by Nicole Field
"Suri, my Suri, I was worried sick…" Pascal pressed his face into her hair, trying to tug her closer, but this was made very difficult by the fact that he had only one arm free with which to hold her. Realizing this, he shifted his weight, and Suri jolted back in shock as the body Pascal had been supporting moved, lifting its head to look up at her wearily.
"Kilkastel!?" Suri yelped, shrill, then clamped a hand over her own mouth, eyes wide.
The Witch-Prince of Pavra slowly straightened up to his full height, though he kept one arm braced on Pascal's shoulder. He was a tall, slender, elegant man with luxuriously long silver hair. His eyes, equally pale in his gaunt face, flickered quickly from Pascal to Suri, then back again.
"Your Highness, Princess Suri," Kilkastel said, very politely, in a papery sort of voice. "It has been quite some time. I had been looking forward to speaking more with you at… this event, but things have gotten quite… yes, well, you see, it's a bit inconvenient, isn't it… all of this…"
Suri stared at Kilkastel, then at Pascal. "Please," she said. "Please, gods, can someone explain to me what is going on?"
The fact that Pascal was a demon was, of course, no surprise to her. He was her Papa; she had obviously known for years. But the fact that Kilkastel apparently knew, and that Kilkastel was here, apparently not part of a strange demon conspiracy but, rather, a victim of it…
"I'll explain everything," Pascal promised her, shifting himself back to his human form, though his pupils took a moment longer than usual to snap back into place. "Along the way. We have to get to Yue."
"Father—" Suri turned to look quickly at the blocked exit. "But—this, whatever this is—"
"It was meant to hold humans," Pascal said with a grim smile. "Not demons. Don't worry—stand back, and let your papa take care of this."
Fen
The ballroom was in chaos.
When the screams started, Fen immediately dashed straight for the main doors—but it was already too late. Half a dozen demons were already there, closing and bracing the doors firmly from the inside. Trying to get in that way was futile.
Fen abruptly changed course, heading instead for the servants' passageways. The lower ones, they suspected, would be guarded as well—but the balcony likely less so. They ran up the narrow flight of stairs, taking them three at a time, distantly aware that Foxglove and Lucie were following close behind.
Rushing out onto the upper level, Fen dove behind the banister and looked down through the rails, scanning the crowd and rapidly trying to take in the scene.
There were about twenty demons all told—three or four at each main door, the remainder rounding up the partygoing nobility and important guests. The servants that weren't secretly shapeshifting demons were being herded into the orchestra pit. Very few of the demons were armed—just those who had been masquerading as guards. But then, Fen thought grimly to themself, demons didn't really need weapons in order to be formidable.
The blue-skinned demon standing on the dais with King Yue was, in fact, armed—if only for show—and Fen felt a deep, fierce sense of fury spike in them at the sight. He was still wearing what was clearly Prince Pascal's outfit and had a sword pressed to Yue's throat. The King had his hands laced calmly in front of himself, his eyes closed, silent and still.
Over the panicky din of the crowd, Witch-Prince Kilkastel's voice rang out as he strode forward, lifting his arms to the ceiling.
"Citizens of Vie," he called, with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "As you can see, your king's weaknesses have betrayed you. Outside of this room, nobody knows of your peril. And so… if you wish to live, the time has come to pledge your allegiance to the kingdom of Pavra, and its Witch-Emperor!"
"Is this for real?" Foxglove hissed, crouching down next to Fen. Next to him, Lucie puddled on the floor, staring down at the sight with saucer-wide eyes, her hands clasped over her mouth.
"It's not… it can't be right," Fen muttered. "That's not Prince Pascal. And as for Prince Kilkastel… it just doesn't seem right." Fen hadn't been around Kilkastel very much and was willing to admit that maybe they'd been fooled into complacency and trust just as King Yue had been. Still, that certainly hadn't been the impression Fen had gotten of the man, and on matters of character judgement, Fen didn't often find themself proven wrong.
"Fen," Lucie whispered urgently. "What do we do? We can't… we can't let them kill the King! Or any of the others—what are they doing?"
