Rise of the Fey

by Alessa Ellefson

  “There’s no reason to be as frumpy as your dress,” Keva says with a slight grimace of annoyance as we move towards the ballroom in the middle of a growing throng of people. “And do remember to keep your gloves on.”

  But no matter what Keva tells me or how incensed she sounds, I can’t stop thinking about the journal. Why would Arthur rip those pages out and then give me the report? Unless he’s unaware about the fact; after all, I almost didn’t catch it myself. But then, who else could have done it and, most importantly, what was on those pages that they didn’t want anyone else to see?

  All thoughts of the missing pages are momentarily shunted aside, however, when we finally manage to push our way inside the ballroom.

  “Pretty nice, huh?” Keva asks, noting my open-mouthed stare.

  She steers us down a wide, but short room, weaving in between boisterous guests, silent servants, and tablefuls of drinks and amuse-bouches39 towards another set of open doors.

  I gape as we pass under the large marble arch, wreaths of holly and mistletoe stretched over it in between a pair of tiny dragons puffing fire to light the way.

  “OK, now you’re just being embarrassing,” Keva mutters, elbowing me in the ribs. “Can you stop with all the drooling? Makes you look like a total bumpkin.”

  “Are those real?” I ask, inhaling a lungful of sulfur as one of the dragons starts coughing, as if it’s gotten a fly stuck in its gullet.

  Keva glances sideways at them. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “They’ve got a few saurian oghams around here. Usually like to whip them out for special occasions, to impress first-timers like you.”

  We emerge at the top of a grand staircase that leads down to the biggest dancefloor I’ve ever seen. Already, dozens of glittering couples can be seen dancing to the music of the small orchestra ensconced upon the dais at the back of the room. Next to the musicians stands what has to be a ten-foot tall Christmas tree, bedecked with so many candles I’m surprised it hasn’t burned down yet.

  “Found them,” Keva says, dragging me behind her.

  Our dresses whisper along the carpeted floor as we make our way up another flight of stairs. We land in a darkened gallery, its railing forming small arches like that of an aqueduct to let in spears of dazzling light from the massive chandeliers that hang above the dance floor.

  It seems the additional stairs combined with the added weight of food and drinks doesn’t make this a favorite haunt of the guests’, and I have no trouble spotting Jennifer and Arthur standing at the far end of the long balcony.

  Both are engrossed in a discussion with a stocky man, Jennifer’s honey yellow dress complimenting the burgundy of Arthur’s uniform. Apparently, the stocky man has said something quite witty for they both burst out laughing, Arthur’s sturdy arm snaking around Jennifer’s shoulders, squeezing her closer.

  And for no reason at all, I find myself hating their picture-perfect coupledom, their fraudulent display of affection so irking I want to throw up.

  Suddenly, Keva throws an arm out to stop me from joining them. “I think you better stay here,” she says with a significant look at me.

  Sheepishly, I realize that I’ve called onto my powers again, and a breeze is now making our dresses snap against our legs angrily.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, forcing myself to calm down, and the wind quickly dissipates. “I’ll control myself better.”

  But as I make to follow her, Keva stops me again. “I mean it, Morgan,” she says. “That’s Sir Hengist of the Errant Companions over there”—she points towards the stocky man—“he’s notorious for being very aggressive and a born Fey hater. If he sees you, you’ll be impaled on the spot.”

  I grimace at the picture, and instinctively pull on my gloves to make sure they’re still in place, hiding the ugly stains that cover my hands and would give me away.

  “Right then,” Keva says. “I’ll let them know we’re here and are just gonna hang back. Stay here.”

  I nod, sinking onto a plush stool set by one of the pillars, feeling miserable and humiliated. Why bring me to this hell-hole at all if I have to hide who I am and Arthur’s going to ignore me like I’m a leper the whole time?

  I hail a passing waiter for a glass of champagne, gulp down the bubbly liquid, before smacking the cup back down onto the servant’s tray and snatching another.

  “Morgan!” Keva squeals, rushing back to my side. “Squires are not supposed to drink on duty!”

