Fallen Princeborn: Chosen

by Jean Lee

  Lord Artair harrumphs and stands. “Yes, I heard about that. Nasty business. Nasty for other Houses. What commoner’s going to follow a leader keen to eat them as well as any human? And a border family helps provide the camouflage necessary to our lures and snares. Foolish creature, thinking she could thrive without one.” He pats Liam on the arm, then turns him to face the reception hall. “Now off to your mother. We’ll have all the time in the world to catch up after tomorrow.”

  Liam’s stomach rolls. “Surely you can’t be away from your holdings for so long?”

  Lord Artair laughs a jolly laugh, which disturbs Liam all the more. “Never you mind about such matters. Ah, I hear one of the commoners chirping in the hall. Follow her upstairs to say hello! I’ll be along shortly. I just need Arlen’s clarification on two minor details.” He turns with a predator’s grin upon Arlen.

  A broken teacup cuts into Liam’s foot. His blood worms beneath a kettle, over a wooden spoon. His looks to the herbarium, its scraps of healing, but his father’s hand is up, blocking him.

  “Go on,” Arlen says before Liam can speak.

  And like a child he is shooed away from the grown men at the table. They sit locked in their silent duel, pointed stares aimed and ready to strike the moment one blinks.

  “You painted your foot! Pretty pretty paint, so sparkle-eeeee and sweet!” Poppy sings as she hops through the dining room and into the library. “Can I paint my foot? I love green it’s so pretty but yellow is pretty too and then you have sky blue and it has nice white clouds and they’re so fluffy I could sleep and gosh I’m tired out and could go back to bed but we’re all kinda stuck upstairs until the big surprise and pink! Pink’s such a nice color but not as nice as orange. Orange! Yay! Ember’s orange is perfect, I could paint with Ember—”

  “Not now, Poppy. Please.” Liam halts in the center of the library. His face is bathed in the blues, silvers, and greens of the window he made of skipping stones, teaching Charlotte, who is somewhere with Keller, at his ease to do what he will, and oh by Aether’s Fire could I but cast this farce of family out…

  “But you gotta come on.” Poppy peers over the railing of the iron spiral staircase and loudly whispers, “Your mother’s always talkin’ to Peat and won’t let me tell her about the orchards or anything and I think Devyn’s gonna punch her and Lily already got hurt wantin’ velifol and Nettle just keeps smoking and laughing all scary like a ghost and Willow punched her and and and...”

  “Your mother.” He feels the words’ tug on his shoulders and knees, pulling him like some beleaguered puppet across a stage of tattered stories to the giant’s lair, where the show really begins. Up the spiral stairs he goes and exits the library for the second floor’s corridor.

  Arlen’s quarters are destroyed beyond reclamation. The very walls of his rooms are broken, and windows shattered. Claw marks tear at the remaining walls, but Rose House held firm there. A battered wooden trunk hides beneath half a broken mattress, browned and stiff with dried blood. The ceiling has been rent asunder in several places where Incomplete dragged their prey down: torn sheets, torn limbs. One hole is filled by rib bones, dangling.

  The other half of the corridor could have been another house. The walls of Charlotte’s quarters are scratched but whole—even the electric lights hang intact. Surely Liam hears Charlotte and Keller talking still. What could they possibly speak of? Why is Keller still in there, why WHY?

  Voices fall as snow from above, others crawl as spiders along the floor. Yet he finds his ears cannot latch. He must keep walking. He. Must. Go. Up.

  “Hey, hey, this-a-way!” Poppy twirl-skips as she leads him to the second-floor landing. A new spiral staircase leads up to the third floor, but not of elegant iron, like the one in the library. It’s a hodge-podge of stone and wood, of color and glass. Torn skies, shredded faces, mangled shores—his paintings, shredded and beaten into this structure. Broken eyes stare among glass shards of gold and pink. Five fingers, slender and long, just as a pianist’s fingers should be, stretched out from one step level with Liam’s chin. He could rest his head in that hand if he wanted. But it would be a cold hand, with no dancing lights in green eyes to accompany it.

  And he must. Go. Up.

  He ascends the stairs of broken art with a steady pace. His arms hang limp on either side. His inner clouds merely thicken, thicken until no one can see inside him.

