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Rhodri
She called me her prince.
Heat warms me from the inside out at the touch of her fingers on the skin of my wrist, as we travel through the portal.
I wanted Mae’s first time in Winter Faerie to be with me. Though, technically, this is still Faerie, the Badlands is not what I had in mind for her initial experience outside the human realm. I wanted to show her the delights of my home, through my eyes. I love the Winter Court and everything about it, and I wanted to give her the chance to see Faerie in all its beauty. Perhaps then she might understand why I am proud to be the heir to the throne.
Perhaps she would also learn that she does not need to be afraid of her banshee blood.
I have to tamp down my reaction to Maewen for consideration at a more suitable time, and concentrate on the task ahead.
The faerie path spits us out into an almost identical setting to the one we just left. Only, where the other snowy clearing and grand castle entrance were empty, this one is not.
Armored guards man the entrance to the castle. This one is the real deal; no illusion here. And the moment we arrive, she knows. I sense it. That means dear old Mother is still in residence and has not had time to organize her own escape.
At the sight of us, her guards instantly raise their swords and stand to attention, as if waiting for the signal to attack.
My team is still looking to me for leadership. It is a new role for me, and one I don’t necessarily want. But I don’t have a choice. In the continued absence of the king, who has been unwilling to do anything except mope around the palace for years, someone has to step up and lead these men into what I know will be a vicious battle.
A battle against my own mother.
You’re not like her. Mae’s words echo in my head. You have fortitude.
I wish she had not jumped through the portal from the human realm and had, instead, chosen to hide out in Faerie with her sisters. Instead, we are shoulder to shoulder, about to enter a battle that I never in my wildest nightmares imagined having to face.
If anything happens to Maewen...if Targon or my mother harm her...
Mother, we are coming for you.
The battle cry rages through my veins. Winter army, hear me. Hear me now. I call to the troops waiting at the Winter Court. Gather to me, as fast as you are able. The battle is about to commence.
The warriors already with me form a half-circle line with all of us facing toward the castle and the guards. Even Maewen, who is not familiar with battle formation, seems to find a spot naturally between two warriors, a couple of places down the line from me.
Mother is here, I tell them.
Maewen turns her head.
“Which means Tarrien’s dad is also here,” she says.
Everyone gasps, and I blink. “Did I...?”
Did I say that out loud? I mentally ask the team.
I shoot a glance at Tarrien to my left, whose eyebrows are up near his hairline. He shakes his head slowly.
Maewen scowls. “You said it in my head,” she answers, and my heart skips a beat and resumes double-time.
You hear me? That’s... I don’t how to explain it to her. I don’t know how to explain it to myself. Try answering me. With your thoughts.
Okay, she drawls slowly. How’s this?
The words reverberate in my head.
Holy winter gods. My mind skitters around what that means. We can hear each other. We can communicate, with our thoughts.
That is not supposed to happen, not unless...
It is pretty weird, she shoots back. But quite handy.
Oh, it is more than handy. We can communicate in the way of those who have found love with their mate.
Please be careful, little banshee.
She controls her jerk quickly, but I see it.
You might drive me crazy, I add, but I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, my love.
After a moment her voice drifts into my mind. You please be careful, too. We have unfinished business, you and me. And I’m determined to see us both come out of this in one piece, so we can explore that unfinished business and see where it leads us. I want that, very much, Rho.
“Watch out!” Tarrien yells, breaking into the moment.
I instinctively duck sideways as an arrow whizzes past my ear and embeds in the snow behind our hastily formed line.
Then there is no more time to think at all, because Mother’s abomination army pours out of the castle gates and is upon us.
The enemy army streams into the field, parting at the end of the small drawbridge so that some of the abominations head left and others right. Before we can do more than reach for our weapons and tighten our own line, we are outnumbered.
I draw my second sword and ready myself to lunge forward to swipe in both directions at the same time. The rest of our army will be arriving momentarily, I am sure. I open my mouth to give the order to attack, but then tinkling laughter rings out in the cold air and I freeze.
That laugh will haunt me until my death.
Rhiannon.
She appears in the castle entrance, looking just as I remember her, pale-haired and beautiful in a long silver dress. Targon is behind her, remaining a few steps back like a faithful servant. But, even from several meters away, I notice his eyes burn with extreme emotion of some kind. He is not taking his position as her servant well. I wonder if my mother knows how difficult it is to hold a rabid dog on a leash.
If she’s not careful, that particular servant could easily become the master.
My mother waves a hand and smiles, as if we have turned up for a social visit.
“Welcome, Rhodri. How nice to see you again. Oh, and look, Targon. Your son is here, too. We were expecting you, of course, but perhaps not quite this soon.” Her gaze hardens. “Tell your nice friends to put away their swords, or they will feel the brunt of my anger for their lack of respect.”
I’m torn. Part of me wants to leap across the expanse of snow between us, and run my sword right through her evil black heart.
But she’s my mother.
She looks and sounds just exactly as she did when I was young.
The line of abominations closes around us and we have no chance to retreat. The only way is forward, into the castle itself.
Lower your weapons, I message the warriors, but do not let them go.
After a moment of hesitation, they comply.
Be ready. When she demands we move forward into the castle, which she will, we strike then.
Surreptitiously, I twirl my silver filigree ring, sending a message back to the General Council. I need my army. Now. I have no idea if they can hear me from here. For good measure, I send out a call for Lady Renna, too. I know she helped Tarrien find Rhiannon’s castle when Indie was being held, so her magic has already proven powerful enough to reach into the Badlands.
