Son
I must not faint. I must not faint. I must not faint.
Balekin comes further into the room, and I back away, heart pounding. The memories come on thick and fast—thrown back, skirts up, leaves and dirt, thorns, pounding, tearing—so much that I can't tell past from present, and everything blends into a blur of horror.
Don't faint. Don't faint.
Something rubs against my skin, under my sleeve. The audio equipment. I'm still wearing it. They didn't take it from me.
Somehow, my fingers move. I pull the tab. The wire is now on, and recording.
Balekin speaks.
"How dare you?"
He glowers at me, as though I'm the guilty one. "How dare you hide my own child from me?" he demands. "My heir! A Greenbriar! A daughter of the High Throne of Faerie! How dare you, you miserable little mortal?"
He lunges at me, and I cower back, arms thrown up around my head. He raises a fist, and I'm certain he's going to bring it down, knock me out, kill me.
But he doesn't. His fist trembles, his jaw works, but he lowers his hand, shaking with the force of his rage.
He stares at me another minute, jaw working. Then he reaches into his jacket.
I start back yet again, but he brings out nothing more sinister than a thin golden wand. He holds it out to me. I stare at it.
"Go on, take it," he says impatiently. "It's not going to hurt you. Look." He twiddles the wand in mid-air, and it leaves a squiggle of lines that shine brightly for a moment before going out. "You can write on air with it."
Slowly, I take the wand, careful not to touch his skin. Then, trembling, I write my first question in mid-air.
Where are my children?
He smiles briefly. "Here in my hall. They're quite safe, I assure you, though still unconscious." He shrugs. "I fed them a species of ever-apple that grows only in the high Snoward Mountains. It has the odd effect of knocking faeries out for hours if they partake. But they will wake, and be completely unharmed."
I go limp with relief, letting out my breath in a silent prayer of thanksgiving. They're all right. My kids are all right.
Well, sort of. What happened to Birch and my sisters?
"Knocked out," he shrugs. "We didn't use any lethal weapons. I didn't want to risk any accidents to you or the children."
I stare at him warily. "Children", he said. Why? I demand. It's Philomel you need, not Dogwood. Why take him?
"Ah." He gives me a smile that makes me want to vomit again. "I'll get to that.
"Take a seat." He gestures at one of the bent-wood chairs.
I don't move.
"Lady Taryn," he says, very soft and dangerous, "I strongly recommend, for your son's sake, that you cooperate."
Your son. My blood turns to ice. I think I'm starting to see why Balekin took Dogwood.
Slowly, I go over and sit in one of the chairs. The wires slither under my clothes, but they're still recording. Drinking in every one of Balekin's words.
He doesn't sit in the other chair. Instead, he paces back and forth, back and forth, like an enraged panther in a cage. I stare in horrified fascination, suspended between dread and loathing.
"That iron-bloody brother of mine." Balekin lashes out, and I flinch as the other chair knocks aside. "That ungrateful little whelp," he mutters furiously. "After all I did for him. What does he do? He runs away and helps you hide my own daughter from me. Hides away my heir! He keeps me from the throne that is mine by right! Unbelievable…So ungrateful…"
I stare at him. It's not Dain he's talking about, not his dead brother. It's Cardan. Cardan, who he beat and tortured for years on end. Cardan, who he literally threw out of his house to seek shelter with his enemies. Balekin really, genuinely believes that Cardan betrayed him. That Cardan owed him loyalty, and should have told him of Philomel's existence the moment he learned of it. Just as he genuinely believes I had a duty to tell him of Philomel, had a duty to hand her over.
A swamping sense of despairing disbelief comes over me. Balekin really is that brutal, that selfish, that stupid. So much so that he makes Madoc look like an altruist.
Oh, Oriana. It wasn't your unicorn-spell that caused Balekin to rape me. The spell might have arranged fate so that he noticed me, but the assault, the rape, the curses—that was all Balekin. All his doing, and his alone.
Did you kill Dain? I write, shining in mid-air. It had to have been him or Madoc, after all. No one else had anything to gain from Dain's death.
Balekin pulls himself from his sulky ruminations on Cardan. "That is beside the point, Taryn."
So yes, I guess that means he did kill Dain. Not that I expected otherwise, really.
He looms over me, and I shrink away, skin crawling. I had no idea it was possible to be this repulsed by someone. He makes me want to shuck off my own skin because he looked at it.
"Philomel is my child," he grinds out. "You knew that right from the start. Why did you hide her away?"
I gape at him, too dumbfounded to even think. When I can write, the letters come out shaky and uneven. How can you even ask that? You know what you did!
"Your parents were practically throwing you at me," he sneers. "Why should any of you be surprised? And besides…" He practically preens, smugness washing over him, and something else: a wild elation that frightens me beyond anything else he's done. "That goblin Chieftainess told me. That the unicorn caused you to conceive my child. My child. The unicorn favored me. She wants me to be King. It's obvious. I am favored of the unicorn, one of the great ones of Faerie."
