by J. Levi
“What was your question again?” I ask, feeling charitable.
He catches my gaze, and his eyes light up. “What kind of fae are you?” he asks. “I don’t recognize your traits. Vylorian’s have long, narrow ears with a downward curve, and their skin is usually dark brown to olive-tinged with green. Plus they have obvious horns on their crowns. Your ears are similar to elmmen’s, but theirs are duller, and their ear tips flare outward while yours tucks in. I’d suggest Sylphian since there isn’t anything on their descriptions in the Edonian archives except for the fact they have wings.”
He glances at my back before continuing, “Which obviously isn’t the case since you’re void of wings. No gills and tail, so not a sirenian. Lythenian is a close bet, but their complexion is always described as darker and while you’re just tanned. Also, they have longer canines. Wait, let me see your teeth.”
The prince reaches up without any caution and lifts my upper lip. We both stop walking as he rubs a thumb against my canine tooth, inspecting its sharpness. Just for good measure, he ensures the other is the same, which it is. After he finishes, he stares into my eyes, his brow cinched like he’s lost in thought. Eventually, he says, “That wouldn’t work anyways, since lythenians are extinct, everyone knows that,” he says so matter of factly. “You’re not brutish with tusks, so you can’t be elkkin. Could probably rule out arcenian for that matter. Felonian is definitely out of the question, unless you're shifted in disguise. So, what are you?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say as my mind still struggles to follow along with his rambling. He inspects me suspiciously.
“You mean, you don’t know?” He asks.
“No,” I reply. “I was only six when I took on a human form and I was on my own. I don’t remember much before that. I don’t even remember my mother’s face—” I stop myself. The Prince’s eyes soften. He knows what it’s like to lose a mother, but I refuse to reopen those wounds which have scabbed and healed into scars.
“A mystery I’m determined to solve,” the Prince preens. “I am Casaell of Gedaley after all. Perhaps my greatest feat will be the discovery of a new fae.”
Great.
“I doubt you’ll discover anything if we don’t find a town, and soon. You’ll just be known as the Cas who died of thirst,” I joke.
“My name isn’t Cas, it’s Casaell,” he chides.
“Whatever you say, Cas, but let’s keep moving.” I mock and continue through the dead forest.
I can hear him calling after me, explaining the improper implications of an informal name used for a royal member. I tune him out after the first handful of long words and decide to commit to his nickname. If I’m going to be stuck with him for the foreseeable future, I might as well have fun with it.
***
We approach the outskirts of a town near dusk. The buildings are made from dirt clay, dry wood, and tattered hides. The dwellings are mundane and robust. Many of the clay buildings are several stories high, but the architecture is unlike anything I’ve encountered. Cas looks just as surprised and unfamiliar with the town. The streets are scarce, with only a few townspeople meandering through. They’re too far away to discern, even with my newly improved sense of sight.
During our trek through dead forestry, I noticed that my sense of smell, taste, and hearing are magnified, which is how we found a town. I could smell it, the wafty aroma of cinnamon bark and chimney smoke. Even the hints of animal manure, musky food stores, and burnt leather accompany the sounds of chatter.
I can hear the occasional laugh, holler, or infant cry as we draw closer to the town.
We peer down the main avenue of town. Towards the heart of the dwellings is a feeble water well. A man pulls a pale from the foundation, pouring the water into a bucket, and carries it out of sight.
“Groundwater?” I ask.
Cas looks confused, and then I realize he can’t see in dusk.
“Oh, right. Sorry, new to fae senses and all,” I admit. “There’s a well near the town center. Smells like freshwater.”
Cas realizes what I mean and nods, agreeing with my original guess.
“I need a cloak,” I say. “If we go into the town under cover of night, I can swipe one. I’ll need it before someone notices the ears.”
I wave a hand at the side of my head as if my words weren’t enough to discern what I meant.
“We can’t steal,” he protests. I stare at him, and he gulps audibly.
“I can steal. You can do nothing.”
