Page 12 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

Rodney was silent for a moment, thinking. Weighing his words before he spoke, then delivering each clearly and cautiously after a quick glance around to make sure the two were well and truly alone in their corner. “The king is a monster, Aisling. He’s a cruel and wicked thing; he revels in suffering and takes pleasure in others’ pain. And his appetite for power…” He shook his head, almost shuddering. “It’s insatiable. You need to use him before he can use you. If you can manage to hold his attention, then you’ll have a measure of control over him.”

“Control?” She spat the word, still incensed, getting closer by the minute to reaching over her shoulder for a heavy book to throw at Rodney’s head. “How am I meant to control a creature like that?”

“His desires are predictable. He’s indulgent; he resists very few temptations. Ifyoucan be that temptation, if you can play into his weakness, then we can influence him.” He raised a hand to stop Aisling from interrupting him and added, “At least for long enough to find the information we need.”

Though hearing him include himself so naturally in the plan—referring to them as a collective rather than putting it on Aisling alone—eased her anger slightly, she still wasn’t convinced. “And while I’m sleeping with the enemy, what will you be doing?”

“Working my connections,” he said confidently. “I’m trying to hunt down an old acquaintance there that might be able to help. Lyre. He knows a lot—a lot of things, a lot of other Fae. And he owes me a favor.”

A family spilled loudly into the library then, and Briar went to greet them. Aisling pulled herself to her feet with the shelf and Rodney did the same. She tried her best to plaster a grin on her face as she made her way back to the desk and reminded them to check the community board for upcoming reading events. When they’d disappeared back into the children’s section, she turned again to Rodney.

“I’m still not agreeing to this,” she warned.

He grinned, well aware that he had very nearly won her over. “Well, you have a few weeks to come up with a better plan.”

“Do you feel prepared?”

Kael looked past the old hob in the mirror to meet Werryn’s eyes, ignoring the feeling of her thorn-like fingernails scratching his scalp as she wove small strands of his silver hair into tight braids. Already dressed for the night in his ritual robes, long and black and exceedingly plain, the High Prelate’s gaunt face was drawn as he watched from the doorway.

“Yes.” After yet another unnecessarily sharp tug, Kael shooed Methild away and she scuttled out of the room quickly. He unwound the braid she’d only halfway finished.

“You say that every time,” Werryn scolded the king. He was the only one that could do so without repercussion, and he took advantage of thatoften.

Kael worked another braid loose; the ceremonial style was too formal for his taste. He preferred to see such ornate plaits on his female courtiers, not in his own hair. “Then stop asking.”

“I needn’t remind you that the last three rites have ended in disaster,” Werryn insisted, “and that this is one of our most important of the year.”

“No, you needn’t. I am well aware.” Losing patience, Kael’s voice came out tight and cold.

“You’re backsliding. We’ll bring in a tether tonight, but the longer you rely on this crutch the weaker your—”

“Enough!” Kael cut Werryn off and brought his fist down hard on the dresser in front of him. The mirror rattled against the wall. “Leave. Now.”

Werryn didn’t flinch, but instead held Kael’s reflected gaze for a moment. He knew when to push and when to retreat, and he had pushed far enough for now. He’d served the king since even before he had the throne; had been a party to his outbursts time and again for centuries. Kael’s temper burned hot as a flame that could flare at the slightest provocation. His cruelty, like smoke, was never far behind. With a resigned sigh, the High Prelate bowed his head in deference and turned to leave the room, his long robes swishing softly against the stone floor.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Werryn said as he disappeared down the hall.

Kael watched the male’s retreating figure, his jaw clenched tightly. The last thing he needed tonight was to be reminded of his own vulnerability, the constant struggle to control the magic that churnedand roiled within him every waking moment. His service was to his dark god, and to his court. Not to the male who called himself High Prelate. Werryn’s opinions mattered very little.

Alone now in his candlelit chamber, Kael ran his fingers through his long hair, unraveling the last of the braids that had been painstakingly woven. He avoided his reflection in the mirror and rose to dress. Methild had laid his ritual robe across the foot of his bed. Similarly simple to Werryn’s, but newer. His old set had become too threadbare to keep. It was a pity; after nearly a century of use, he’d finally worn them soft. The new robe was stiff and rough against his skin when he rubbed the hem between his fingers. He’d wear it to The Cut, but he couldn’t stand to have it touching him during the ritual. It would be just fine to kneel on.

Despite the heavy weight on his shoulders, Nocturne had long been Kael’s favorite celebration. The Low One always seemed closer to him than ever this night—almostinhim—and to serve as his vessel was the highest honor one could hold. It was what made him king. The revelry that would follow didn’t hurt, either. A smirk played on Kael’s lips when he considered it: the indulgences he’d witness, the gluttony and excess of the bacchanal that would surround him and stretch into the small hours of the morning.

But he had to get through the ritual first.

Drawing in a deep breath, Kael closed his eyes and tried to steady his racing thoughts. He needed to find his center and tap into the wellspring of magic that resided there. It was a dance between control and surrender, a delicate art of wielding his power without succumbing to its dark allure. It was his fierceness that gave himhis edge, but by the same token hindered him each time from maintaining proper control over himself, particularly on charged nights such as this. The very power he so craved was sometimes too much for him, its vessel, to bear.

He couldn’t afford to falter again, not while his court was so deeply entrenched in its war with no end yet in sight. The Seelie Court was proving thus far to be a more formidable rival than even his most battle-hardened advisors had foreseen. Not only was it important to pay homage and receive the Low One’s benedictions, but this show of power was sorely needed to build back his subjects’ waning confidence.

As he prepared to leave the solitude of his chamber, now draped in the uncomfortable robe, Kael could already feel the magic building in his chest. The sensation bordered on uncomfortable; it wanted out. He took another breath, shallower this time. With a determined glint in his eyes, Kael straightened his spine. The time for hesitation had passed.

His walk to The Cut was a contemplative one, and he was glad that he’d sent Werryn on ahead so he could make it alone. The male was prone to lectures, warranted or not, and Kael’s mood wouldn’t allow for it tonight. Quiet as a whisper, he wound his way through the dimly-lit passages to the tall, winding staircase that spiraled up to the surface. Each of the stone steps was worn in the middle from centuries upon centuries of footfalls ascending and descending.

The Undercastle, nearly as old as the earth it was carved into, was as much a natural structure as it was hand-hewn. Most of it was underground: cut deep into the earth, its corridors wound their waythrough the bedrock, intertwining with the bones of the land. Its vast halls were formed of ancient caverns that had existed long before the Unseelie Court claimed them as their own. In some, vaulted ceilings dripped with glittering stalactites, sharp and wickedly beautiful. In others, the ceilings soared so high that they vanished into darkness.

The king was confident that tonight’s ritual would be smooth. He let his hand drift over the railing as he climbed. He’d counted the steps once when he was young; he seemed to remember there being close to a hundred, maybe more.

Outside, the night was crisp and cool and the breeze played softly through the pines. The Cut wasn’t far beyond the tree line, a clearing in the thick forest where nothing had ever grown. The trees that encircled it, though, thrived off the inhospitable soil. Their roots stretched and snaked and for the uninitiated, made the walk to the center a treacherous one. Kael knew it by heart, every bump and divot. He could navigate the whole area with his eyes closed.

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