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“A coronation?” Mark asked. “But you are already King.”
“That is precisely my point,” Kieran complained, stripping out of his shirt and tossing it carelessly over a chair. He seemed about ready to throw his hands up, if Kieran ever did such human things. “I find it absolutely absurd, but Winter advised it.”
“You really could just say no,” Mark pointed out, as Kieran flung himself into bed between him and Cristina, hands over his face. “You are the King.”
“Winter advised it very strongly,” said Kieran in a muffled, put-upon voice.
Cristina smiled. She turned onto her side to face him, propping herself up on one elbow. “So you’re sulking about it,” she said fondly, reaching for Kieran and stroking the side of his face. “Is that what’s happening here?”
Kieran heaved a deep, weary sigh. He lowered his hands and stared up at the ceiling, still looking rather frustrated and put upon. But his hair had shifted when Cristina touched him, like water rippling, from stormy dark blue to a lighter, happy blue, and she relished the sight of it. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “Winter said that it was bad enough that the first transition of power in thousands of years, with my father’s death, had been so bloody and violent, let alone fighting Oban for the throne in the middle of a battlefield. I was well within my right, and it was entirely legitimate, but Winter thinks it would be better for my people to see my claim cemented in a more positive setting. A coronation, for instance.” He sighed again. “I know there is truth in what he says. Winter is of sound judgement, and he has seen more years than I, and he isn’t one for pointless effort. He would not have advised it if he did not think it best. But I am hardly one for ceremony. You both know that.”
Mark hummed. “Years ago, the Wild Hunt would have laughed themselves drunk if someone had told them our wildest hunter would have submitted to such a thing,” he mused.
“Exactly,” Kieran sighed.
“That being said,” Mark continued, “I think we all would have laughed if someone had told us you would be King one day—a good one, and willingly. You are not the same person you were in the Hunt, Kier. You are King now, and if there is ceremony to be observed, we should observe it.”
Kieran groaned. He turned his head so that he and Mark were nose to nose. “Don’t be reasonable,” he grumbled.
“My apologies,” Mark said, grinning. “ Don’t agree to the coronation. Set it all on fire and run away to the mortal world with me and Cristina.”
“Now I know I really should go through with the coronation,” Kieran said, “because the rational part of me hated everything about that proposal. Except the part where I run away with you and Cristina. Could we still do that?”
He turned his head so he could look at Cristina, who said affectionately, “Haremos lo que quieras, tesorito,” and leaned down to kiss his forehead. We’ll do anything you want, sweetheart.
Kieran was smiling, now—faintly, but it was there. His eyes shone. “No more talking for the time being,” he murmured, and kissed Cristina for real.
Later, as they lay dozing off in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Cristina, who was more awake than either of her boys, had a thought. Her eyes flicked open. “You know,” she said, “this may well be the first faerie coronation in anyone’s living memory—I can’t say about the warlocks or vampires, but for the werewolves, certainly. You might consider inviting a few representatives to bear witness, Kier. Establish new relationships for Unseelie.”
Kieran was quiet for so long Cristina had assumed he was asleep. But then he made a thoughtful sound. “That,” he murmured, “is a very good idea.”
Mark and Cristina returned to New York two days later, and the invitation arrived within six hours of their return, delivered, as always, by one of Kieran’s creatures—this time a silver-white moth. Being that the Nephilim known to us as Cristina Mendoza Rosales and the Nephilim known to us as Mark Blackthorn are friends to the Unseelie Crown and True, the invitation ran, both are cordially invited as representatives of the Nephilim body and the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance to attend the coronation of Kieran, King of the Unseelie Court, a fortnight hence on the full moon. Safe passage is hereby sworn to the Nephilim through the Lands-under-Unseelie, etc, etc.
What was of note was the leaf that came with the invitation: a note from Kieran himself. I would have written “beloved of the Unseelie Crown,” he’d written, but refrained in consideration of your safety. Know that the sentiment is ever-present, my loves. K.