Before he can argue, I weave into the town streets. We pass several dwellings, the sounds from inside are clambering, too chaotic to comprehend. I slow at each corner, peering around the houses to perceive any oncoming traffic. I backtrack through an alley when I hear the footfalls of someone approaching.
When the figure passes the mouth of the alleyway, I notice overhead between the narrow structures are clothing lines and tufts of fabric hanging to dry. A navy-blue cloak with green embroidery blows through the arid breeze.
I inspect the walls, noting the ledges and notches in clay. I rush forward for momentum, leap into the air and kick off a wall, launching onto the adjacent one, gripping a pipe opening, probably for drainage or airflow. Kicking off from the wall and latch onto a ledge of a shuttered window, I swing my hips upward until I thrust myself to a shelf nearby with a balcony. I hoist a leg over the railing and secure myself on the platform and pull the rotating line of clothing until I snag the cloak and pull it on.
The trip down is surprisingly more challenging than climbing up. I eventually give up any tact and hurl toward the earth like a boulder tossed into a pond. A loud thud and a deep grunt of pain escape me.
“Damnit,” I growl through clenched teeth. The Prince kneels beside me, hands hesitantly hovering over my ankle.
“Is it broken?” He asks, concerned.
I pause, a little startled by his concern, but brush it off. “Just sprained. I’ll survive.”
I try to stand, but Cas braces a hand against my shoulder, keeping me still, and another against my ankle. His finger’s glow, a soft ember tan color. My ankle tingles as the static of magic caress my skin. Warmth seeps into the muscle and bone, and the pain nullifies. A beat later the glow fades and my ankle is healed.
“That’s a nifty trick,” I say, astonished. I’ve encountered healers and soothsayers, but they’ve never had an active healing aspect like that. I thought of Ricon and his missing arm, and I grovel. If I’d known Cas could heal, would he have been able to save Ricon’s arm?
I’m not sure if I’m thinking aloud or if the prince really can read minds because he says, “I would have healed him, your friend. I think I was in shock, and then you disappeared out of your villa.”
“No point in obsessing over things are already done,” I say gruffly. I don’t trust myself to continue the conversation, my guilt already festers in my heart.
Now that I’m cloaked, we traipse through the streets until I find the bantering cheers of a clay tavern. There’s a sign over the doorway written in a script I don’t recognize. The Prince squints at the words until he finally snaps his fingers and says, “The Cunning Loaf.”
“How do you know what it says?”
“I’m fluent in four languages, remember?”
“Right. So what language is this?”
“Vylorian. The language isn’t used in Edonia.”
I don’t like the sound of that. I shake off the nervous jitters and suggest we go inside to gather some intel as to where we are and how deep in shit we truly are. We slip inside casually, utterly shocked at the scene. The pub is populated by humans like we expect, however, we don’t expect the large abundance of fae intermingled. Where in the hell are we?
A bartender behind the bar waves us over. I have to pull Cas by the wrist just to get him to follow. When we sit at the bar, the barkeep cheerfully greets us with, “Haven’t seen y’all in these parts before. Fancy some desert
shine?”
She’s an older elmmen, her eyes are gentle.
Non-threat, I determine.
“Sorry, we’re just passing through. Not familiar with the area. What’s the town called?” I say chummily. The barkeep preens with pride and pours a questionable amount of musky slosh into mugs and serves.
“Welcome to the town of Eliond. The first round is on the house for the newcomers.”
She steps away to tend to the other patrons. I lean into Cas, who’s eyeing his desert shine with reluctance.
“I’m not familiar with Eliond, are you?” I whisper. He slowly shakes his head.
When the barkeep returns, I nonchalantly ask, “Hey, we’ve been traveling for a while now, haven’t seen anything but dead trees in days. What’s with the dead forest?”
“Ah—didn’t always be like that. Truth be told, this forest was thick in its prime about a decade and a half ago. It bore the name Oakhurst before it became Oakrot,” the barkeep says solemnly.
“What happened?” Cas asks.