  I down the champagne as quickly as I did the first glass and smile defiantly at Keva’s scowl.

  “You’re not supposed to draw attention to yourself, remember?” she says accusingly.

  “You think I don’t know that already?” I ask back, failing to repress a burp which only makes Keva look that much more scandalized.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here before you make a scene,” she says.

  But as we make our way back downstairs, my feet get tangled up in the hem of my dress and I find myself tilting forward, the steps rushing up to meet me. My hands flail about, scrambling for a hold, and I hear a horrible rending sound as I slow down to a stop.

  “Morgan!” Keva shrieks, holding her arms protectively over her chest.

  I guiltily let go of the torn section of her dress, holding my hands up like I’m at gunpoint. “Sorry about that,” I mumble.

  “Sorry my ass,” Keva retorts, angry tears in her eyes. “Oh, this is perfect. And we just got here! Now excuse me while I go change.”

  Blushing furiously, I stumble my way down to the arcade that runs along one side of the room, seeking shelter from prying eyes behind one of the seven pillars that form its archway. All seven of them have been carved into representations of the different archangels, their extended wings carrying the gallery above, and, judging by the sword and scales held in his hands, it appears I’ve found refuge beside Saint Michael.

  “How’s the party?” I ask in forced mirth, clinking a glass of mulled wine against the statue’s stone sword.

  “How is it indeed?” a warm voice answers back.

  I stagger back in surprise, spilling half of my new drink onto the highly-polished wooden floor.

  “Careful, darling,” Lugh says, moving out of the statue’s shadow to stop me from falling. “This may not be ambrosia, but it can still cloud your brain, if only for a short while.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I say defiantly.

  “Not for a lack of trying, I can see,” Lugh says. His unfathomable eyes scan the crowd as it ebbs and flows around us to the rhythm of the music. His hold tightens around my waist. “Come away with us, it is still not too late. Can you not see that you do not belong here?”

  “Oh, and you think I’ll do well with your lot?” I ask, disentangling myself from him. “You who worked with the forces of evil? I think not.” And I quickly down my fifth glass of alcohol—or is it the sixth?

  Lugh’s eyes narrow at me in a bored look, but I know now that it’s a sign he’s highly displeased. And getting a powerful Fey highly displeased with you is probably not a good idea. Thankfully, I’m momentarily spared from bearing the brunt of his wrath by the arrival of Sameerah, her snake no longer around her slender shoulders.

  “Trouble?” Lugh asks her, craning his neck around to the wide glass doors that make up the entirety of the opposite wall.

  Following his gaze, I see Percy and Blanchefleur deep in conversation, their brown curls almost touching, completely oblivious to their surroundings.

  “I’m not talking about those two rutting in their corner,” Sameerah says.

  She turns slightly to the side, and I distinctly hear her say ‘peasant’ under her breath as Lady Tanya emerges from one of the smaller side dining rooms, her striped brown fur dress making her look like a giant chipmunk.

  “My dearest, Loo,” Lady Tanya says, fanning her ample bosom, “I am so glad to see you at last!”

  She extends her bejeweled hand towards him and I feel Lugh stiffen beside me. Lady Tanya seems to notice his di
scomfort and bursts into a high-pitched, girly laugh that makes me grind my teeth.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she says, tapping Lugh on the shoulder with her fan, “I’m not going to eat you.”

  Though the look she gives him denies her words, Lugh finally returns her smile. Without needing further encouragement, Lady Tanya grabs his arm. Sameerah lets out a soft growl, but Lugh motions her away, and she hangs back, clearly vexed she can’t at least take this knight out of the picture.

  “I have a lot of things I’d like to discuss with you,” Lady Tanya says, batting a nosy woman out of their way with her fan, “starting with that little secret you’ve been harboring. Oh yes, my little spies have been busy, as you can tell.”

  Her teeth-gnashing laugh gets swallowed up in the surrounding din as the two of them disappear in the crowd, followed by a skulking Sameerah, and I find myself left to my own devices once again.