  Or hear the eagle within him screaming.

  “Looky look, m’lady, here he be!” Liam steps onto the third floor as Poppy’s pink feet hop over to the far-right side of the central room, where the other ten scouts sit or stand, each with a glass flask of veli. Some, like Peat, gulp the gift down with fervor. Ember sips hers fretfully. Nettle’s already finished, smoking, her little eyes nearly lost in the folds of her face. But Devyn’s body, leaning against the last bit of wall with crossed arms and dry lips upon a hard face, speaks loudest of all: the gift, while necessary, is not accepted.

  His mother stands with her back to them all, facing Liam’s tree.

  It’s maintained its beauty and terror—a lightning storm above the sea, that’s what he imagined as he brought silver ore to shape and sheen. The branches leading to the troughs in the glass house are intact, though many of the glass frames are broken. The silver roots embedded in the floor boards from the tree into the intended rooms for humans remain, even if the floorboards around them were torn up or smashed. Any room with a human had been destroyed—Liam’s sure he can see through the broken walls all the way down to either end of Rose House.

  “I must say, I could not bring myself to destroy this peculiar sculpture.” Her voice is as measured and cool as it ever was. “I was pleased to see you had gotten rid of several portraits—though one modern girl appeared in several mediums. Recently, by the feel of the clay.” Lady Treasa Artair turns.

  Liam loses his breath.

  Where his father’s body betrayed his age, his mother shows hardly a century’s passing. A few gray hairs color her temples, noticeable only because her hair is raven dark and pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. Gold jewelry older than several revolutions adorns her manicured fingers, a gold chain belt and necklace against her billowing black silk shirt and pants. Heeled boots peek out from the cuffs.

  Liam remains on the top step. They are a part of him. They lead away, to Charlotte…and he can’t think what Charlotte’s precocious attitude would draw out of this parental princeborn, if his father resorted to his stone ring so bloody soon.

  “And here you are.” Her painted red lips smile. “My little eaglet’s returned to me at last.” Her heels click clack across the room. She holds out her hands. “Come, Liam, embrace your mother.”

  His hands tug up, knees tug forward. But he bows his head and hides behind a curtain of curls. A tall woman, Lady Artair can hold her son and rest her sharp chin upon his shoulder. Her perfume assaults his nostrils. “So shy? So mute? But you are injured. Come, have some veli. Your scouts are nearly finished, and then they will be excused to prepare.”

  “Prepare?” Liam can’t help it—he combs his hair to the side to face her. “I should think recovery to be the priority. Rose House must heal, the scouts are half-starved, Arlen and I both should make use of the herbarium—"

  “Herbs? Don’t be silly. I told you, Liam, not to believe everything Arlen says. He was charged with teaching you the ways of mortal poisons, and he blatantly disregarded that charge. Nothing upon this earth can heal Velidevour as well as veli.” She holds out her hand. Remus plucks a flask from a small crate situated among the scouts and primly hands it over with a bow. “Now drink this all and have another. You must be at full strength for tomorrow.” She holds out her hand again. This time Lily complies.

  A low, quiet growl rumbles among the scouts.

  Lady Artair’s gaze slides over Devyn. She straightens her shoulders, takes a few steps towards him. “Are all your scouts accounted for, Commoner?”

  “His name’s Devyn,” Liam
says from behind her. She does not respond.

  Devyn blinks once. “Aye, madam. The Lady Orna and yourselves killed the rest.”

  She waves the statement aside. “Then you best find your scouts some mates and start breeding. A few litters and River Vine will return to a healthier population.”

  “Remove the Wall and River Vine could rejoin the water road and other Velidevour. Madam.” Devyn takes one step forward.

  That’s all it takes.

  A single shriek of a note sounds from Lady Artair’s orange stone ring as she holds it in the air. The shriek lasts only a moment.

  But in that moment Devyn hits the ground in a huddle, blood and veli trickling out of his ears. Ember drops her flask into Nettle’s lap and crawls to Devyn’s side, Judoc and Willow behind her.

