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Irial’s shade took form and stepped out of Niall’s body.
Aislinn gasped.
The dead Dark King ignored everyone but the living Dark King. He turned to face Niall. “You’re as stubborn as ever.”
“But not insane,” Niall said.
“True.” Irial lifted a hand as if he would touch Niall’s battered face. “You defended our court admirably. I knew you were meant to be the Dark King.”
Niall shook his head, but he was smiling now. “You aren’t ever satisfied, are you? You were right, Irial. They are mine. The court is mine.” Niall held up bloodied hands. “I will kill or die for them.”
“And they for you,” Irial said.
“There has been enough killing today.” Far Dorcha’s words drew all of their gazes to him. In the midst of the bruised and wearied faeries, Death alone seemed untouched. He folded his arms over his chest and looked at them.
“In all of forever, this has not happened. She”—the Dark Man paused and motioned toward the warehouse—“was one of the first of two. Said to be unkillable without damning us all. There must be balance.” The Dark Man’s gaze flickered to Aislinn. “You have first right.”
Aislinn’s hand tightened on Seth’s. “No.”
“And you?” Far Dorcha’s attention turned to Seth. “Would you fill the vacant role of Discord? By right of your mother’s heritage, you are entitled to fill this. Your Sight is already in place; you travel between the worlds. You walk in the four courts and as a solitary. Unless you are planning to keep your new role . . .”
Seth glanced at Niall. “I don’t suppose the consequences of not being who I am would be good.”
Far Dorcha shrugged, but made no comment.
“I’ll pass.” Seth might not be able to see his own future, but he saw—and suspected that Far Dorcha saw—the increasingly probable futures of several of the faeries around him. Irial and Niall still had choices to make. Seth was all but certain what those choices were, but the decisions still must be made manifest.
There are always choices.
Far Dorcha continued as if nothing was certain. “Niall? Your sword ended her.”
“No. I am the Dark King.” Niall stared at Irial as he spoke. “I didn’t fight for my throne, bleed for the court, only to step away.” Then, with visible effort, Niall pulled his gaze from Irial and asked Far Dorcha, “The role must be filled, right?”
Far Dorcha sighed. “It must, and as much as it pains me to offer it to the one who avoided dying . . . Irial?”
The shade of the dead king did not even glance at Death—or at anyone there. As if no one else stood with them, he asked Niall, “Are you sure? I could stay. . . .”
“Dead?” Niall snorted. “An eternity of you in my head isn’t exactly ideal for either of us.”
At that, Irial glanced at Far Dorcha. “Are there other options?”
“You can remain as you are now, unconnected to the live king; you can resume your possession of him; or you can assume the vacant role.” Far Dorcha scowled at Irial. “If you are not this, I need to find another to fill it. There will be balance. Discord is—”
“Right.” Irial waved his hand as if brushing words away. “If I am unconnected, will they see me?”
“Not unless I am near or they are dead too,” Far Dorcha said.
“So possession, absence, or War.” Irial turned his back on all of them again. “Niall? I can stay, help mind the court, advise you; being tied to you means that our dreams are real.”
“I don’t want you to be a shade,” Niall said. “War belongs in the Dark Court, and . . . This is what I want.”
“Not War,” Far Dorcha corrected. “She was Discord—just as her twin is Order. Bananach forgot what she was. The aim of Discord is not solely one of violence. To do your work, you will be able to walk through the veil to Faerie as well. I will remedy that problem: the veil will be open to you . . . if you are Discord.”
“Discord.” Irial flashed a wry smile at all of them. “I’m sure I can stir up some discontent.”
The Dark Man snorted, but said nothing.
As they all stood there, Irial grew serious. He reached out with an insubstantial hand that hovered over the Dark King’s forearm. “You can’t trust me after this. Not the same way you do now.”
