Page 59 of Better in Black
Kieran bristled—of course he was sure. He couldn’t help butnotice that advice from General Winter and Adaon annoyed him, but advice from Mark and Cristina did not. Perhaps because they were outsiders to the situation, more objective? Or perhaps because he was in love with them both and therefore, much less objective?
Adaon made a bow. “I will go and bring all three to the throne room,” he said, and swept out of the room. General Winter was shaking his head.
Kieran bent down and whispered into Mark’s ear. “You look as if you have a plan,” he said. “Have you been thinking outside the box?”
“Let’s put a pin in that,” Mark said, and winked. “I’ll tell you later.”
—
Of all the rooms in the Unseelie Tower, Kieran had probably changed the throne room the most. His father’s decor had leaned toward a spareness more appropriate for a crypt, a cold and windowless space of gray stone, the throne hewn from a massive boulder. Kieran had put in windows where there had once been a portal to hell, had replaced the ugly granite throne with a simple wooden one, and had put in padded benches so that his courtiers could sit if they wanted to. (General Winter had complained bitterly that people should not sit in the presence of the King, but Kieran had ignored him.)
Seated on the throne now, the Spear of Storms across his lap, Kieran noticed that the enchanted weapon seemed to almost pulse in time with the storm outside the windows.
The clouds and rain etched across the blade seemed to surge back and forth, and the spear brightened every time lightning struck the sky.
Cristina, who stood on Kieran’s left side, looked uneasy as shegazed at the roiling black clouds visible through the glass, and Mark—on Kieran’s right—had a dark, thoughtful look on his face, as if he were remembering the Wild Hunt. Kieran could not blame him; he recalled the same.
General Winter was pacing up and down the room; he stopped and turned as Adaon came into the throne room, followed by Lady Brissole, Master Geraint, and Master Finian. They all bowed before the throne, then spread out in a crescent shape, as though eager to be apart from each other. They looked expectantly at Kieran.
Lady Brissole was unable to hide her start of excitement. “You have our father’s spear,” she said, gesturing at the weapon Kieran held. “That means you must be ready to bestow it upon your chosen candidate.”
Kieran nodded slowly. “Yes, I have made my decision.” He looked at Geraint—sulky but hopeful—and at Brissole, eyes bright with anticipation. And then, lastly, at Finian.
“The decision may surprise you. It may not please you. But it is my decision to make.” With a swift movement, he raised the spear—then brought it down, snapping it in half across his knee. “Sir Tarlegan shall be our last Knight of All Storms, may his memory be eternal.”
Everyone gasped, including Mark and Cristina. Lady Brissole had gone white as a sheet. Only Finian seemed unbothered, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.
“But the storms,” Geraint sputtered. “They will rage, they will destroy the land!”
“This is impossible,” protested Brissole. “No king has been without a Knight of Storms for over a thousand years. The land will drown in the face of such neglect.”
“Be quiet,” said Kieran. He spoke calmly but firmly. “I do notowe you my reasoning, but I will tell it to you. If I chose Geraint, I would have strength with no temperance. Were I to choose Lady Brissole, I would have cunning and wisdom, but no warlike temperament. Sometimes one approach is warranted, and sometimes the other.”
Kieran turned to Geraint and held out the half of the spear that contained its sharp point. “Therefore, Master Geraint, I dub thee Champion of Storms. It is your strength we will rely on when the wild magic sends the tempests to destroy us. And Lady Brissole”—he handed her the other half—“you will be Counsellor of Storms. It is your wisdom we will rely upon when we must remember that storms are not wicked in and of themselves, but only when they are controlled by wicked hands.”
Geraint and Brissole exchanged a dubious look.
“If you cannot share power, then neither of you is worthy of the roles being offered,” Kieran said. “But I have faith you will make the right choice.”
It was Brissole, the wiser of the heirs, who was the first to step forward and accept her half of the spear. “I will serve you well, my King.”
A moment later Geraint did the same. Immediately, the storm outside quieted, the rain slowing to an ordinary downpour, the wind no longer shaking the window glass in its panes.
Still, the room was silent, until at last, Finian applauded. “You have made a wise decision, my King,” he announced. “And now to the wine cellars. It is almost noon and I have a mighty thirst. We will drink a toast to the new Champion and Counsellor of Storms!”
Mark put his hand to the glittering sword at his waist. “Not so fast,” he said, “Finian.”
Kieran smiled a little at Mark’s decidedly un-Faerie language.“None of you can leave the room,” he said to the heirs. “Not until I release you, all three of you. Our business is not yet done.”
There was a rustle of confusion among the heirs. Brissole and Geraint exchanged a puzzled look.
“Do I truly need to remain?” Finian said, a bit pettishly. “As far as I understand it, I am being given no responsibility, which is as it should be.”
“Indeed, you must remain, Master Finian,” said Kiernan. “Come forward toward the throne and turn out your pockets. I would like to see what is in them.”
Finian looked genuinely stunned. His eyes narrowed. “I am the son of the Knight of All Storms,” he hissed. “I turn out my pockets for no one!”
Kieran looked down at him. Not for the first time, he sensed the immense height of the throne: not its physical size, but the great distance from which he spoke to those who stood before him, a distance impassable by empathy or compromise. “You do,” he said, “for your King.”
