INTRO/PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
MORTALS – The Kingdom of Bargth
“The child is still not breathing...”
“She will wake.” Queen Wairn’s voice rumbled like thunder through the wide hall. “I will not hear another foolish thought from you.”
The midwife shrank back against the stone wall, silenced. The queen paced the cold floor in circles, her unbound hair spilling dark across her shoulders. In her arms she cradled the tiny bundle wrapped in soft wool. A baby, silent and still.
“This child will not die,” the queen said, more to herself than to her servants hovering nearby. “I will not be remembered as a queen who could not bear living children.”
There was nothing she had not endured to conceive. She had tried every herb, every prayer, every ritual the older women knew. And now, after all of it, the child lay lifeless against her breast, the same breast that had ached for nine long months.
“You will not be seen as less for it, my queen,” the midwife ventured softly. “Everyone knows how rare it has become to conceive a breathing child in—”
“Silence.” The word came low, possibly tender, because the queen feared even the smallest sound might disturb the little thing in her arms.
The child was gone but she refused to accept it. At least not yet.
Outside, rain lashed the palace walls in bitter sheets. The king had ridden into the mountains earlier, swearing he would return with a way to bring their baby back. He had not yet come.
Then came the wet clatter of hooves on the muddy grounds as the horses ran in.
Hope lurched into the queen’s heart, and without another word, she ran.
“My Queen, you are not healed. You must wait!” the midwife cried after her.
But Queen Wairn did not slow. She ran down the steps, pain tearing through her belly, every step down the winding stair a reminder of what she had brought into the world.
Moving faster, she clutched the child closer. She burst into the great throne room, one hand flinging the silver doors wide, the other cradling the small, still form.
She stopped short when she saw King Cornelius kneeling on the flagstones, head bowed so low it nearly touched the ground.
The sight of it sent ice through her veins. Never in all their years had she seen him kneel. Not to her father, not to the high priests, not even in the old temple when they wed.
Lifting her gaze to the throne, a figure sat there, small legs crossed, hands resting lightly on the bronze carved arms.
The torchlight did not touch his face so the shadows in the hall hid the features, yet the posture spoke of absolute command.
Swallowing hard, the queen hurried forward and dropped to her knees beside her husband, careful not to jar the child.
She did not need to look closely to know what her king had done.
He had gone to the Fae.
Only a Fae lord could promise life where none remained. Only a Fae lord could give her the one thing she had ever truly wanted. Only a Fae lord could save her child.
She glanced at her husband. His fists were clenched against the stone, knuckles white with fury from the humiliation of kneeling.
“Raise your heads,” came a childlike voice.
The queen’s breath seized. Slowly she peeped at him through her lashes.
A little boy, no more than seven years, sat upon the throne. He had pale skin, long silver hair falling past his narrow shoulders. He regarded them both with mild disinterest.
“I would offer condolences for your dead child,” the boy said, “if I possessed the capacity to care for such fragile lives.”
The queen swallowed the sharp retort that rose in her throat. Where was his guardian? His mother? The questions rose, but she held them back. Was he a lord? A Fae Lord?
The boy stood. His steps were calculated, regal, as though he had been trained in the court of kings from a young age.
When he reached them, he lifted a small hand and took the Queen’s chin between his fingers, forcing her face upward.
Her eyes dropped and she focused on the bundle in her arms instead.
“Look at me,” he said.
She could not. To meet the eyes of a Fae was to invite trouble inside of you.
He gave a low, delighted chuckle. The sound wrapped around her heart like a warm blanket. For one foolish heartbeat she wished this boy were her son.
A boy would have been a fine thing. But this daughter would do, if only she would breathe.
“We will begin the bargain,” the boy said darkly. He released her chin and turned away, gazing at the shadowed tapestries on the far wall. “You are aware, I trust, what happens should you break your end.”
“My lord,” the king spoke at last, voice rough with strain, “I have already sworn it. We will do anything you ask if you will only save our child.”
The boy glanced back over his shoulder, lips curling in faint scorn. “I was speaking to your wife, not to you.” His long hair shifted with the movement, catching the torchlight. “You understand the risks. She does not, I can smell it.”
Queen Wairn bowed her head lower. “I understand, my lord.”
She did not. Not fully. But understanding was useless when the only thing that mattered lay cold and silent in her arms. All she saw was a bright future: a child racing through the gardens, and palace consorts forced to respect her as the only one who could bear a child for the king.
“Very well.” The boy’s voice carried a chill that raised gooseflesh along her arms. So small a creature, yet power rolled from him in currents. “Let us begin.”