Not all fae are created equal, in the magical power stakes. Banshee—at least, full banshee—are one of the most powerful creatures in the Winter Court. I had never met a half-banshee, until Tarrien introduced me to Indigo, and with Maewen using mage magic to reduce her banshee power to negligible levels, there has not yet been a chance to test out the magical reach of a hybrid.
Ensure they send the whole army, Renna. All of them. Every last one. I pray to the winter gods that Maewen’s mother hears my message and passes it along to the Council.
“Good boy, Rhodri,” Mother says, as my team lowers their swords and daggers all along our line. “Very sensible.”
Her gaze alights on Maewen who has not holstered either of her weapons. Mother’s mouth parts slightly and her gaze turns greedy. The tip of her tongue flicks out to moisten her lips. “You’ve brought me a gift. A banshee gift. How thoughtful, son.”
Maewen hisses between her teeth.
Don’t do anything rash, I plead to her in my mind. I’ve called for army support from the Winter Court, but in the meantime, do not anger her.
Maewen turns her head and looks at me, long and hard. Her voice is silent in my mind. My heart sinks as she swivels back to face Rhiannon.
What the hell is the stubborn woman planning now?
“Technically, I brought him,” Maewen says. “Or my scalp did, anyway. I believe you drained my sister, bitch. Or was that you, Targon? I need to know which one of you to kill first.”
Oh, fuck. What is she doing?
Tarrien’s father steps forward until he is standing beside Rhiannon. Both of them stare at Maewen as if she’s a delicious dinner and they are starving.
Only, Targon’s expression is also murderous, and Mother’s darkness has risen at Maewen’s taunting words. Their hunger is tainted with hatred. I feel it, particularly from her. The darkness in her blood sings to mine. Even though I’m immune from its call—thanks, I guess, to my dad’s lineage diluting hers—I’m not immune from its effect. Not entirely.
The heavy darkness weighs on us. It is eagerly watching for the right moment to strike. I take a small step forward in an attempt to shield Maewen from whatever might be coming.
I cannot allow her to be harmed.
Mother turns her gaze on me, and there it is, fully visible. The oily blackness I remember from childhood, normally lurking deep within but now, it has risen to the fore. She tilts her head, studying me, and flicks her gaze back and forth between Maewen and me.
“Well, well,” she drawls, and one of her eyebrows arches upward in a parody of delighted surprise. “You found your mate, Rhodri. How lovely. Too bad you chose banshee blood, over that of your own bloodline.”
Before I can reply, my army arrives, pouring into the clearing through hundreds of flashing silver portals.
Attack! I give the order and rush toward Mother with a yell that rips out of my lungs.
Shrieks and screams surround me as everyone on the field engages. Clashes of swords, grunts of pain and abomination screeches fill the air. The snow begins to turn red as splashes of blood decorate the previously pristine whiteness.
Mother raises her hands, gathering magic. Targon places a hand on her shoulder, as if providing a boost to whatever she intends to cast.
Maewen lifts both of her guns and shoots. Her net flies true, aiming straight at Rhiannon and Targon, faster even than I can run. Right at the last milli-second, a blast of purple black magic permeates the space around them. The net skitters away and drops to the ground, useless.
I don’t pause to see if Mae’s other weapon found its mark. I continue my momentum toward Rhiannon. Now I have eyes only for my mother.
My target.
She ducks backward as I swipe with the sword, and then again as I parry, holding off my advance with some kind of protective bubble as she retreats back toward the castle entrance.
Targon is no longer beside her. Out of the corner of my eye I see him clutching his shoulder, bleeding.
Maewen must have got him before he could deflect the shot fully. She and Tarrien run at him, and I leave them to it and turn again to Mother. I slash, and she repels it. I bare my teeth at her, feral-sounding growls emerging from my throat. My heart pounds so fast it almost drowns out the sounds of battle raging around me.
Focus. Kill her. Do not let her get away.
She throws dark magic at me, over and over, in tight balls of oozing blackness. I dodge what comes at me from her outstretched fingers. I continue to slash and parry, pushing forward and forcing her to retreat.
I can’t believe I’m in a battle to the death with the woman who birthed me.
Her face is no longer easily recognizable as my mother. Her eyes are mere slits as she concentrates and her mouth is wide and tight as she continues to try and kill me, all the while stumbling back toward the door.
She’s not my mother. Not anymore. Continue the attack. She has to be stopped, at any cost.
I growl again and lunge forward. This time, I manage to cut her left hand with the blade. She screams and pulls both hands in to her chest, cradling the bloody fingers.
I raise the sword and clutch tight at the hilt. The only sure way to stop her, is to remove her head from her shoulders. I release a howl of emotion—so many emotions—and swing the blade, hard. No hesitation. There can’t be.
Do whatever you have to do, and be a leader.
The blade whistles through the air instead of meeting her flesh.
She’s no longer in front of me.
Somehow, Targon reached her first. He is at the door of the castle, still grasping his shoulder, but dragging my mother toward him with a stream of purple-black magic. She disappears through the building entrance in an undignified scrabble of limbs.
But it isn’t that sight that stills me.
It is Maewen, floating above Targon’s head, writhing desperately and trying to escape the strands of purple that wrap almost every inch of her body.
Fae magic. And necromancer magic. Entwined in the one super-strong, evil strand.
“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs and run at him. He’s injured and bleeding. He shouldn’t be that powerful. Not even with the boosting help of necromancer magic.
The castle door slams shut in my face as I reach it, and I batter the wood with my fists, roaring over and over again as I sense the protective enchantments contained in the timber. No one is breaching the castle any time soon.
He and my mother have Maewen. My destined mate. And stuck out here, I am helpless to do anything about saving her.
