human-looking half fae at the Crimson Court. Your lovely subjects haven’t done anything besides attack me as long as I’ve been alive.’

That knocked the words straight from Thysandra’s brain again.

‘Let me know what you need from the archives.’ For the first time, Inga smiled – a hard, steel-edged smile, not a glimpse of joy in it. ‘And when we’re getting together for that discussion. If no one kills me before then, I’ll be there.’