  “The Wall is not going anywhere, you pathetic lowlife. Nor are any of you.” She crosses her arms, just like Devyn had, but keeps the ring in the sunlight, visible and blinding. “Now it is a pity, yes, that Orna drove River Vine to the brink of ruin. I do not blame the—” she waits for Devyn to look up at her “—the animosity you feel towards the princeborns. It is only natural you desire to protect your own. Such a desire is to be respected, Commoner. Respected, and therefore tailored to be productive. In all the world, there are only two Velidevour provinces walled off in such a manner from mankind’s memory: the Artair stronghold, and River Vine. In time, there will be more walls…” she lifts her eyes towards the glass house and the sky beyond, “…but not for the Velidevour.” Her arms shoot out. Flames and ash burst and bellow away as she emerges, a terrifying eagle of orange fire. The glass house shatters as she ascends. Dirt rains from the broken troughs.

  But the tree holds. Even so close to her fire, Liam’s branches remain, bright and hypnotic as the lightning of those sea-storms around the land Cairine.

  “Master Liam?” Ember sounds so small from the floor, her own sleeves stained with Devyn’s blood while the others help right him up. “Surely you can’t let her—”

  “Liam, come join your mother.” Her voice resounds like a bell.

  The invisible strings tug. The puppet moves where he is guided, ashamed of his silence.

  I will speak, I will not be some toy, I will speak, I will speak, Liam thinks with every step up the silver tree’s trunk and across its branches. The beat of the will is so strong he finally can talk when his foot touches Rose House’s stone roof. “That was uncalled for.”

  His mother stands as a person once more, her ringed hand waving at her side impatiently. “You’ve not been in your proper place, Liam. You forget how princeborns should treat the inferior breeds. And inferior places. What is wrong with this accursed house? I couldn’t get a single chair to form downstairs.” The calm restraint breaks into a sneer. “Liam, create a seat for your mother.”

  “Your mother”—the words reverberated between his ears time and again into such a din, a din that brings Liam to his knees. His hands flat against the ground, the din fades a little. When Liam draws a long, narrow bench out of Rose House’s roof, the din fades completely.

  “Sit by your mother.”

  “Your mother.” Liam complies for a peaceful mind.

  “Listen to your mother and drink all this veli like the good boy I know you are.”

  “Your mother.” Liam swallows both flasks of veli, even while his stomach gurgles in threat to send it all back up. It tastes like absolute drek now, vile as spoiled meat and just as rank. But the veli does drown out the pain, and he can see the bruises upon his skin begin to fade.

  “That’s better. I need you to look your best.”

  Liam sets the flasks down carefully beneath the bench. “Just what exactly are you planning this time, Mother?”

  She crosses her legs and folds her hands primly about one knee. “What I’ve always planned—your ascendance, Liam. All I’ve done, every century, every year, every day, has been to see you, you, as High Lord of all Princeborns, King of all Velidevour. When some scoundrel stabbed you and put you into the living decay, I donned the black of mourning. You see me in it still.”

  But her dry eyes and dryer voice inspire little feeling. “It’s a wonder you didn’t simply forge a crown and place it upon your own head. Or Father’s.”

  Lady Artair snorts. “Your father. No. He’s his own reasons for coming here.” Her eyes dart off to the forest near the lake, where Cairine’s mournful roar so often filled the air. But the trees of River Vine are silent now, the breeze still. All holds still with bated breath. “And I have mine.” Her orange eyes spark with ancient energy. “To bring you home.”

  30

  Chatting Up Artairs

  Charlotte takes long, quick strides through the hall and dining room into the library. The stained-glass window of skipping stones throws a ray of sunlight into her eyes. She slows, eyes watering.

  “Are you all right?”

  Why’s Keller following me? Why isn’t Liam following us? “Fine. Sunlight got me.”

  “Better that than a broken shelf,” Keller kicks aside some papers. Charlotte continues for the spiral staircase, facing away, yet he continues. “Commoners are going to have their work cut out for them. Rose House needs to be spotless by tomorrow morning, or my mother’s going to go ballistic.”

  “Broom’s in the kitchen closet. Have at it,” Charlotte says, and keeps right on walking up.

  “I was told to escort you.” Keller’s feet clang on the stairs behind her.

