They think I want to be king. They, the faceless masses of
the Unseelie court. They plot and connive and fear for the day
I sweep in and take the consort’s throne for my own. They
don’t understand, though. Who would want to be a king when
you used to be a god? What worth is the dominion over mere sidhe,
fey, when you used to have the worship of the masses at your fingertips?
I could command the seas to my bidding, wrap the very lifeblood
of the world around my whim. What is the command over petty, restless
immortals compared to that?
No,
I don’t want to be king.
For
I wouldn’t be king on my own merit, merely the sidhe that
supplied the desperately wanted seed for Meredith’s salvation.
I would be relegated to a secondary position, once again, stripped
of what little dignity I have left. I am no longer Manannan mac
Lir, but the shadow of him remains, haunting me for the rest of
my eternity, struggling to understand his diminished place in
the world.
This
doesn’t mean I don’t support the princess, I do, but
I wouldn’t become a contender for her consort if I could
help it. She doesn’t need me, not like that. I will do whatever
she needs to survive in the Unseelie court, honor my friendship
with her father, my friendship with her, but not that, not now.
The queen would force me if she knew the ring liked me as well,
not just the men she has at her call in LA. But that is our secret,
Merry’s and mine. Our reasons for keeping that secret aren’t
the same, of course, but reasons none the less. So I respect that
and try to make her world a little friendlier when she returns.
I know she worries for my life, as well she should, but I will
survive. I always do. One does not last thousands of years without
learning a trick or two, with or without magic.
I
may not be able to summon a fog or a mystical army to protect
my lands but I can still protect what needs to be protected. She
is precious, a vessel for all our hope, but she is still vulnerable.
Too many wish her ill, both Cel’s supporters and other sidhe.
She has the strength of the goblin army at her back, but only
temporarily. King Kurag will drive entirely too hard a bargain
to keep their support, one I am not sure Meredith should accept.
Queen Niceven’s demi-fey spy for my princess, but the same
information goes to Queen Andais, as well as my queen’s
ability to pluck words and phrases from the very night air. Andais
has set this all in motion, but there is no guarantee she won’t
strike against Meredith should her ever-changing moods dictate
that Andais seek Meredith’s blood. So I sit and I plot and
I evade the assassination attempts all with an eye for the future
and an ear to the whispers.
Barinthus
Queenmaker they call me, the one behind the throne. I negotiate
court politics day after day, maneuver the strings of intrigue
so that Meredith has a chance of success. She could be the savior
of us all, but if she was to become pregnant and the time was
not right, or the path not set, then all would come to naught.
It
is not only the court I hear, the soft hiss of conspiracy: the
waters whisper to me as they have done since the beginning of
my time. The gentle babble of a brook, the roar of the surf, the
soft still sigh of a lake. Within the voice of the water that
murmurs in the back of my mind are the words of careless beings,
spoken too close to fluid surfaces. Language over choppy ocean
waves is too distorted for much information to come my way, not
of any real use, but what is said in the still places…yes,
what is said there reverberates through the strains of magic still
binding me to this world and I listen.
There
is new magic awake in this world, borne by a strange fey princess,
a creature from another land. She speaks of fantastical things,
twisting her life story to Meredith and her guards, and still
I listen, words washed in minute waves from the reflecting dish
in the sitting room of Merry’s new abode. Fantastical, true,
but a new breath of hope we all need. The proof that the Lord
and Lady have not abandoned us all to a withering fate; that they
look over us as children gone astray. They removed their gifts
from us long ago, even before we diminished ourselves. But they
no longer wish us ill, and that gives these old bones hope.
Meredith
isn’t as alone as I feared, for now a new companion has
shown up on her door. Even though my gifts have waned, some remain
to me. Other fey forget this, choosing to see the shadow I have
become rather than the glory I was, and so they turn a deaf ear.
But some know, some like the Darkness, so I do not believe that
I come by this information in error.
She
is intriguing, this Princess Cordelia. A study in contrast, wit
and gravity, a young woman who can both fight and laugh. She finds
amusement in Merry’s situation, a breath of fresh air to
be sure, and I believe that the two shall be good for each other.
Though under Cordelia’s light banter, there is a wound,
something taken from her never to be regained. I hope, for her
sake, that she finds a measure of peace her amongst us, the unlooked
for brethren.
Merry
needs someone to keep her in touch with the reality outside of
the courts, now that her job is suspended. Maeve Reed, the Seelie
sidhe whose home they have as sanctuary, is too much like her
former self, a fertility deity, the embodiment of springtime regeneration:
a woman used to adoration, for Meredith to find a kindred soul.
Maeve has lost herself, and that makes her dangerous, whether
she wounds from fear or insecurity.
But
that is of no matter. The court spins its webs regardless of the
flow out the human world. All too soon Cel will be released from
his prison, and Meredith will face more dangerous enemies than
a sidhe in mourning for a lost love. Meredith is not yet with
child, and our time grows short. Whether Cordelia’s presence
tips the balance remains to be seen, but with the Lord and Lady’s
intervention, Meredith cannot help but survive.