by F. D. Lee
Ana screamed as she watched John fly across the Ballroom and smash into the wall.
“Let me out of this thing now!” she shouted, turning on Melly.
The witch coughed, blackness showering the floor as she did so. She was on all fours now, hunched over in pain. She shook her head.
“…no…”
Ana turned and slammed her fists against the barrier, ignoring the way Melly convulsed with each hit. And then she stopped.
“Oh. My. God.”
The ogre bit the hilt of John’s broadsword in its teeth and pulled it from its hand. And that was all the attention it paid to Llanotterly’s King. It turned instead to the real prize.
Why had that tiny blonde imp told such a tale of this blue fae? He was nothing. He cowered over his woman like a child in his mother’s skirts. Even the characters had tried to defend themselves.
The ogre spat. There were no wars anymore, no warriors to earn them.
Feet landing heavily on the once pristine floor, it stomped the last few paces to the foot of the dais, looming over the whelp and his strumpet.
“I am come for you, djinn.”
The genie stood in one movement, turning to face the ogre as he did so, his star-filled eyes as beautiful and devoid of empathy as the universe.
“You will give yourself up, or I will take you. It makes no odds to me,” the ogre said. Maybe the whelp would fight after all? It had heard about genies. This was going to be good. It lifted its fists, ready to smash.
The genie took a step forward. The ogre was aware of the pain before it felt the cold. It raised its hand to its face, a frown marring its heavy brow. Its fingers were turning black, and skirting around the edge of the darkness was more pain than it had ever known. The genie stepped down from the dais, growing in size as it did so. When he was stood in front of the ogre, he was twice the height of the monstrous creature.
“Dhfi, orhgr. Abakes ih ju,” the genie said.
The ogre backed away, tripping on the bodies beneath its feet. Not fast enough. The genie was growing still bigger, and with its increased size, so the coldness increased. The ogre’s legs were caught now, the bitter chill coming off the genie catching its limbs in a vice. The ogre stumbled and hit the ground as one of its legs shattered under its weight. It had made it barely three paces from the foot of the dais, and already the genie’s head was nearly touching the ceiling.
The ogre grinned. “Abak ij, djinn.”
Seven reached out his hand, condensation from its coldness running off it like steam, and lowered it toward the ogre’s face. Maria Sophia’s wish danced through his veins, turning reels in his soul. He was once more all that he was. He lowered his hand, ready to capture the ogre’s head in his freezing grip-
“Albelphizar!”
Seven felt the wish pull at him, scratching his skin from the inside, and turned to see the first witchlein jump on Maria Sophia, its sharp-scaled hands reaching for her eyes. Forgetting the ogre, the wish moved him in a heartbeat to Maria Sophia’s side, and back to his normal size.
Seven pulled the witchlein off Maria Sophia, picked her up in his arms, and vanished.
Bea stood rooted to the spot as she watched Seven change.
She could feel the cold from where she was. The ogre clearly didn’t stand a chance. Already she could see the frost-rot crawling up its skin, and Seven was still a good five feet away from it. She dragged her eyes up from the sight of the ogre to look at the person she thought she had finally understood, and realised the extent of her ignorance.
And then Seven was standing over the monster, his enormous blue hand outstretched and Bea wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. The cold was biting at her now, stinging her lips and making the ends of her fingers pinch. How the ogre was still alive was beyond her.
She wanted to shout. She wanted to call Seven’s name and tell him to stop, but the words died in her throat, dried up and useless. In the corner of her eye she could see the red smear of John’s blood on the wall.
And then the woman shouted something, a word Bea had never heard before, and Seven turned. No... no... It was like he was pulled back to her, and in the next moment he appeared at her side, pulling the white-suited witchlein off her.
Seven and the woman disappeared.
Bea blinked.
He’d left her.
The ogre screamed in rage and pulled itself forward to where Seven and the woman had been, black fingers snapping with the effort, splintered leg dragging behind.
It was at this moment Melly and Ana appeared in the centre of the dais.
Melly was collapsed on the ground, Ana kneeling over her. The ogre roared, blinded by pain and fury, and reached up what remained of its hand to crush the witch and the ugly sister, when suddenly it toppled forward.
Bea rubbed her arm. It was years since she’d thrown a spear, and the sword had been much heavier. But it was a skill you never forgot, not when you grew up in the Sheltering Forest. Aim for the heart, throw hard, don’t miss. She smiled as the ogre slumped forward, the hilt of her stolen sword sticking out of its back.
Fairies weren’t good for anything, was it? Bea started to laugh.
And then she threw up.
“Bea!”
Bea looked up, confused. The pounding in her head had returned, the adrenaline wearing off all too quickly. Ana. Ana was shouting at her, waving her arms. Bea took a step forward, trying to hear her over the ringing in her ears.
“Bea!”
She blinked. There seemed to be stars everywhere. That couldn’t be right, could it? And then her right leg exploded in pain. Bea looked down to see a witchlein climbing her leg, its sharp scales digging in to the flesh of her thigh.
The pain brought her back. Bea pulled the witchlein from her leg and ran to the dais. It was only when she reached it that she realised she didn’t have a weapon.
“What’s wrong with Melly?” she panted, watching as the witchlein drew closer. They were wary, probably unsure whether Seven was going to come back. Bea didn’t hold out much hope that their caution would prove justified.
“She did something, put an invisible wall around us. It made us invisible too,” Ana said in a rush. “I told her to stop but she wouldn’t, and then she lost consciousness and it came down. What are we going to do? There’s at least thirty of those little bastards.”
Bea bit her lip. She looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing. The witchlein were closing in, hissing in anticipation.