"They don't want to kill them, if they can help it," Foxglove said darkly. "They want them alive, but in thrall. Controlled."
Fen looked at him with a sudden sharp frown. "Do you think so?" they asked, slowly.
Foxglove met their gaze. There was a moment of hesitation again, and he glanced back towards Lucie. Weighing how much of the truth he should tell me, Fen realized.
"Yeah," said Foxglove, after a moment's pause. "Not only would they be able to use people they control to invade and poison the country from within, they'll also be better able to mimic them. Shapeshifters can take any form, but if they want to do a convincing impression of an actual person, it's important that they're still living. The demon can take a bit of their body—hair, flesh, whatever—and channel their essence through it. Tap into their surface-level memories. Things like that."
Fen had many, many questions, but forced themself to focus on the ones relevant to the situation at hand. "If that's the case, why are they causing a scene like this? Why not just keep going after people in secret?"
Foxglove shrugged. "There's still a risk of getting caught," he said. "And willing subjects are much easier to put in thrall. By setting the stage like this, threatening the King, making a show of it, they can subjugate by demonstration."
Fen hands clenched so tightly on the railing in front of them that they heard a soft crack as the varnished wood began to buckle. King Yue was in danger. Pascal and Suri were missing. And Fen was here, right here, and had no idea what to do. There were too many demons to take on one-on-one. Fen didn't know what Foxglove could do, but Lucie could be blown over in a strong wind. Even if Foxglove were a possible ally, it was still too much, too many.
A feeling swelled up in Fen's chest that they hadn't felt for a very long time: Helplessness.
Fen had lived in the castle their entire life. Their mother had been one of Queen Hina's attendants; they'd never known their father. When the queen decided she'd had enough of being royalty and left King Yue to raise their young daughter without her, Fen's mother had accompanied her. The last Fen had heard, the former queen and her ladies were organizing charitable relief near some border or other. Sometimes they sent gifts. Suri kept them. Fen guiltily thought it a bit petty of themself that they never did.
One night shortly after it had happened, Suri had found Fen crying in the garden. The princess had always been short-statured and soft-featured; as a child, she had resembled nothing more than a fat kitten that hadn't quite figured out how all her limbs worked together in unison.
She had wriggled in close to Fen, putting one hand over theirs. "Are you sad that your Mother is gone?" When Fen sniffled instead of answering, Suri had squeezed their hand reassuringly. "I'm sad, too. But I have Father and Papa, still."
That had struck like a dart to the chest. "Well, you're lucky, then. I don't have anybody," Fen had mumbled, temperamental and miserable.
Suri had been undeterred, flopping over onto the grass and extending her arms up above her, as though trying to frame the stars in her hands. "Don't worry," she had said simply. "You're not alone." At Fen's wary, questioning look, Suri had given her a smile, dimpled and bright. "Now you have me!"
But Suri wasn't here right now. Fen couldn't protect her, didn't know where she was or what had happened to her. They had no direction. How were they supposed to rescue the king that had treated Fen like one of his own?
Fen felt someone seize their hand. They looked down to find Lucie gazing up at them, expression pained and earnest. "Fen," Lucie whispered. "We've g
ot to do something. Listen—" Lucie drew in a great, deep breath. "I'm a witch. I'm a healer, mostly, but I'm sure there must be something I can do. So just… let me know how I can help."
Fen stared at her for a moment, then flicked their gaze up to Foxglove. The man—no, almost certainly a demon, Fen realized now—gave a little jerky shrug of one shoulder and a grim smile.
Fen looked back down at Lucie's earnest expression, then squeezed Lucie's hands tightly.
"Thanks for telling me," they said simply, trying to keep their voice steady. They were sure they didn't imagine the look of relief that flooded Lucie's face, and Fen felt their own courage returning at the sight. "You're right. We have to do something. So—"
There was sudden loud crash as the servants' door to the kitchens slammed open, down below.
"Imposter!" yelled Princess Suri, standing in the doorway and lifting a carving knife high over her head. "Unhand my father immediately."
Fen's heart leapt in their chest, a tight swell of joy and awe—quickly followed by utter panic.