“War between elkkin tribes trickled down the mountains. When the vylorian’s got involved, they destroyed everything. They killed off the bulk of the forest with fires and lumbering for siege weapons. The forest spirit either died or left, no less. The forest withered soon after.”
“Any idea when we’ll emerge from it?”
She eyes me questioningly and shrugs before offering, “Must be first-time travelers—nothing up here for a while. The Dion Mountains are to the North of here. You need to go through the Oakrot Forest before you reach the Webbidon Wastes—I wouldn’t recommend trailing that direction though. The wastes aren’t a playground for first-time roamers, even seasoned ones, for that matter.”
The Dion Mountains, why does that sound familiar?
Cas, beside me, who decides to taste the desert shine, sprays a mist out onto the bar top, choking. I slam my hand against his back, loud thuds as I pat him repeatedly.
“Excuse my companion here. He’s a bit of a novice with his alcohol,” I muse. The barkeep laughs and trails back through the tavern, topping off patron mugs.
“Do you know where—” Cas starts to say, louder than I prefer, so I slam my hand against his back again. He winces. I lean in closer to whisper, “Whatever you’re about to say, keep it to yourself.”
I gesture to my newly pointed ears, and Cas realizes we’re in a tavern full of fae with enhanced hearing. He nods and stares at his mug disapprovingly.
We sit here, side by side, silent and broody in the clamor of tavern chaos. I take a swig of the wine, and it’s surprisingly sweet with a bitter aftertaste. Definitely better than the stuff in Laenberg that Ricon fancies.
14
Leluna
“…death count has reached disastrous highs by reports from the capital. Routes have been sealed, preventing citizens from entering or leaving the four boroughs. Official words from the crown has reached the Lords of Rhenstadt, to enforce the royal decree. We have yet to receive word if the Lords plan to honor their ruling capital.…”
– excerpt from Dawn Tribune, official press of Rhenstadt 890 B.M.
Since the tragic and unexpected death of Fleet Commander Riggers, the palace is on high alert. Every courtier is escorted by a guard or soldier while traveling the hallways. The servants are interrogated for information. I spend the better half of the early morning being interrogated and intimidated by a bulbous belly of a man. I play the timid servant girl, which gains the sympathy of my interrogator.
Lady Vaneeda is undoubtedly in a mood when I return to her chamber to assume my dutiful handmaiden tasks.
“Clean my ensuite with that,” she says while pointing to a dainty toothbrush.
How likely would it be that I’ll go unsuspected if the lady turns up dead?
I swallow my pride and comply with her menial chore. She’s escorted to her luncheon, leaving me behind but commands I join her after I’ve finished my chore, most likely to gloat. I immediately find her personal toothbrush and use it to scrub her toilet clean. Once I feel the brush is satisfactorily soiled, I return it to its cabinet and slip out of the chamber.
I take the servant halls through the palace ‘til I emerge near the inner courtyard atrium. I approach lady Vaneeda, who’s deep in conversation with another courtier. The same one Vaneeda claims to share the appearance of a farmland cow.
“I’ve finished your task, m’lady,” I say to her with a curtsy. Vaneeda glares and waves me off before she returns to her tepid conversation. I should be eavesdropping, but my mind filters through the schematics I’ve memorized. I haven’t ventured into the dungeons since receiving Gail’s blueprints. It’s been impossibly annoying to venture through the palace halls with the influx of guard patrols. Perhaps I should have waited till after I dungeon crawled before I assassinated my mark.
A guard adorned with the royal crest on his chestplate approaches the lady, his armored boots stomping across the red paved patio.
“Her majesty, queen consort Morda has requested a personal audience with lady Vaneeda in her personal gardens. I am here to escort you as a courtesy. Please make haste.”
A glimmer of surprise circulates across Vaneeda’s pasted white face. She excuses herself from her conversation, smiling smugly. I’m still planted to the ground, in shock by her invitation. Vaneeda peers over her shoulder and hisses at me to follow promptly. I’m reluctant but comply anyway. The guard escorts us through a wing of the castle the courtiers aren’t allowed to venture through. I’ve been through the wing several times now, in search of incriminating evidence. I’ll admit the scenery is far more garish in the light of day. Vaneeda gawks and awes at everything as we move swiftly through the halls. The architecture and I are precisely the same as the rest of the palace, apart from the intricate portraits that line the halls, though the air tastes stale.
