by Sarina Dorie
Errol’s palms went clammy as he thought about something bigger than what he’d already seen.
“The colonel will probably assign each guard who hasn’t gone mad in the past or had a breakdown while the royal family works their muse magic. If we’re short of staff, he’ll send in those who haven’t had a breakdown in a while. Or those he wishes to get rid of.” Her eyes narrowed with displeasure at that.
From her reaction, Errol wondered how many times she had been given the duty of attending this salon.
“There’s always a high casualty rate among the guards at these events. Much of the Silver Court will be in attendance, including extended family.” She leaned in closer. “You watch yourself. It isn’t just shadow goblins and muse magic you have to keep an eye out for.”
“What do you mean?”
“The members of the Silver Court are as sharp as silver knives—and just as lethal.” She gave him a meaningful look.
Errol wasn’t certain one month of lessons was enough to prepare him for such a large duty.
“One more thing. . . . Officially, your captain will be in charge of your area, but Kasen won’t be in the room. He’s going to make you oversee the other soldiers. Do you think you’ll be able to handle all that muse magic?” Helga’s blonde brows drew together in concern.
Errol held himself taller. “Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it?”
The muse magic was the only part he was confident he could handle.
CHAPTER TEN
Control and Chaos
“Controlled chaos,” Colonel Sigeweard said. “It can be utter madness as staff and soldiers work behind the scenes, but the expectation is that none of that chaos is visible to those who attend this blasted salon.”
The men stood in line, listening to the colonel’s version of a pep talk. Captain Helga had been correct that Errol would be in charge of the soldiers in the rooms where the artists would be at work.
The staff was busy preparing for days. Alma was often a valuable source of gossip—and sometimes she knew what to expect from the royal family’s planned festivities before Errol was told by his superiors. As assistant cook, she had to place orders with the butcher and prepare meals in advance. Errol went to converse with her, but she was too swamped in the kitchen to speak with him and worked late into the night preparing dishes for the royal family.
One hundred human artists were “invited” to attend the king’s party. Errol was in charge of entrancing one of the Morty musicians and kidnapping the man in the middle of the night as his family slept. The musician would be returned to his home before daybreak, exhausted and having thought the night of Fae and muses was but a dream.
The king and queen had been very selective about the guest list. It was supposed to be an honor for these human artists to be invited to the Silver Court and be blessed with ardent creativity. Even so, Errol didn’t feel right about kidnapping humans. He had always assumed these humans had been invited and came voluntarily.
Still, the Silver Court was providing a great service to the Morty Realm. Errol was guardian of this great court and all the goodness it stood for.
The day of the celebration, the extended family of the Silver Court arrived: dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses, marquess and marchioness, and other lords and ladies. Errol would have recognized most as being of the Silver Court because of the silvery-blond hue of their hair and the sparkling silver of their magic, but some were dressed so peculiarly it was difficult to tell what the royalty looked like under their glamours and costumes.
Errol patrolled past a man wearing a leopard skin draped over his shoulders as a cape. It almost hid the frame where delicate wings fashioned out of sharp metal sheets attached to his corset. Only once the man passed did Errol realize the giant cat was alive as the creature cast a mournful glance his way. A viscount wearing a coat made of canvas paintings stitched together barreled down the hallway to the room of painters, bowling his extended family out of the way to be first through the door. Being invisible, Errol jumped back to avoid being struck.
A duchess wore a dress fashioned from sheets of music, the notes rippling as if music played across the parchment. Ornaments made of treble clef notes stuck out of her hair.
“I must have a composer or musician,” she said to another Fae. “Their originality tastes superior to any other.”
Her companion, another muse who must have preferred music, charged with her toward the room of dancers and musicians. She wore ornamental wings shaped from brass instruments.
A lady wearing a farthingale cage on the outside of her clothes had attached charcoal drawings to the whalebone, though with the numerous gaps in between each sheet, she made no attempt to hide that she didn’t wear anything under the hoop skirt except a fig leaf. One of the guards tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better look at some of the lewd drawings she displayed.
Errol elbowed him and shook his head. “Stay vigilant.”
The officer scowled. “I am, Lieutenant.”
Errol realized his mistake. He had just chided one of the captains. He didn’t know why he’d been put in charge of the soldiers attending the event when he didn’t even possess a rank that gave him authority over those he monitored.
Errol continued circling the crowd, and the rooms grew stuffier as more guests arrived.
Some of the ladies and gentlemen wore garish makeup that made them look like dolls. The Silver Court dressed even more outlandishly than they did for the grand balls. One of these dukes was very likely his great-great-grandfather, though he didn’t know whom. And of course, there were many who had died in the last two hundred years from iron sickness or from battles with rival courts. For all Errol knew, he might not have any living relatives—nor would he expect them to acknowledge an heir with commoner in their blood.
Errol strolled through the crowd, his attention divided between potential dangers and those under his command who might be influenced by muse magic. Shadow goblins skulked from shadow to shadow, but they remained relatively subdued. Errol suspected they wouldn’t stay that way.