My head spins. Oh, Madoc, you have been busy. What poison did you tell Heartwood to drip into Balekin's ear?
The unicorn didn't favor you, I write at last. She favored me. You raped me!
At last. At last, I've said it to his face, the curse doing nothing to stop me: he raped me. The words hang, golden and poisoned, in the air.
"If I raped you," Balekin says after a long silence, "it was by the will of the unicorn." He gives the gentlest, most terrifying smile I have ever seen. It is the smile of madness, of a self-deception so engrained that any contradiction will simply slide off, disregarded. "She favors me," he says smugly. "The unicorn favors me." He gives me a strange, glowing look. "I knew from the start you were special, Taryn," he says softly. "It must have been the unicorn, guiding my desires. She knew you were destined to bear my heir. And afterward, when she blessed you…she blessed me, too. She brought my child to life. She wants me to be High King."
The room is whirling around me. I try to comprehend this—this—this blasphemous perversity—and I can't. I really can't. It's beyond me.
"But then you ran away." His mouth twists. "You ran away and hid my heir. Just like your mother. Mortals are all cowardly and selfish, it seems, even those blessed by the unicorn. But no matter. I will put things right. And you will help me."
Dread plummets even deeper in my stomach. What do you mean?
He gives me that awful smile again. "You're going to marry me."
For a moment, I cannot see. Nor can I hear. Or feel. Or think. All I can do is sit, gaping, mind even blanker and farther away than when I lay beneath his brutal thrusts in the garden.
Then I'm on my feet, in the farthest corner of the room, wand fizzing golden light in my hand as I shake my head, over and over, silently screaming a single word:
No! No! No!
He comes at me, but I duck and run away, to the other side of the room. I will run and dodge forever if need be. He's not going to touch me. He's never going to touch me again. And I will not do this thing!
"Taryn," he growls, "stop this. Now."
My mind whirls, thoughts skittering like dry leaves. I try to collect them, try to think logically. Because there is a brutal logic to this. Balekin might not be that intelligent, but there is a kind of crude cunning to the creature. He has a plan, and it makes sense.
Marrying me lends legitimacy to his daughter, strengthens her claim as heir, which in turn strengthens Balekin's claim. And who is going to bring up the issue of my rape if we're married? Well, my family will, but then Balekin will say, with perfect honesty, that he married me. And what faerie will come between two people who have made such oaths to one another? And marrying a Unicorn-Blessed will reinforce Balekin's claim to be favored by the unicorn.
How can Eldred possibly refuse Balekin the throne, when he's married to a Unicorn-Blessed, the mother of his daughter, a healthy, living heir? How can Eldred possibly convict him of rape?
But it doesn't matter. Because there is no way, in any world, that I am going to do this.
You can't make me! The words come out nearly illegible. But they're true: he can't make me do this. If he enchants or drugs me into compliance, even if I say the words, they won't count—because it won't be me who said them, of my own free will. It won't be a true contract, and we won't be married according to the magic or the laws of Faerie.
I have to speak my vows of my own free will. And I never, ever will.
His eyes narrow. "And if I were to say that if you married me, I'd remove your curse of silence? You'd be able to speak again, like anyone else. Wouldn't you like that?"
I swallow. My palms sweat. I would like that. The thought of being able to speak again is a yearning, burning temptation.
That's how I know it's false. Balekin, of all faeries, would never, ever give me what I want—not in a way that benefits me. Oh, he'd give me my voice back eventually: maybe when I'm on my deathbed. Or he'd give my voice back and then take it away again immediately. It's the sort of petty, pointless malice that faeries like Balekin excel at.
And besides: my voice is nowhere near a good enough trade for what he wants.
What about the other curse? The words tremble in mid-air.
There's a quick flash of satisfaction in his face. He thinks I'm bargaining—that he's won me over. "No," he says. "That stays. I'm not having you blurt out that I raped you. That would be…embarrassing. But your voice…Marry me, and I'll let you speak again. I swear it."
I close my eyes against the knife-edged temptation. You'll kill me. You'll marry me and then you'll kill me, and Dogwood, and my family.
"No I won't," he says quickly. "I swear it. Marry me, and when I'm King, you will be Queen. You can live the full, natural length of your mortal life as High Queen of Faerie." He lowers his voice seductively. "Think of that. Queen Taryn of Faerie."
I fight not to roll my eyes. For a moment, I feel an overwhelming sympathy for Cardan. Why does everyone assume that he and I both want some stupid title? And why doesn't anyone believe us when we say we don't? And Dogwood and my family?
"I won't kill them either," Balekin says. "Your son can live here. Your family will have to be banished, but unless they plot against me, I'll let them live." He smiles, slow and horrible. "All you have to do is marry me."
All I have to do.
Slowly, I shake my head. That's not enough. The writing burns in the dimness. Even if you were to remove both curses, even if you make me Queen and give me all the power that goes with it, it still wouldn't be enough. I won't marry you, now or ever.