“Was this your plan?” Mark asked, smiling, looking at Cristina. “When you suggested he should invite representatives?”
“I hadn’t even thought about it,” Cristina admitted sheepishly. “I hardly ever remember that we are ambassadors in title when it comes to Kieran and the Unseelie Court.” The black lettering of the invitation flashed gold if she tilted it to catch the light. Cristina thought she might frame it—not for the cottage, but perhaps for her and Mark’s office, here in the New York Institute. If anything, it would be a good inside joke. Friends of the Unseelie Crown. That and more, Cristina thought wryly, and blushed at herself. “I am glad we get to attend. I know Kier has his reservations about the coronation; we might well put him at ease.”
“Do you think we’re the only Shadowhunters who received this?” Mark said, studying the invitation.
His question was answered when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and Diego Rosales popped his head in. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but did either of you just receive an invitation to Kieran’s coronation?”
Cristina held up the invitation in response. “Anyone else?” she asked.
The rest of Diego emerged from behind the door. “Alec, as the Consul, and Magnus as a representative for the warlocks,” he said, coming fully into the office, “which I only know because I was in a meeting with Alec when these arrived. But since Alec said he has to stay for the kids, I’ll be going for the both of us.”
“We were specifically invited as Shadowhunters and representatives of the Alliance,” Mark said, “so I’m willing to bet that Maia and Lily received invitations, too.”
“As representatives of the Alliance?” Diego asked, with some amusement. “Not as his consorts?”
Cristina had to bite the inside of her cheek to stifle a moment of hilarity. “Kieran had a note about that, actually,” she said, once the urge to giggle had passed. “He could hardly put that on official correspondence other people might inspect.”
“Friends of the Unseelie Crown,” Mark murmured, and Cristina did laugh at that.
“Well, as long as it’s legitimate,” Diego said, raising his eyebrows at Cristina in bewilderment as if to say, You crazy girl, which did nothing to curb her laughter. “Generally I trust anything out of the Unseelie Court these days because of Kieran, but since the invitation was extended by a member of the Redcap Guard and not him or General Winter directly, I had to check, and I figured one or both of you would know.”
“The Redcap Guard?” Cristina asked, regaining her composure. “It didn’t say that on ours—may I see?”
Diego handed over his invitation, which was very nearly identical except for the handwriting and the warrant of safe passage, which was granted by Lieutenant Lilias of the Redcap Guard on behalf of the King. Cristina felt a sudden rush of affection; she ran her thumb over the lettering and smiled. She hadn’t noticed it at the time, but it looked like Kieran had taken the time to personally write the invitation for her and Mark. The handwriting on their invitation had been his, and safe passage had been granted by him directly.
“You’re smiling,” Diego said, a little suspiciously.
“We’ve met Lilias—she is as loyal to Winter as Winter is to Kieran. It’s nothing to worry about,” Cristina said, passing the invitation back to him. “I think Kieran might have written ours personally and delegated the rest, that’s all.”
“Ay.” Diego clicked his tongue and grinned. “Perks of dating the Unseelie King, I suppose.”
“Just one of many,” Cristina said, and leaned over Mark’s arm to read, again, the part of the invitation which said, Safe passage is sworn to the Nephilim through the Lands-under-Unseelie under Warranty of Kieran, King of the Unseelie Court. It wasn’t that Diego’s warrant of safe passage was any less powerful—anything written on behalf of a faerie liege held the same promise of safety that would be terrible to breach—but there was something special about Kieran having written out their warrant himself, as though he did not trust Mark and Cristina’s safety to anyone else, as though he meant to communicate that they were favored and beloved above all.
