Malice

a cliff. That those inside it are far above, ruling from an unimaginably high vantage point.
And that those rulers could easily toss their enemies over its edge.
“Do you like it?” I wheel around, my kit slipping in my hands, then sink automatically into a low curtsy. The Briar King watches me from a corner. I hadn’t even heard him come in. “The glass is said to be sound against even dragon’s fire. I had it forged specially.”
The thought of the expense makes my stomach roll. There have been no records of dragons in Briar since Leythana sailed in on her ships. And for all we know, those dragon carcasses were just a story.
“Are you hungry? Would you care for some wine?”
He motions to a back table laden with fresh fruits and buttery cheeses and a decanter of claret so dark it’s almost black. All of it probably poisoned.
“No, thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Suit yourself.” He pours himself a healthy glassful, though beneath the shadow of his beard, his sandy white skin is ruddy with a flush of wine. “You must wonder why I’ve summoned you.”
Wind gusts against the wall of glass until it groans. I inch as far away as I can, trying to ignore the nauseating image of myself plummeting into the eaves of the Grace District.
Tarkin strolls idly along his table, adjusting the markers on the maps. “It occurred to me, after the incident with Duke Weltross, that your singular abilities may be underappreciated.”
I knew I had not heard the end of the duke.
“I consider myself quite foolish, actually. I knew when you were discovered that you were special. That your…unusual…blood would serve Briar well. It’s why I didn’t kill you, though I was certainly advised to do so.” A slow smile spreads across his face that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “I applaud that decision even more so today.”
Somehow, I don’t take that as a compliment. “I don’t understand your meaning.” I set my kit down and begin rooting through the vials. “Perhaps Your Majesty would like an elixir—”
“No, Dark Grace.” He closes the lid of my kit. The amethyst on his signet ring glitters. “You are too modest. I heard that you ended the duke’s life with a mere touch.”
He is too close and I wish for something to steady myself. But I refuse to let the Briar King see me weaken. “The duchess was grieving. Confused. As was everyone else in that room.”
Tarkin resumes as if I hadn’t spoken. “I also heard of a fountain that started spewing mud some time ago. The royal gardeners were quite perplexed.”
Dragon’s teeth, I’m an idiot.
“And then”—the smell of the wine and the spice of roasted game wafts from his breath—“at our dinner. When you turned a royal rosebush into some kind of vicious plant. I saw you with my own eyes. Am I also confused?”
He lifts one eyebrow, looking at me like I’m a particularly elusive stag he’s just taken down. I resist the urge to grab his magic and bend it until he crumples like a used rag.
“Please.” Tarkin pulls out one of the chairs at the table. “Sit.”
The last thing I want to do is sit. But I doubt how much longer I can stand, and so I allow myself to perch lightly on a chair.
“I believe we’re starting off on the wrong foot.” Tarkin refills his glass. “I am not repulsed by your Vila blood. In fact, I quite admire it.”
Something between a snort and a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “If that’s true then why am I treated as if I have some kind of disease in this realm?”
Tarkin examines one of the thick medallions on his doublet. “Not everyone at court is as enlightened as myself.” I suppress another snort. “Lord Ambassador Endlewild, for example.”
Ice water floods my limbs. The look the Fae lord gave me the night of the dinner—that I was something to be scraped off his shoe—still haunts me. I’ve no doubt he was the one who counseled the Briar King to end my life.
“You do not like him,” Tarkin guesses.
I hate him more than words can express. But I must tread carefully. “I have no issue with—”
The Briar King waves me off. “You do not need to lie. I share your sentiment.”
Another surprise. One I’m not sure I like.
“The Lord Ambassador is always so dour. Acting as if his position is a prison sentence instead of one of the most coveted in the realm. I’ve tried to have him replaced multiple times since I married the queen.” He sighs, drinking deeply. “To no avail.”
For the first time in my life, I feel a shred of sympathy for Endlewild. One dinner in the midst of the Briar court was torture enough for me. And he has to endure it every day of his unnaturally long life. But that twinge dissolves in the throbbing of my scar. “We have different reasons for our distaste, sire.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Quite. And you should thank the dragon that you are not full-blooded Vila. And that your power did not manifest under the Lord Ambassador’s scrutiny. He would have insisted on your death. Or killed you himself. But I embrace your abilities. And I want to use them—for the good of Briar.”
It takes every ounce of self-control to keep my expression neutral. “In what way?”
Tarkin’s jeweled chains clank as he moves. “I will send you commissions. I take it from what I’ve seen that you are capable of producing far more than simple elixirs.”
There’s no point in denying it. I continue to use enhancements with my patrons to avoid suspicion. But I won’t tell the Briar King everything. Dragon knows what he would have me do if he knew I could Shift. I merely incline my head.
“Good. You will craft such things as I need. And in return I will reward you handsomely. Coin at first, titles and prestige later.”
Titles? He must be mad. The small council