Page 103 of Atop the Faerie Throne
Fortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on it. Lore blinks back to me with a grin on his blood-splattered face.
“Pet, his eyeballs aren’t impenetrable!”
That’s about as much warning as I get before the once-strong king is shoved from his own palace. His left eye is skewered with the tiniest, most delicate blade I’ve ever seen. Eero’s dressed in vivid gold and green robes, his shirt loose and rumpled like he’s been yanked from the middle of either a workout or some tryst.
Drystan and Caed have each taken one of his arms, and the flames around me part to admit the three of them before they kick out the backs of his knees, leaving him kneeling just beyond my reach.
I dismiss Maeve and Titania with a small grateful look, and Lore takes their place by my side as he bounces on his heels with excitement.
“I left you an eyeball,” he says, offering me a matching blade. “After you charm him, you can carve it out, if you want.”
I curl his fingers back around the knife. “Prae’s invention will hurt more.”
Lore shrugs, pulling the sphere from his pocket and tossing it up in the air over and over again.
“You dare invade my court,” Eero spits. “Tell me, when will you give the Blade Prince my crown? Before or after you finish polluting Faerie with?—”
I meet his remaining eye and forgo any effort to hold back my rage as I say, “Please shut up and look at me.”
Charm whips from me like a physical blow, and the entire crowd goes deathly quiet.
“Please only speak if it’s to answer my questions truthfully and do so loud enough for your subjects to hear,” I continue, raising my own voice so it carries as I step forward, rage unfurling in my gut.
“Did you knowingly assist former Grand Cleric Mervyn in spreading rumours about my court?”
Eero gives a valiant attempt to look indignant, but the effect is rather muted by his position. “Of course I did.”
That’s not enough, so I push my magic a little further to loosen his tongue. “Please, tell us all why.”
“No Fomorian should ever have a place among us,” he begins proudly, but the magic is still working, ripping the rest of the truth from his mouth. “And under fae don’t belong in the court of a Nicnevin, let alone at the head of the Temple. Danu has never permitted it, for good reason. They’re incapable of comprehending the complex responsibilities that come with such a position.”
The muttering rises again, and I let the gathered fae gossip. They should know what their king really thought of them. It takes a moment or two for the hubbub to die down, and when it does, I launch straight into my second question.
“Did you use iron to trap my Guard with the intent to murder me, your Nicnevin?”
“Yes,” he hisses.
“Where did you get the iron?”
His complexion is darkening, the blood vessels in his good eye popping with strain.
“It was supplied by King Elatha and installed by his people.”
Someone in the distance shouts, “Traitor!”
“And did you conspire to help the Fomorians in exchange for sovereignty over these lands once his invasion was complete?”
He’s seething with rage. Every single muscle in his body is tensed against my pull, but try as he might, Eero can’t stop his words from spilling forth.
“Yes. I did.”
Gasps sound. The word ‘treason’ echoes from dozens of lips.
“Did you order Torrance Lyarthorn to assassinate me with nathair venom in the Autumn Court?”
His body sags, knowing that the battle is lost, yet he can’t look away. “Yes.”
I don’t wait for the fae to be quiet this time. My heart clenches in my chest, but this final question needs to be asked. “And did you murder Prince Bramwell, youngest son of the Fourth Nicnevin?”