The Unseelie Court did not look much different from when King Arawn had ruled, but Mark could already see signs of Kieran’s influence. This time the Court was hosted in a darkly beautiful glade—a place that felt more serene than eerie—and the banners flying from tents and hanging outside booths did not feature a broken crown, but rather a stylized ring of water, thorn, and flower. Kieran, Mark knew, had fought tremendously for the change; a large part of Unseelie still held the belief that the King ought to be ruling both halves of Faerie, the Unseelie and Seelie Courts. “We will never be at peace if the Crown keeps flying an argument for war,” Kieran had said, and though he had yet to change the opinion of his Court, he had at least managed to change the symbol of it by arguing that the broken crown had been of his father’s reign. It was also, Mark knew, the closest in the way of official recognition that Kieran could procure for him and Cristina: thorn for Mark, flower for Tina. Water for Kieran and his nixie heritage. Officially, the thorn and flower symbolized the danger and beauty of Unseelie. But Mark had access to certain knowledge that most people did not.
He and Cristina located the King’s tent easily enough. It was the largest one, with a blue and gold banner bearing the seal of water, thorn, and flower flying from the top, and was also guarded by Winter’s redcaps. Winter himself was guarding the entrance—he did not look pleased to see Mark or Cristina, but he allowed them entry without a word—and inside the tent they found Kieran, who was just fastening the last clasp on his doublet, muttering almost inaudibly to himself. Mark, recognizing not the words but the tone, grinned to himself. Among the things Kieran disliked about Court life, one of them was having to dress in very formal clothes.
“What news?” Kieran asked, without looking up.
“Well,” Cristina said brightly, “there are Shadowhunters overrunning your Court now.”
Kieran turned towards them, a smile already blooming, his hair shifting to light blue, and Mark’s first startled thought was, By the Angel, but he’s beautiful.
This was not an uncommon thought—Mark thought this about every fifteen minutes when he was around Kieran, as a matter of fact—but it was not every day that Kieran was in full coronation formal wear. His doublet was stitched with silver and pearlescent white thread, creating a pattern of rolling ocean waves that seemed to move before Mark’s very eyes, and the fabric of the doublet itself shone blue-black like raven’s wings. He was not wearing his golden circlet as he usually did, but even so, no one could have mistaken him for anyone other than the King; there was an air of quiet grace and authority about him. He was beautiful in the way a night sky full of stars was beautiful. His smile only added to the effect.
“My loves, you came,” said Kieran, as though there had ever been any doubt about it. Cristina went straight to him and kissed him hello, taking his face in her hands.
“Of course we did,” she said, warm with affection.
“Of course we did,” Mark echoed, following Cristina’s path into Kieran’s open arms. He greeted Kieran with a kiss, too. He thought he had never loved someone so much. “Are you ready?”
“Nearly,” Kieran said, and looked across the tent. “There’s the cloak, still.”
Mark followed his gaze to see a heavy formal cloak on a dress form, all ermine and black velvet and gold fastenings. “I think we can do that,” he said, smiling, and went to lift the cloak from the dress form. It was heavier than he expected, but he had no trouble carrying it lifted high enough so that the train did not drag too much on the floor, as pointless as it was. He settled the cloak about Kieran’s shoulders, and Cristina fastened it in front, and all the while Kieran stood quiet and patient in a way Mark had not often seen from him.
“There,” Mark said, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders and letting his hands linger there. “You are perfect.”
“You look like a king,” Cristina said softly, smiling up at Kieran. She touched his bare brow and frowned a little. “Where’s your circlet?”
“They took it away,” Kieran said, “they’ll crown me with it later, during the ceremony.” His voice took on a dry note. “Again, part of why this entire thing is ridiculous.”
“Well,” Mark said mischievously, hoping to make Kieran laugh by teasing him, “if it means getting to see you all dressed up, I’m alright with that.”
He did get a half-smile. What he didn’t expect was for Kieran to lift Mark’s hand from his shoulder, turn his head to press a kiss to the curve of Mark’s palm, and then look at Mark with such fervent longing that it stunned Mark into silence, if only for a moment. With his other arm, he drew Cristina closer. “Adaon would be better at this,” Kieran murmured. “The kingship, the formality—all of it. I am not Adaon. But I could bear it if it were you being crowned beside me. How I wish I could crown you both.”
“I don’t think we’re much for crowns, Kier,” said Cristina.
“Neither am I,” Kieran said, with a wry little smile.
