Wasteland King Read Free Page B

that their skin was unmarked, Summer quivered with fear and fever.
    Inside the Home’s high-vaulted halls, brughnies scurried back and forth in the kitchens, but no dryads flocked to carry hair ribbons and little chantment spangles for their betters. The highborn fullbloods, most vulnerable to the plague, kept an unwonted distance from each other, and some had slipped away to other estates and winter homes, no doubt on urgent business.
    On a low bench on a high dais, among the repaired columns of Summer’s throne room,
she
sat, slim and straight and lovely still, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Her mantle was deep green, her shoulders peeking glow-nacreous through artful rends in rich fabric. The Jewel on Summer’s forehead glowed, a low dull-emerald glare. It was not the hurtful radiance of her former glory, but her golden hair was still long and lustrous, and her smile was still as soft and wicked as she viewed the knights arrayed among the forest of fluted stone.
    Broghan the Black, called Trollsbane, the glass badge of Armormaster upon his chest, stood on the third step of the dais. He did not glance at the knight who knelt on the second, a dark-haired lord in full armor chased with glowing sungold. Dwarven work, and very fine; Broghan’s own unrelieved black was all the more restrained in comparison.
    Or so he wished to think.
    The golden knight with the
brun
mane, Summer’s current favorite, stared at her slippered feet, waiting for a word. Once, he had worn small golden flowers in his hair, when his lady had been one of the Queen’s handmaidens.
    No more.
    Summer did not let him wait long. “Braghn Moran.” Soft, so dulcet-sweet, the most winning of her voices. The air filled with appleblossom scent, white petals showering from above as layers of chantment, applied at festival after festival, woke in response to her will. “A fair lord, and a fell one.”
    â€œYour Majesty does me much honor,” he murmured in reply. No ripple stirred among the serried ranks, though no doubt a few of them grudged him said honor. They had already forgotten a wheat-haired mortal boy’s brief tenure as the apple of Summer’s black, black eye, and Braghn Moran’s sighs and hollow cheeks during it.
    The wiser knew it was only a matter of time before any favor she bestowed upon him was lost in due course.
Fickle as Summer
, some said—though never very loudly. Braghn Moran’s golden-haired lover had left Court not long ago, when Summer’s gaze had snared the one who wore her flowers.
    The sidhe did not share. But when Summer took, what could another elf-maid do? The Feathersalt was of an old and pure name, and her absence was perhaps not
quite
with Summer’s leave… but that was a matter for later.
    â€œSomething troubles me, Braghn.”
    The knight could have observed that there were many troublesome things afoot among the sidhe lately, but he did not—perhaps a mark of wisdom in itself. He simply examined the toe of Summer’s green velvet slipper, peeking out from under the heavy folds of her mantle. If he compared it to another lady’s, none could tell.
    Summer pressed onward. “I seek a certain troublesome sprite, and I would have you find him for me.”
    â€œWho could not come, when you call?” Broghan the Black commented.
    Summer did not spare him so much as a glance. “I believe Puck Goodfellow is leading a certain former Armormaster down many a path.”
    A rustle now
did
pass through the ranks of Seelie knights.
    Gallow
. The Half who had committed the unforgivable, who had killed a peaceful envoy, then insulted Summer and all of Seelie to boot.
    â€œYou wish me to kill Gallow?” Braghn Moran did not sound as if he considered it much of a challenge.
    Summer’s faint smile widened a trifle. “No, my dear Braghn. Puck Goodfellow has mislaid his head; it belongs upon my mantelpiece where I may gaze upon it. I