We pass through a set of gold leaf-trimmed doors with forest green frosted glass and crystal embellishments. The queen sits at the center of a luscious courtyard atrium. The glass panes overhead share the same green frost. The sunlight that casts through is hazed in sea greens and pearl whites. Vines creep along the inner walls of a crystal pagoda. The perimeter is bordered by white rose shrubs, correctly cared for. They’re all in full bloom, which I find strange given it’s the middle of summer. The afternoon heat should’ve wilted the delicate petals.
The queen is perfectly perched on an iron garden chair, cast in the shade by the pagoda. A teacup in hand slowly rising to her ruby painted lips. I stand near the rose shrubs, blue-clay pottery of butter yellow daffodils nearby. I avert my gaze to the flowers, desperate to calm my nerves.
I steal a glance at queen Morda and instantly regret it. I’m immediately reminded of witnessing her shift from human to fae. Studying her, it’s almost evident how poised her demeanor is so eloquently displayed. Queen Morda wears a thin dress that clings to her fake curves, unlike garish gowns in popular fashion with tight corsets and poofy skirts. The frock is violet suede with metallic gold embroidery. Her neckline is boastful, unlike the court’s fashion or nobility. Draped just above the queen’s barely concealed cleavage, a black pendant clasped in silver and chain sits perched above her breasts. Her dress skirt has a slit on the side that rides all the way to the base of her hip. It’s scandalous. If the queen wasn’t a psycho genocidal fae bitch, I’d almost admire her taste in attire.
I spare another fleeting glance at the pendant and can’t shake the familiarity. I’ve seen something like that before. But where? I haven’t the faintest idea.
Lady Vaneeda and the queen’s conversation is dull at first. They discuss the weather and the generalized courtier gossip. Queen Morda even saunters into a story about a visiting royal from the main continent across the Azure Sea.
“It’s a great honor, your majesty,” Vaneeda coos, “to be graced with the pleasure of joining you for lunch. Your company is quite exquisite.”
Kiss ass. Careful, lady Vaneeda, if you
crawl any further up the queen’s ass, your nose will turn brown.
The lady presses her porcelain teacup to her lips nonchalantly. I swear, does everyone rich and noble act like posturing peacocks?
I notice the queen’s eyes on me now. I instantly drop my gaze to my feet and hold my breath. I don’t know why, but I feel like if she gets a good enough look at my glamoured face, she’ll recognize me. I know it’s impossible, but the queen is fae, so who fucking knows.
I’m thankful the queen doesn’t address me directly or bring me up in conversation to Vaneeda. Instead, she returns to the small talk.
“I’m afraid I have not been forthcoming as to why I’ve invited you here to luncheon,” the queen says.
Lady Vaneeda pauses, shocked and paralyzed as the queen continues.
“I have ulterior motives to discuss aside from idle chit-chat. It is with my deepest condolences to inform you that your cousin, the lord and duchess of Laenberg, have met a fairly horrific death, from what I’m told.”
Shit. Does the Rebellion know yet? My next update is tonight. I’m not even sure if anyone will show up, given that Gail wants to flee the capital. I’ll find out before I search the dungeons.
Lady Vaneeda clears her throat, a soft hiccup under her breath. Her hands shake slightly as she places her cup and saucer onto the tabletop.
“What of their daughter?” Vaneeda says, voice cracking.
“Sadly, she too met the same fate. As did the entire estate, I’m afraid. To be frank, there are little remains of anyone after the alchemic fire consumed the keep. Nothing left but ash and stone. Rebellion terrorists.”
Lying cunt. I can feel the rage fuming through my skin. I want to flick my dagger straight into her seductive eyes. She’s going to spin this propaganda against the revolution.