  Charlotte makes it to the second-floor corridor in time to hear Poppy on the third floor chirping, “I’ll go, m’lady!” in such a ridiculously cheery way while corpses—no she can’t look, she runs into in her lucky bathroom and locks the doors before she can inhale another breath of death—

  The bathroom’s changed once more, this time containing a large shower with lots of sprayers. Charlotte turns them all on, strips, and slides the glass door closed. She leans against the tile wall, losing herself in the heat. Why is Liam’s family here, really? Liam assumed they’d never come back. Arlen sure as hell doesn’t want them around, Dorjan either. Charlotte’s eyes narrow as the Voice confirms the only reason.

  One of the scouts has betrayed us.

  “Not Devyn, that’s for damn sure,” Charlotte mumbles to herself. “Not Ember.” Out of the shower, she dries in silence, flipping through files in her mind like her dad would when on a case. That Remus guy’s a wuss. Willow’d have the speed. How do they even talk or message or— Pieces of a shadow at the crack of the door leading to her quarters.

  Five’ll get me ten it ain’t Liam’s dad. Get me into the closet, House, please. Rose House folds the tile away for a crawl space just big enough for Charlotte to move through. She dresses in grey pants, yellow shirt, and sneakers. Close that crawlspace off. Let’s do this. She opens the closet door.

  Keller, sprawled out on her chair by the fireplace, reads from a book.

  “The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful existence.” He snaps the book shut and studies the cover. “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. You know, I’ve often wondered if Jules Verne might’ve caught sight of something he wasn’t meant to see.”

  Poppy’s chirps bounce along the walls. Charlotte’s ears strain for a word, any word, from Liam. Hang in there, please, I’ll come as soon as I can. “Like what?” Charlotte walks across the room towards her desk. On it sit a few copies of old MAD magazines and a bowl full of Tootsie Pops. Aw, I didn’t even have to ask, House.

  “Like a mermaid. Stellaqui’s their proper name. All the more impressive if Verne did see one and live. One of their nets can easily kill a lion. And those bone-spears they have for war and hunting—quite unique.” Keller rests his chin atop the book’s binding, and stares at Charlotte. Hard. “Quite. Unique.”

  Charlotte picks a
pop and putzes with the wrapper far longer than an eighteen-year-old should. “Pity you never asked him,” she says, and sticks the pop in her mouth.

  “Yeah.” Keller’s eyes narrow at candy and magazines. “You know, your space in Rose House. It is,” he twirls a finger above his head, “immaculate.” He stands up, knocks a knuckle against the mantle before leaning against it. “Your rooms haven’t a single scratch or scrape.”

  “What, you drag your nose along the floorboards and everything?”

  The sanitary smell begins to stifle. It’s a harsh scent, bleachy and cold. The smell of scrutiny. “Liam and Orna didn’t meet in here too, did they?” A grin unrolls slowly across his face.

  Charlotte’s teeth crack into the candy. Go ahead, try to get a rise outta me. I’m locking my brain in a box, and you ain’t pickin’ the lock for Keith Moon’s drumsticks. “Pretty sure we’d have slipped on someone’s fluid if they did.” She walks through the partition Liam had made, a stained-glass meadow of countless violets, and rips all the crazy-colored afghans off the bed. “Got an infrared light to make sure?”

  Keller finally blinks and gazes downward. “Okay, that was piss-poor on my part. My apologies. I’m just—”

  “—an ass with good taste in music?”

  Keller laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Oddly succinct, and accurate.” He saunters up to the partition. “Now this intrigues me.”

  “Liam made it.”

  “That explains why I recognize the meadow,” he gives a sly wink. “Seems all his windows survived whatever punishment the sweet Lady Artair chose to inflict on her son for enjoying something not related to world domination. I see why Rose House has worked to keep them—they’re part of the structure itself, and they’re, you know, pretty. But your rooms—surely not constructed with the tastes of two immortal men.” Keller closes the partition with a definitive clack. “Rose House listens to you. A human.”

  Charlotte carelessly tosses the afghans back on the bed, even though her insides are racing, her lungs suffocating with the sterile odor. He’s trying to corner me. How can I stop him cornering me? “Probably because unlike you lot, I am not an ass.”