A marble statue was dramatically posed before the window in the library. Errol hadn’t noticed the statue before that evening. Errol realized the nude statue was actually one of the royal family when the statue’s eyes tracked the movement of an artist in his nightgown, and muse magic glittered in the air between them. A new fountain in the king’s parlor turned out to be woman in a large dress containing a pool of water and an abundance of glamour. Shadow goblins splashed in the water. They also swung from a chandelier that turned out to be another Fae, who apparently preferred to remain incognito.
Princess Quenylda wore a corset made of book spines and white downy feathers. The skirt was made from pages torn out of the books she wore. She sat beside a poet, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Each time she batted her eyes at him, the feathers attached to her lashes resembled bird wings fluttering in the breeze. Her hair was swept up on top of her head, silvery-blonde curls holding a bird nest containing doves. They cooed just loud enough to be heard over the pianoforte music from the corner.
Princess Quenylda was the most beautiful woman in the room, even more so than her mother, though Errol found the white bird excrement dripping down her ears to be rather odd choices of accessories.
Magic wafted from her and into the poet. The man wrote with a quill on a book in his lap, leaning closer to his muse.
“Have a care to stay out of her path. She’s one of the worst,” a female voice said from nearby.
Errol turned, finding Captain Helga nodding to Quenylda. “Princesses are nothing but trouble, especially that one.”
Errol wondered whether he’d been ogling. He simply nodded and kept surveying the crowd.
It didn’t take long for the situation to turn into the controlled chaos Colonel Sigeweard had been talking about in his briefing. The exchange of magic between muse and artist glittered everywhere. The air smel
led like the kitchen when Alma was busy baking dinner, so many aromas mingling at once. In the beginning, Errol found the fragrance pleasing, but as the evening wore on, it became overpowering, like too much perfume.
Prince Beorhtsige danced with a trio of scantily clad young women. One was Witchkin, but the rest were magicless Morties. The prince leered at them, hunger in his eyes. He gave them a generous amount of muse inspiration and drank in their creative energies, but Errol noticed the prince moved away from them when they attempted to touch him. It was the same with many of the other members of the royal family. They wouldn’t touch the humans, and many of the royalty avoided touching the Witchkin artists as well.
Errol was so distracted by this new observation, he momentarily forgot to pay attention to the other soldiers until he heard one of the privates singing and dancing. Errol grabbed the man by the elbow and escorted him out of the room to be replaced by another soldier.
When he returned, he found two of the princesses fighting over a fiddler.
“He’s my artist. I found him first,” Princess Aldreda said.
“No. I claimed him with my mark,” Princess Milburga said.
The Morty had the red hair of an Irishman and the accent to match. “Ladies, there is more than enough of me to go around.”
“Sadly, you are mistaken.” Princess Milburga gazed at him as though he were a delectable appetizer.
Errol wasn’t sure what to do about arguing princesses. He hadn’t been given any directions if such a thing occurred. When the two sisters started to throw curses at each other and set the artist on fire, Errol evacuated the room and doused the man in the fountain dress.
One of the dukes tripped drunkenly into Errol, and Errol caught him and stood him up. The Fae duke wore a doublet made of teeth that dug into Errol’s hand. The man looked him up and down. Errol suspected the duke could see through his glamour.
The duke wrenched himself away from Errol, his lips curling back in disdain. “Unhand me you common fopdoodle.”
Common. He said it as though it were such an insult.
“I beg your pardon.” Errol backed away from the man.
Someone screamed. It turned out to be the first Morty musician going mad.
That was only the beginning. Errol had to continuously monitor soldiers starting to become affected by muse magic. Guards who didn’t know they had hidden talents in dancing, singing, and poetry left their posts to join the party. Errol had to constantly replace them with guards waiting not far off to relieve them.
When he heard more squabbling among Fae, he wasn’t completely surprised to find it was between Princess Quenylda and one of the king’s illegitimate children. “Princess” Steorra was usually quiet and unassuming, a tactic that served her well, considering how petty and vindictive the king’s legitimate heirs could be. She dressed more plainly than the others, indicative of her lower class as the king’s bastard. It was surprising she was given the title of princess, but the king had insisted upon it.
Princess Steorra spoke boldly to her half sister. “Stop it right now before you drive him mad!” Steorra tried to yank Quenylda from the settee where she sat.
“Mind your tongue. You will not order me around.” Quenylda shoved her half sister back with a force of magic and turned back to the artist lounging on the couch.
Errol noticed the dazed look in the man’s eyes first. As Quenylda turned back to her poet, Errol saw the change in her magic. It wasn’t so much that she was giving the man energy and taking the leftover creativity. She reached toward the man and pulled at what might have been a string on his nightshirt, but instead of being made of linen, it was spun with shimmering light. Errol’s breath caught in his throat as he realized this was a thread of the man’s soul.
Quenylda tugged on the string, drawing it into herself. The man’s soul was like a bright shadow being unraveled from his body. Errol had never seen such a thing before.
“If you don’t stop, I’ll tell Father,” Steorra said.
Quenylda closed her eyes, feasting on the man’s soul. “Be my guest. What do I care?”