  I end up drifting through the crowd, regularly exchanging my empty glass for a full one, until I find myself by the patio doors, away from the suffocating press of bodies. One of the doors has been propped open, and I can feel the cold night air spilling around me, easing away the stifling heat and allowing my head to clear.

  I glance up, squinting against the chandeliers’ glare and into the gallery’s shadowy recesses. But I can’t see either Arthur’s deep red uniform nor Jennifer’s bright yellow dress amongst the few people now strolling down its length. The two of them have probably gone off gallivanting somewhere more private.

  “Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” someone says behind me in an acid voice.

  I spin around and, to my utter displeasure, find myself face-to-face with Hector.

  “W-what are you doing here?” I ask.

  Hector leans forward, leering at my décolletage. I gasp, trying to cover myself, and Hector lets out a short, dry laugh.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “Even with a pretty bow a rat is still a rat. Nothing more than a vessel for the plague.”

  “Yes, well, even rats have standards,” I say, drawing myself up as I recover from my shock, “and you don’t even meet those.”

  Hector gives me a toothy grin but his stare remains flat. “There is something you can do for me, however,” he says. Before I can react, he grabs my arm painfully hard and twists it behind my back until I’m pressed firmly against him, his other hand at my throat. For a second, I think I feel Arthur’s pendant pulse against my chest, but the feeling is quickly gone, replaced by a twinge of fear and copious amounts of irritation.

  “Get your filthy paws off me, you miserable wretch,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Hector’s hand tightens around my throat, choking any further insults off. “Let your master know that his reign is over,” he whispers into my ear.

  I hiccup in surprise as he shoves me away before storming off.

  “What did he want?” Arthur asks, suddenly at my elbow, startling me.

  “What is it with you people always trying to scare me?” I ask back, feeling somewhat unsteady on my legs.

  Arthur leans into me and sniffs, like a dog choosing its next fire hydrant to mark. “How much have you had to drink?” he asks me, frowning.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to bat him away. “It’s just this dress is too long, my heels too tall, and it’s too stuffy in here.”

  I pull on my neckline uncomfortably, only to have a suddenly reddening Arthur take off his coat and put it around my shoulders.

  “I said I was hot,” I say indignantly.

  “We’re going to get you some fresh air,” Arthur retorts as he leads me to the patio where Percy and Blanchefleur are now standing—this time, the knight’s got his hand around the taller Fey’s waist, and she doesn’t seem to mind. I snort. Guess someone’s taking advantage of this most horrid evening.

  “D’ya need us to come along?” Percy asks as we walk past more of those saurian oghams blowing fire to keep the guests warm in the otherwise frigid air.

  “No, just keep your eyes and ears peeled,” Arthur says.

  Percy nods, and I realize that both he and Blanchefleur are perfectly positioned to keep a discrete eye on both the revelers inside and those who’ve decided to take a stroll in the gardens.

  The winter wind howls around us as we go down the steps towards the snow-covered gardens, and I hug Arthur’s jacket closer to myself.

  “Now tell me, what did Hector want?” Arthur asks, finally releasing me.

  “I don’t see why it should matter to you,” I say, louder than I’d anticipated.

  “It does matter to me,” Arthur retorts. “You’re my squire, and part Fey. People are bound to look for ways to use you against me, and against yourself.”

  “Whatever,” I say, moving away from him only to slip on a patch of ice.

  I catch myself on the handrail, Arthur’s coat slipping off my shoulders. Curse these stupid shoes Keva made me buy—I want my boots back!

  “I still don’t like to see you linger about him,” Arthur says.

  “Linger?” I say, my voice growing in volume. “I didn’t linger, he sought me out! And just to insult me, might I add.”

  “Nevertheless, you should stay away from him,” Arthur says, helping me back into his coat. “You should also steer clear from Lugh and his crew. Fraternizing with the enemy in public isn’t going to get any points in your favor.”

  “The enemy you’re trying to join forces with,” I retort, shooing him away.