Outside the tent, there was the sound of a horn being blown, which was echoed and joined by other horns all across the Court.
“They’re calling everyone to gather,” Kieran said, releasing them. “Go join the other representatives at the pavilion, my loves. You’ll see me shortly.”
His shoulders had been relaxed before. Now they were set in the way of a man preparing to bear a burden. Mark wondered if in some way it felt like a second sentence for Kieran, who had never really wanted to be King, this open ceremony and celebration of his title and status; if it was salt in a wound to know he could be crowned when Mark and Cristina could never be. He exchanged a look with Cristina, and then they both surged forward to kiss him.
“I love you,” Mark murmured, kissing Kieran’s cheek, his temple, the shell of his ear.
“I love you,” Cristina said, low and sweet, pressing a kiss to Kieran’s forehead and letting her lips linger there. “I love you and I’m proud of you.”
Kieran ducked his head, laughing a little. The sound was genuine, and so was his smile. “I love you both,” he said. “Endlessly. Always. And I am glad we have this much.”
They could not be seen emerging beside the King, open secret though their relationship was, and so Mark and Cristina lifted a back section of the tent and ducked through the opening it created. They emerged between tents and, hand in hand, seamlessly joined the crowd streaming towards the pavilion as if a river current. One side of the pavilion was reserved for the representatives who had been invited; when they slipped into place between Maia and Diego, slightly breathless and laughing to themselves, Maia raised an eyebrow and whispered with amusement, “And where have you been?”
Maia knew very well, of course. She was teasing them. But there were other people around, and gossip traveled fast and far in Faerie, so Cristina said, with diplomatic tones and an impressively straight face, “Enjoying the beauty of Unseelie.”
Diego made a choking sound, and Cristina, barely hiding a grin, elbowed him hard and stamped on his foot. Mark put an arm around her shoulders and hid his own smile by kissing her forehead.
The horns blew again, and a hush fell over the glade. Mark saw the red hoods of Kieran’s guard coming towards the pavilion and the crowd parting silently and respectfully before them like the Red Sea before Moses. As one the redcaps moved up the steps into the pavilion, and then broke apart, revealing Kieran in their midst, as darkly beautiful as the glade itself, his cloak draped around him like a waterfall of ink. He surveyed the crowd assembled in a slow scan: gentry, nobles, kelpies and ogres and goblins, faeries on horseback and faeries on foot. His gaze touched on Mark and Cristina, and he smiled a little.
“General Winter,” he said, looking not at Winter but back out over the crowd, at his people assembled before him, his voice carrying clear. “We begin.”
And then he sank gracefully to one knee and bowed his head.
The coronation ceremony itself was not long.
A faerie in an emerald green uniform came up the pavilion steps, and in their hands they held the gold circlet of the King, as if a halo or a ring of light. “Kieran, son of Arawn the Elder-King,” they said. “You challenged your brother Oban for the throne and emerged the victor. We the assembled Court recognize your claim by blood and by merit. We recognize you as the rightful living King of Unseelie.”
They moved towards Kieran, but Kieran—head still bowed—held up his hands. “Before you crown me,” he said, in a low voice, “I would swear an oath to the people.”
A murmur ran through the assembled fey like a ladle skimming the surface of water; Mark gathered that this was unusual somehow. The faerie looked rather nonplussed. They glanced towards Winter, who was standing nearby, pikestaff in hand, but Winter’s face was stony and unreadable. “What oath might that be, liege lord?” they said, voice steady but words uncertain.
Kieran’s next words carried clearly to all corners of the glade. “I solemnly and sincerely swear before my people of Unseelie that I will observe the laws of this Land, faithfully perform my duties, promote the welfare of the people, safeguard the security of Unseelie, and will in no way betray the people’s trust. Should I willfully and willingly break my oath, may the Land turn me from every corner and never give me rest.” Another murmur through the crowd, another round of whispering. Kieran looked up, and his silver eye blazed like moonlight. “This is my solemn oath.”