Steorra didn’t fetch her father, though. She dragged her younger brother over.
Elric-Atherius wore a long nightshirt, perhaps in imitation of the human artists kidnapped from their beds, his long silver hair a tousled mess. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
“You’re her husband. She might listen to you,” Steorra said.
Elric-Atherius and Quenylda weren’t the only children of the king and queen who were married, but they were probably the most ill-suited match.
“I’m not my wife’s keeper.” Elric-Atherius tentatively stepped forward anyway. “My love, perhaps you’ve had enough. Father didn’t throw this party for you to consume the artists body and soul.”
She ignored him.
Elric-Atherius grabbed his sister-wife’s arm, pulling her away from the artist. Quenylda held on to the fabric of the human’s soul, her fingers turning into claws. A terrible tearing sound erupted from around the man, and he moaned. His soul was the size of his body and tasted of ink and parchment. The delicate gossamer hung limp outside his body, detached from the man. Pieces of him were missing, like a monster had taken bites out of him.
Quenylda smiled. Her eyes were black and hollow.
“I will share with you, Husband. Join me in this feast,” she said.
Prince Elric-Atherius circled an arm around his sister-wife’s waist, smiling as if nothing were amiss. “Come. I tire of artists and poets. We shall share another. I feel like feeding on a musician.”
Feeding. The word fit what these muses did.
Quenylda cast a disinterested look at the man slumped over and snorted as if he didn’t interest her at all now.
“Dear me! What’s that guard doing hanging from the chandelier?” Prince Elric-Atherius asked no one in particular, though his gaze did flicker to Errol.
Errol had another duty to perform. He relieved one more guard.
Steorra crouched at the Morty’s side, feeling for a pulse at his wrist. She tried to lift the gossamer of his soul and guide it back inside him, but it kept slipping through her fingers. It may have been Errol’s imagination, but the soul appeared more transparent. It started to drift away from the man.
Steorra caught Errol watching. “Don’t just stand there. Get me the court physician.”
It wasn’t his superior’s orders to fetch the physician for Morties, but he supposed a princess outranked a colonel. Errol found a soldier in the hallway and told him to bring him a physician.
By the time Errol returned, the artist was dead. Steorra sat beside the poet, her hand on his gray hair. His hair had been dark and his face full of youth moments before. Was this truly the same man? She stared listlessly at the growing revelry around her. The shadow goblins had begun to creep out and dance.
One of the queen’s cousins had glamoured her bodice to resemble a violin, and a musician played the strings with a bow with such ecstasy she was moaning. Errol pretended he didn’t see Queen Anwynn in a compromising position with a painter as one of the king’s nephews watched.
Errol continued monitoring his men. That was his job. Not to judge his benefactor and his kin, he told himself. He relieved the soldiers driven mad with desire to create, as well as those who were instilled with irrational fear by the shadow goblins. He sent in the next shift waiting in the hallway.
The debauchery only worsened. So much muse magic and creativity made Errol’s head ache. He tried to refrain from drinking it in, but the artistic energy seeped under his uniform and into his skin. His head began to feel light, and he wondered whether he should take a break himself. But if he did, he had no one else to monitor his men. No one could perform the task that he could except perhaps the royal family themselves, and they were all too lost in feeding.
Errol wondered which of these strangers had been able to entice his great-great-grandmother. Had she k
nown what peculiar and cruel creatures muses were?
Half an hour later, when Errol made it back to the room where Steorra had been sitting with the dead poet, the king was sitting beside his daughter, his arm around her shoulder.
“You mustn’t let this get to you.” The king sounded like a father full of love for his children, not so different from what he remembered of his own father. “Learn to harden your heart, and it will be easier for you to bear the fleeting existence of these Morties.”
“It isn’t that I mourn the death of an old man who has lived a mere sixty years, Father. It’s that this man was young and full of life. He had years ahead of him, but it was stolen from him because my own family behaves as barbarians.” She crossed her arms. “We’re as bad as the Raven Court.”
“You mustn’t say that.” His tone was firm. “You have no idea what those vile harpies are like. They torture humans for pleasure. We are above that.”
Her gaze fell on a pianist banging his head on the keys of a pianoforte. “Yes, of course, Father.”
From her reaction to the depravity of her siblings, Errol suspected Steorra might be the only rational one among them.
“Will you at least talk to Quenylda? She’s impossible.” Her tone changed, and cunning sparked in her eyes. “She won’t share. You could have had your name sung in songs for years to come in the Morty Realm by that brilliant poet, but she ruined it for you and everyone else. She takes and doesn’t give back to the artists.”
Errol could see her ploy. She had first spoken with her heart and with compassion. When that hadn’t worked, she had tried a new tactic, appealing to the king’s vanity. Errol wondered where she’d learned kindness when her siblings all lacked it.
“Yes, that is a shame.” King Viridios patted her hand affectionately. “I would do anything for my dear girl. I shall go see about Quenylda, but only if you promise me to find a nice dancer or musician for yourself first.”
“Yes, Father.” She allowed him to escort her over to a quartet playing in the corner of another room.