"And what will you do instead?" he demands, soft and silky. "Put Philomel on the throne, with your treacherous father as Regent?" His fist clenches. "The goblin told me of that, too. The iron-bloody traitor wants my crown! Well, he can't have it. You're going to marry me, and then you're going to lie for me." That smile, again. "Tell everyone you lay with me willingly, gladly. Who will doubt your word when we're married?"
Oh, of course. He can't lie, but I can. And so Balekin will lie to the world. Through me.
I shake my head. I have never been more certain of anything, more icily determined. I won't do it. I won't marry you and I won't lie for you. You cannot force me.
His mouth thins, and I take an involuntary step back. He looks like a wild animal, waiting to spring—worse, for he lacks an animal's innocence. "Oh, can't I?"
He snaps his fingers. Slowly, silently, the door opens. A long, still shape, floating in mid-air, drifts silently in. The door closes after.
It's Dogwood. Lying in mid-air, eyes closed, completely unconscious. Dogwood, my son.
For a moment, I can't breathe. When I can move, I dash forward, reaching for him, but Balekin stops me, one arm held to block my path. "None of that now," he says silkily. "I swear to you that your son is completely unharmed—for the moment. Whether he remains that way, however, depends very much on your immediate actions."
I stare at him. The floor crumbles beneath my feet. No. No. He can't mean this. Not Dogwood. Not my little boy.
But of course he does mean it. What is Dogwood to Balekin? It's Philomel he needs. To Balekin, my son is nothing. Except a useful tool.
"You love that boy like your own, don't you?" Balekin continues in that soft, soft tone. "I trust you understand the choice before you."
Oh, I do indeed. Marry my rapist, or watch my son be killed.
I turn my eyes to Dogwood. My little boy, asleep and helpless. Thistleweft's son. Birch's son. Memories pour through my mind in a torrent: the first time I ever saw him, as a sickly baby. How he cooed and kicked when I healed him, eyes bright with surprise and pleasure. His first word, his first steps. How he climbed all over the cottage, so I had to put a leash on him. His face when I had to tell him of his mother's death. Dogwood playing with Philomel and the village children. Dogwood throwing the spell back at the Ly Erg. A thousand, thousand precious moments that make up the life of this most precious boy.
Balekin's right. I love Dogwood like my own. He is my own. And I really will do anything to keep him safe.
Slowly, I turn to Balekin.
And I nod.
He smirks. "I knew you'd see reason." He holds out his hands to me, imperious and expectant.
I stare at his hands, his thorny awful hands. Then, slowly, I raise my own. They feel as heavy as anvils.
He takes my hands, wraps spiky fingers around them. My rapist is touching me, skin on skin. The thorns gleam. The feel of his flesh is worse than rotting meat.
"I, Balekin Greenbriar, take you, Taryn Duarte, as my wife, from now until death may part us," he says, slowly and clearly. "I swear it, by the stars, by the waters, and by the Great Trees that uphold Faerie. You shall be my wife, and I your husband." He pauses. "If you, Taryn Duarte, take me, Balekin Greenbriar, to be your husband, by the stars, by the waters, and by the Great Trees of Faerie, from now until death may part us, give a nod, and I shall hold that as your vow."
This is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything about this is wrong beyond wrongness. Vile. Repulsive.
But I nod. I look into Balekin's eyes, and I nod.
Then I can't control the reflex anymore. I bend over and vomit all over the floor.
Balekin lets go and leaps back just in time. His face is twisted with surprise and disgust. Shaking, I wipe vomit from my lips and straighten to give him a snarling smile. Oh, sorry, husband, was that too real for you? Too messy? I spit out the last of the bile at his feet.
He's shaking with rage. "If you ever do that again," he hisses, "I'll have you whipped."
I sneer, lip curling. I've just performed the most degrading and repulsive act of my life. None of his threats can frighten me now.
His mouth tightens. My sneer grows more pronounced. Take that, you shit. If this is what the first few seconds of our so-called marriage are like, Balekin, just imagine how the coming decades will be.
I spit again before I turn to go over toward Dogwood, but Balekin throws me back, a wave of deflecting magic. I stagger, nearly slipping in my own vomit, and he gives a hard, cruel laugh. "I'd better get the boy back to his room," he says cheerfully. "Our daughter should be waking soon, and I want to be there to greet her."
My defiance evaporates under chill horror. I leap forward again, and he pushes me back, laughing harder than ever. I crash back into the chair, head spinning. He snaps his fingers once more, and the door opens silently. Out he goes, without a single glance behind, towing my son's unconscious body with him. I throw myself after them, but the door slams shut, and I hurl myself over and over, banging at the door, pounding against it, again and again, screaming silently and uselessly, until blood stains the wood and I slide down to the floor, all my strength gone.
What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?
My eyes burn and blur, and I make no attempt to staunch the flow of tears, overflowing and then spilling onto the vomit-stained floor.
I barely have the presence of mind to turn the wire off.