The faerie seemed almost transfixed by Kieran. It was only after the silence had stretched on for a beat too long that they squeaked, “Oh!” and hastened to settle the gold circlet about Kieran’s brow with gentle hands. There was the slightest curve of a smile about Kieran’s mouth. Evidently he was amused.
“To the Court of Unseelie,” they cried, stepping back, “I have the deepest honor of presenting King Kieran, our Eternal Sovereign, Master of the Hob and the Domovoi, Breaker of the Broken Lands, Crown Under the Hill, and Dark Star of the Evening. Long live the King!”
“Long live the King!” Winter bellowed, and banged his pikestaff twice against the ground as Kieran rose. The cry of, “Long live the King! Long live the King!” was taken up by the assembled fey; it was at first uniform, but then dissolved into overlapping chants and the senseless sound of howling and cheering. Kieran looked over his people, his expression carefully blank, as cold and beautiful as any faerie liege before him, but Mark saw the soft look in his eyes and thought that for all his unwillingness, Kieran seemed very much at home.
The post-coronation revel ran longer, and began almost at once. The sweet sound of faerie music (drums and flutes) started drifting on the air, and enterprising fey popped up from all corners with pitches and trays of drinks. The green-uniformed faerie and an identically-dressed companion carried out the black throne of Unseelie. Before, Mark knew, the throne had been carved with the Unseelie King’s symbol of the broken crown, hanging above a sun and moon; now the throne featured only Kieran’s seal, the one of water, thorn, and flower. Kieran unclasped his cloak and draped it over his seat with easy grace. Torches were lit with jewel-toned fire. Much of the Fair Folk had started to dance. It was a joyous, wild frenzy, and Mark took joy in it.
He and Cristina could steal no moments with Kieran; the nobles and gentry of the Court alone formed a near-endless stream of people seeking a moment’s audience with the newly-crowned King. But it was a revel, and there was perhaps no safer place at a revel than under Kieran’s watchful eye, and so they went dancing instead, twirling barefoot in the soft grass, always where Kieran could see. The drums beat a frantic tattoo perfect for dancing and the sweet fluting melody made Mark’s head spin; he was drunk on Cristina, her big dark eyes and her delighted smile and the way that she moved. Every once in a while they would share a kiss, and every once in a while he would glance back to find Kieran watching them from his throne with eyes that shone in the torchlight.
They lost track of time, and all too soon it was time to go, though the revel was still going strong all around them. Mark suspected the celebrations would continue in Unseelie for days, if not the full week. Breathless and heady with euphoria, he and Cristina followed Maia and Lily and the others to a quieter corner of the glade. The new King of Unseelie had insisted on personally seeing them back to the mortal world—as gracious as any host would be with their guests, of course.
He was courteous with the other faction representatives. He made a little bow to Diego, and embraced him as well. But once Diego had stepped through the door to New York, leaving just the three of them in their corner of the glade, Kieran looked at them both and held out his arms with a melancholy little smile. They wasted no time in hugging him tight.
“Don’t look so sad, my love,” Cristina said. She drew back and peppered kisses down his face, from temple to jaw, punctuating each sentence with a kiss. “I love you. I love you. We’ll see each other very soon.”
Kieran closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers. “And how soon is soon?” he asked, almost plaintively.
“As soon as we can manage,” Mark said. “No time at all. You will be busy, and Cristina and I will be busy, and you will not have a thought to spare for us until we meet again, you’ll see.”
“Untrue,” Kieran told him, without opening his eyes. “You are always on my mind.”
The cold early morning air that greeted them when they stepped through to New York swept the last of faerie music from their heads. Mark looked back, but the door to Unseelie had already vanished—had he been mundane, he might have thought it all a very strange dream.
That, and the little white moth that fluttered about their heads on the walk home in a decidedly persistent and unusual way. “Kier,” Cristina laughed, holding out her hand so the moth could drop the usual message-within-an-acorn into it. “Really?”
My loves, my loves. I miss you already. Keep each other safe from harm, and come back to me soon. K.