"Suri!" Lucie gasped, hopping up to her feet as well. "Fen, she—"
Fen was already moving, dashing down the length of the balcony. Unthinking, they grabbed onto the rail, then vaulted up and over, sailing over the edge and plummeting down towards their princess and into the fray.
Foxglove
Foxglove lurched towards the edge of the balcony, but it was too late—Fen had already launched themself up and over and crashed down directly on top of a demon that had started to advance towards Princess Suri. Somehow, Fen was rolling forward and on their feet just moments later, blond braids flying as they heaved themself up and unsheathed their sword in one smooth movement.
"Oh, wow," Lucie gasped, clutching Foxglove's elbow.
"I am not doing that," Foxglove informed her. Lucie wrinkled her nose at him, but her attention was quickly drawn back down to the ballroom, and he followed her gaze.
Everything was happening at once. Suri's entrance in the ballroom seemed to have returned some life to the partygoers, who began to yell and protest and try to rush the doors, the demons, everything. He was pretty sure some of them were crashing into windows that didn't actually open.
Servants streamed in through the kitchen door from behind Suri, wielding everything from steak knives to rolling pins. One young man defiantly hoisted a cast-iron pan. Behind them was a figure identical to that of the Witch-Prince Kilkastel that currently stood on the dais, except this one was missing the enormous silver-antler crown. He held no weapon, and his face was impassive, long fingers steepled and expression mildly pinched, as though he was surveying a particularly unruly children's birthday party. Next to him, a dapperly-dressed red-haired man stood wielding a sharp-edged silver blade that looked incredibly out of pace in the hands of a man who looked every inch a pampered, high-rolling diplomat. And yet he hefted it like it weighed nothing, his gaze fixed unerringly on the King.
Prince Pascal, Foxglove realized, gaze flicking between him and the imposter holding King Yue hostage.
Taking advantage of the distraction, King Yue jammed his elbow back at the demon, shoving his arm up and out of the way as he ducked down. How one soft human could move that quickly while wearing that many layers of fancy robes, Foxglove had no idea—but Yue managed to dash out of the way, retreating back up to the throne as the demon cursed and scrambled to chase after him.
"Stop them!" Fake-Kilkastel hissed, raising a hand over his head. Crackling energy began to gather there, pulsing green. Instinctively, Foxglove yanked Lucie a little closer against his side.
"We should go—we need to run," Foxglove said, grabbing her hand and tugging. "It's not safe here—"
Lucie pulled back stubbornly, holding her ground. "I'm not going to abandon Fen and Suri!” she protested, aghast. “And all of these people!"
A spike of fear, like acid. "You're not a fighter," Foxglove hissed. "You won't last a second down there if someone goes after you!"
"So I won't go down there," Lucie argued, turning to stare him down with a startlingly fierce gaze. "You don't have to do anything if you don't want to, Foxglove. This isn't your fight. I know I brought you here. It's my fault you're involved, now, and I won't blame you if you leave. But the woman I love is down there, and her parents, and my friend, and I'm going to help them!"
Before Foxglove could do more than open his mouth in return, Lucie dropped to the floor of the balcony, face peering between the rails as she outstretched one hand. All around the ballroom, the decorative plants began to respond to her silent call. Climbing ivy on ornamental pillars began to unwind, reaching out to snag the ankles of passing demons. There was a loud, guttural creaking noise, then a loud crash as one of the windows smashed open and the gnarled branches of a peach tree reached inside like an oversized hand.
Lucie didn't look back up at Foxglove, her expression drawn in concentration, but the narrow set of her shoulders said it all: I can help, and I want to help. Don't underestimate me.
Irritable, chastised, ashamed, feeling his skin crawl, Foxglove let out a sharp breath and shifted into a crow. Spreading his wings wide, he settled briefly on the balcony railing, feathers rustling. If Lucie was staying, if Lucie was fighting—he had no choice.
Besides, I can't let everybody here show me up, he thought, then launched himself off the balcony, swooping down towards the crowd.
