Imogen said quietly, standing tall on her bruised and aching feet.
“And did you?” he asked. “Did you tell Reyna Darragh to defy my command?”
It was a yes or no question. Imogen never answered those. Most fae never would. In a world without lies, one had to be careful. But she saw no way to answer at all without giving the truth away. Imogen could not mince words where her son’s life was concerned nor did she even want to try. Aengus had stolen the throne, her court, and her glorious life. And he would not hesitate to kill Thane if he got the chance.
For the first time in her life, she would proudly tell the truth in all its brutal glory.
“Yes,” she said in a hiss, edging closer to the iron bars. “I most certainly did tell Reyna and the warrior to go find my son, the High King of this realm. Your High King. And when he returns, you will find your head on a spike.”
Aengus stretched his thin lips wide as he smiled, flashing two rows of straight, sharp teeth that had never looked quite right in his face. “A command from me is a command from our god. You have now committed far worse treason than what put you in this cell. In the name of our great Dagda, I hereby sentence you to death. Guards.”
Imogen gripped her stained dress in trembling fists as the cell door swung wide. The guards pushed inside, still avoiding her gaze. One grabbed her right arm; the other took the left. And then, slowly, they led the former High Queen toward her death.
Imogen stood on the gleaming, golden steps of the Adhradh, staring out at a crowd of silent low fae. The citizens of Tairngire had crowded into the outer courtyard of Dalais Castle to watch their former ruler face her fate. There were hundreds of them, their clothing a kaleidoscope of gold. Each and every one wore the official royal color of the Air Court, a symbol of their loyalty to the crown.
And yet, Imogen knew they would all gladly watch her die. They would do nothing to stop Aengus, even if he was a foreigner himself.
She had been born a sea fae. A royal match had been made with a Lord of the great Air Court when she had been a mere sixteen years of age. Lord Sloane Selkirk. His had been a powerful family, ruling over Feurach Fortress on the eastern coast of the realm. After they’d married, Sloane had become ambitious. He, his brother, and his two sisters had staged a coup against the reigning Dalais family. He gathered his army, stormed Tairngire, and murdered the High King and Queen.
At the time, Imogen had wanted nothing to do with the brutal slaughter. But her fate had been sealed. She had already married the male and there was little she could do. Not long after the coronation, Imogen had discovered that Sloane was half-human. His strength was nothing more than a lie until he sat his knobbly arse on the Seat of Power.
It had made sense to her then, his brutal quest for power. Only a pretender would commit atrocities for a throne. He’d never deserved to be king.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of spring. There was only a hint of it in the air. The cold bite of the wind remained from the winter, but the pearly Hawthorn Blossoms pushed a sweeter, hopeful scent into the longer days. Soon, the snow and ice would melt, and the sun would warm the tired faces of this city.
Imogen would not be around to see it this year. Or any year thereafter.
She had made many mistakes in recent months, she knew. Perhaps her actions had caught up with her, and the Dagda had decided to punish her for her transgressions. But she had only tried to do her best in a cruel world, one so empty of the magic that had once brought hope and life to these lands.
Sloane’s reign had needed to end. And Thane had not yet been ready.
She would not seek forgiveness, not when she’d had no other choice. And now she would die in the shadow of her god’s great bronze statue with his powerful wings flared wide.
“Citizens of Tairngire,” Aengus shouted as he strode from one end of the wooden platform to the next, his voice clear and loud.
Fear twisted around her heart like a vine lined with thorns, each point