  “Until we’ve made the pact, they’re our enemy,” Arthur says curtly, “and that is how everyone else sees them.”

  “Not Lady Tanya,” I say.

  “She’s different,” Arthur replies.

  “Why?” I ask bitterly. “Because her blood isn’t tainted?”

  “Because she’s the head of her Order,” Arthur says. “Lugh’s here on a temporary truce, so until a decision’s reached in our favor by the Board, you stay away from him. Your file’s already long enough as it is, you don’t need to add traitor to the list.”

  “Ha! Embarrassed about me, are you?” I ask, crossing my arms. “But speaking about files, I noticed something strange about the one you gave me on my father.”

  Arthur watches me warily, a few fat snowflakes landing in his dark blond hair before melting away.

  “It seems someone’s tampered with it,” I continue, observing him carefully for any sign of guilt. “As in someone’s torn the last few pages out.”

  “I never noticed that,” Arthur says.

  “Oh please, don’t start that with me again,” I say. “I’m tired of being lied to.”

  “I’m not—”

  “First about my parents, and now about my father’s death?” I yell.

  “Hush,” Arthur says, casting a quick look at the balcony above where a few people have gathered to watch us. “There’s never been anything more in there beyond the mention of Duke Gorlois’s death.”

  His eyes suddenly slide to a spot over my shoulder and he quickly steps away from me. Looking around, I find Sir Leo and Jennifer climbing down the patio steps to join us in the gardens, their attendants flocking in behind them.

  “Darling?” Jennifer asks when they reach us, her eyebrows arched questioningly in my direction. “Trouble with your squire?”

  “Not at all,” Arthur says. “Just a few last minute orders to give out. Nothing consequential.”

  I clench my hands into fists. I’ll show him nothing consequential!

  Arthur smiles at Jennifer, his besotted look plastered back onto his face, and she grabs his arm possessively.

  “Father wanted to speak with you about your alliance,” she says sweetly, the perfect image of the dutiful daughter and loving fiancée.

  Arthur bows to Sir Leo and they cross the pathway to disappear back inside the building through a side entrance, their retinue filing in after them. Before I can storm away, however, a figure lingers behind, drawing near me.

  “Don’t forget,” Sir Neil mouths at
me, pointing at the large watch circling his wrist.

  And as he slips inside after the others, I suddenly remember the strange message he gave me. My hands ball into fists inside Arthur’s overlong sleeves. I’m tired of being bounced around like a bloody ping-pong ball. Trap or no, I’m going to find out what these people want from me, and take things into my own hands. Period.

  Standing before the door in the empty hallway, I can hear my own heart pounding. I check once more that this is the only other door around apart from the auditorium’s, just to make sure Percy didn’t fib about the location. This must be it, I tell myself, garnering up my courage. But my hand still pauses on the handle, the cold seeping through my glove as I try to sense any movement on the other side, any sign that I may be walking straight into an ambush.

  My hand slips on the handle as I push it down but the door opens without a sound, and I find myself staring at a thousand pairs of golden eyes.

  I blink in surprise and the thousand pairs of eyes blink back at me. I break out into a low laugh—of course, dummy, it’s the Hall of Mirrors.

  I quickly slip inside and steal softly down the long hallway. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes cover every inch of the walls, red lanterns hanging from the ceiling making dim pools of light on the tiled floor. As I move in front of them, the mirrors brighten to form disparate landscapes—empty rooms, the inside of a cave, a mountain ridge, a leafy forest—before dimming away again as I leave them in my wake.

  I follow the corridor as it folds over itself like a giant, coiled-up snake, my curiosity growing with every step. It seems all these mirrors are being used for constant scrying; I’ve seen Arthur and the others do it enough to tell.

  A light pink flash draws my attention away from a platypus floating about in a clear river. Ears perked for any sign of approach, I draw near to the low-hanging, oval mirror over which the light keeps flashing, and freeze midstride as a face blooms into view in its shimmering surface. A man, his features distorted in a scream of anguish, is staring straight at me.