her. Or she might chose to view you as a threat, and have you executed.”
It seemed almost absurd to suggest such a thing. “How could I be seen as a threat? I have nothing. I’ve never actually ruled. I have no real power.”
“And that is even more true if you are not the Queene,” Cedric interrupted. “The only Faery you have known well was your mother, and perhaps your governess. But your mother was part mortal, and born in the Underground. The way most Faeries are—the way they were before the Veil was torn—they behave in ugly ways. These Faeries we travel with now will no doubt turn back to their old ways. Danae is probably very much like one of them. We must be certain that she will cause you no harm if you choose to pursue your throne.”
Cerridwen lay on her back, stared up at the ugly ceiling above them. “You were not born in the Underground. You fought beside Queene Mabb during both wars with the Humans. And you are not vain and petty, as you assume this new Queene will be.”
“I am…glad that you do not find me vain and petty.” He stumbled over the words, as though he knew he must acknowledge them, but had no idea why she’d said them. “But we must not trust that Danae will be the same. She keeps company with Bauchan. That does not recommend her character over much.”
It struck Cerridwen then that Cedric spoke to her now not as though he were scolding her, not as though he believed he knew better, but as though she were of equal intelligence and capable of rational thought. As though she were not a child. So rarely did that happen, the feeling was still a novelty. She was but twenty, while Cedric—and most Faeries—were untold hundreds or thousands of years old.
Unbidden, her mind returned her to the night she’d left the Palace, intending to betray her mother’s plans to the Elves. She’d been so besotted with the Elf she’d met on the Strip, she’d followed him into the Darkworld, had pretended to be fully Human just so he would not be repulsed by her. Now, she understood what Faeries meant when they said someone was elf-struck. Sickening.
But that night, before she’d stupidly taken flight from the safety of the Palace walls, Cedric had made good on his promise to tell her all that was discussed in her mother’s private Council. Of course, he had made that promise only to keep her from causing a further scene in the Throne Room, in front of the entire Court. But he had come to her and told her the dire news—that her mother intended to attack the Elves rather than wait for them to unleash the Waterhorses, horrors of the deep that had been summoned to destroy the Faery Kingdom of the Lightworld—and he’d done so without warning her that she did not wish to hear, or that she would not understand.
A pang of homesickness gripped her stomach and stole the breath from her lungs. How she longed to be back in the Palace, in her chambers, in her own, comfortable bed. To feel Governess’s cool hands on her forehead, soothing her to sleep after a bad dream. To know that her mother slept safely down the hall.
That, she missed more than anything, because she had not appreciated it then. She’d hated her mother, had raged at being treated like a child. And though she enjoyed being spoken to as a capable Faery who was full grown, she would have gladly remained a child-princess forever if she could have her mother back.
Only when Cedric asked quietly, “Are you crying?” did Cerridwen realize that she was. She wiped her eyes and shook her head, rolled to face away from him.
This was not a nightmare that she could wake from to find Governess at her bedside, ready to soothe away her fears. “Cerridwen,” Cedric began, but he said no more. He laid a hand on her arm, patted her uncertainly.
She wanted to shrug it away, to isolate herself once again with her misery, for it had always helped in the past. Now, though, she could not stand the thought of being alone with such grief, though it could not be truly shared.
So, she let him keep his hand there but did not acknowledge him, and she cried herself quietly to sleep.
The ship sailed in the early dawn. Exhausted, Cedric had not noticed the sudden churning of the water beneath them, or the subtle feeling of movement. Perhaps it had even soothed him into deeper sleep. He would not complain. Only rest would ease the trials of their flight from the Underground, and all that preceded it.
No, not all. Some wounds would never heal, only seal off with time, waiting to split open and spew forth their pestilence again. He carried several of that kind. The freshest had not yet begun to close, and the pain was constant, even when he thought of other things.
When he’d first boarded the ferry and looked over the side rail into the ocean, he’d imagined the bodies of the Gypsies floating in their watery graves. He’d seen Dika’s face, too, unscarred but ashen blue, her hair floating around her submerged head.
When he’d come aboard the ship and watched the Faeries with their packs, for a moment he’d seen the panicked faces of the Gypsies as they had fled to the center of their camp, ready to leave the Underground entirely. A trip none of them would take.
He wondered if he was as doomed now as they were then, but unable to see it. The entire Kingdom of Queene Ayla was destroyed by Waterhorses from the deep, from beneath the sort of ocean they now traveled upon. And the ship’s hold reminded him of the Underground and the Darkworld…as if an echo that would not end.
He’d woken to find Cerridwen sitting beside him, her knees pulled to her chest, rocking as she stared blankly ahead. She’d looked frightened, but when he’d asked, she’d denied it.
“Sick again, from the motion of the ship,” she’d insisted, though why she would continue to rock, he could not fathom, as it seemed it would only make it worse. But he did not wish to have an argument.
“If you are staying here, I will go and see what other facilities are available for our use.” At first, he’d been uncertain whether or not to leave her, whether or not she was able to defend herself and her possessions, but after only a moment’s consideration, he’d realized that he could not spend the entire voyage in their hiding place. There was no time for her frailty, and perhaps leaving her to fend for herself would shock her out of her incapacitation.
Had Ayla been there, or Malachi, Cedric would have discussed his worries with them. But they were gone now, and he had never truly shared his fears with anyone, not completely. He was not sure which realization hurt him more.
The morning brought more of the same in the lower hold. Faeries, reduced to their primitive, trooping states, regarded Cedric with suspicion and hostility as he walked among them. It took incredible strength not to respond in kind; he did not wish to become like them, but the fear, and the pull to his old nature, were almost too strong. That was what had happened to them, and he did not wish to follow them down that way.
He found the door they had entered through the night before. Now, it was closed, and when he tried the handle, it did not open. A momentary panic gripped him. What if the Humans had lied to Bauchan? What if the ship sailed to some port where Human Enforcers would await them? It took all of his will not to claw at the steel, to calm his mind.
“It is an unsettling thing, is it not?” Bauchan’s voice behind him did nothing to soothe Cedric’s nerves, and he closed his eyes a moment to force away his panic.
“It is.” His voice scraped out, betrayed the turmoil inside him. He took a deep breath. “I had forgotten how very stifling the Underground was, until I stood under the sky again. Now that I am enclosed once more…it is unpleasant.”
He turned to face Bauchan, found the Faery as clean and