It was an all-out brawl at this point. Much of the fighting was centered on Suri and Fen, standing back-to back. Fen was clearing attackers away with wide, deadly swipes of their sword, but Suri was holding her own as well; as Foxglove watched, she pulled a perfume bottle out of her dress and smashed it with distinct aim directly into a demon's face.
They appeared to be doing well—but something had grazed Fen at some point. Blood streamed freely over one side of their face, trailing into their eye, which was squinted tightly shut. Temporarily blind on that side, they didn't see one of the demons launching toward them, claws outstretched.
Tucking his wings closely to his side, Foxglove dove down, raking his talons across the demon's scalp and yanking at one horn. He couldn't do much damage, but he'd done enough—the demon shrieked and flung her hands up over her head, drawing Fen's attention long enough that they could block the advance, bringing their sword down in a sharp, vertical chop. They caught sight of Foxglove, attention fixed on him for a bare moment, before they gave him a brief salute and turned back to the fray.
Feeling something strange flutter in his chest, Foxglove let out a loud caw in acknowledgement, wheeling around and winding his way back towards the ceiling again. After confirming that Lucie was still doing her work undetected, tucked safely out of harm's way, Foxglove cast his gaze around for the royals.
The sight on the dais was… bizarre. Prince Pascal was positioned protectively in front of King Yue, engaged in combat with his erstwhile doppelganger, his sword flashing as he blocked the demon's swipes and lunges. More than once, the demon came at Pascal with a magic spell—a handful of flames, or a pulse of living rock trying to grab him by the ankles—but the prince shrugged off the attacks like they were nothing, stepping nimbly out of the way, his blade moving so quickly that Foxglove couldn't even follow the movement.
So that's odd, Foxglove thought to himself, ducking lower to get a better look, wildly curious—and finding himself, instead, perilously close to not one, but two Witch-Princes.
They weren't doing anything; they were just standing there, staring each other down.
"Ansketel," said the crownless one, voice pitched so softly that Foxglove had to dip a little closer to hear it. "Why… why have you done this?"
The crowned one—Ansketel, apparently—let out a loud snarl, eyes flashing an ominous green. "You know very well why!" he hissed. "It's your fault! You and your foolish dreams of peace. The Vierans don't deserve our deference! They deserve to be crushed beneath Pavra's might, and you're too weak a leader to do it!"
Kilkastel, the real one, rubbed his
face with both hands, casting his gaze up to the ceiling, as if imploring it for patience. "… Come, Ansketel," he said. "It's over for you, now. Your plan… here," he gestured with one hand out to the rioting room, "has fallen apart. If you surrender…" He winced a little. "We will be merciful…"
Oh, that's not going to go over well, Foxglove thought.
Predictably enough, Ansketel recoiled with a noise of sheer fury, losing his hold on Kilkastel's shape, all tail and claws and snarling fangs, now. "A fool to the end," he said, raising one hand and gathering power in his palm, a crackling ball of lightning.
Kilkastel's gaze was on that hand, his own hands raising to counter—which meant that he wasn't seeing what Foxglove could, from his higher vantage point. Ansketel's other arm jerked down, and a gleaming blade appeared between his fingers, bright to Foxglove's eyes and poisonous with magic.
He wasn't aiming at Kilkastel—that was a fight he knew he would lose. Prince Pascal, nearby, had gained the upper hand in the fight with his double and was driving him back towards the wall. Leaving just the king—
The king—
The next few moments came in pieces and fragments. Foxglove had no time to think, barely enough time to react. He tucked his wings close to his sides and dove.
Change, he thought desperately, forcing his body to shift, grow, change—just a breath before the knife struck him. It sliced through his skin, embedding itself into his chest, sending agonizing pain shocking all the way through to the tips of his fingers.
He crashed down in a heap of limbs, horns smashing against the marble floor so hard that it left a dent, his head ringing with the impact.
Motionless, he watched, stunned and dazed, as Kilkastel took down the imposter, immolating him in a burst of silver flame until nothing was left but the antler crown, resting in a heap of ashes. Prince Pascal's opponent had dropped to his knees, hands up in surrender—a considerable relief, as Pascal had whipped around at the sound of Foxglove crashing to the floor, eyes wide in horror.