“Bea? What are we going to do?”
“I think, Ana, we’re going to die.”
Bea stepped in front of Melly and took Ana’s hand.
“Here it is, then,” she said. “The end.”
Chapter Forty-four
“Stand down! Stand down this instant!” Mistasinon screamed from the top of the staircase.
The witchlein froze. They backed away from Bea and Ana. Mistasinon ran across the Ballroom, making easy work of the distance. He stood in front of Bea and Ana, glaring at the witchlein.
“This has gone too far,” he said.
“It wasss only what ssshe asssked usss to do,” the nearest one hissed. “You sssaying we ssshould ssstop? Isss that official?”
Mistasinon gave a curt nod of his head. “It is.”
The witchlein shrugged its spiky shoulders. “On your head be it.”
Mistasinon turned just in time to catch Bea as she collapsed.
Bea kicked her legs, banging her heels against the floor.
She’d been home two days and hadn’t left her bedsit. This wasn’t through personal choice, but rather was the result of the brown-suited troll from the Contents Department stationed outside her door.
She wasn’t a prisoner. She just wasn’t exactly encouraged to leave. The cupboards had been stocked, and someone had made the bed. They’d even provided her with some new clothes. She had a couple of pairs of trousers and tunics, as well as a new dress. The dress was in most respects exactly the same as her old
one, only much better made than anything Bea could have managed. She suspected it was the work of brownies – expensive then, unless they were already employed by the GenAm.
Bea was wearing the dress. She was slightly cross with herself for it, but she also figured if she was going to be Redacted she might as well look nice while it happened. Or they might do things the old-fashioned way, and just execute her. Bea had spent a lot of time over the last two days weighing up the two options, and she still hadn’t decided which one she preferred.
There was a knock at the door.
Bea didn’t bother getting up, and sure enough a moment later the door opened by itself.
“Great,” she said. “It’s you.”
Mistasinon stood in the doorway, the picture of awkwardness.
“You’re letting all the heat out,” Bea said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Bea took a moment to look him over. He was back in his blue suit, or one just like it. His hair was neat again. He wasn’t covered in blood. She supposed that wasn’t all that surprising, but once you’ve seen someone take on a troll with their bare hands, you tend to have different expectations.
But then, she’d killed an ogre. Admittedly, she was pretty certain her sword had only finished the job Seven had started, but that didn’t matter. She allowed herself a small smile, and hoped that Mistasinon was thinking about the ogre too.
“How’s Melly?” she asked, not bothering to stand.
“She’s fine – no, honestly. She’s old, so the magic didn’t hurt as much as it might have done. She’s been taken off all her active Plots, and the GenAm is still giving her ration tokens. She wants to see you.”
“So why can’t she?”
Mistasinon shook his head. “Bea, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t you dare apologise to me. What about Ana and John?”
“Your characters? The woman’s none the worse for wear. In fact-”
“And John?”
“Well, he’s still bedridden, but-”
Bea’s façade cracked, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief. “He’s alive?”
“Um… yes. Bea, when the ogre attacked him…. They’re quite delicate, the characters. You know that, don’t you?”
“What are you saying?”
Mistasinon dropped his eyes. “It broke his spine. He’s alive, but he’ll never walk again.”
Bea sank back into her sofa. “Mortal gods…”
Mistasinon stepped forward hesitantly, but when Bea failed to bite his head off he joined her on her sofa.
“It’s not your fault Bea.”
She looked up. “No, it isn’t. It’s yours.”
Mistasinon nodded. “I know you’re angry with me. You’ve every right to be-”
“I don’t need your permission.”
“No, I didn’t mean… I just… I’ve been trying to help you. The last couple of days. I finished your story.”
“What? How?”
“Well, your character helped actually. Ana, the one with-”
“With what? The nose? Don’t you dare insult her.”
“Bea… I was going to say the one with the very determined attitude. Please. I want to make things better.”
Bea glared at him, but after a moment she nodded.
“So. Um. Yes. Ana helped me finish your story,” Mistasinon continued. “She’s appointed herself as the new Adviser to the King. I mean, the King approves of course, but I think it was her idea more than his.”
“How is that an ending? My Plot was a Happy Ever After. A crippled King is hardly a ‘nice’ ending, is it?” Bea spat the word. She didn’t care if he knew she didn’t believe in the Plots anymore. And, when the white suits had finished with her, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Mistasinon smiled. “I took a leaf out of your book.”
Bea looked blank.
“I changed the Plot,” Mistasinon explained. “It’s a Rags to Riches now. Ana told the city that the old Adviser was a wicked foreign sorcerer, and that he conjured the ogre to kill the King. When it went wrong, he disappeared. She’s being credited with breaking the spell and saving the city.”
Bea couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice. “But that’s not what happened - Seven wasn’t trying to kill John. He liked John. And there were people there, they saw what happened.”
Mistasinon shook his head. “Bea, it’s better this way. The characters like stories, they make life easier for them. Try to understand. The genie was foreign – he was strange. But a familiar kind of strange, if you see what I mean. The kind of strange that’s easy to believe is evil. But an ogre and a whole scrabble of witchlein? That’s strange strange. To be honest, even if Ana hadn’t blamed the Adviser, they probably would have come to it on their own anyway.”
“But it isn’t fair-” Bea caught the pleading tone in her voice and started again. “It isn’t right to blame him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Mistasinon sighed. “Either way, he’s gone now.”
“You don’t know what happened to him?”
“No. He took one of the guests with him. Do you know why he might have done that?”
Bea shook her head firmly. “Not a clue. I guess because he’s ‘evil’?”
Mistasinon ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “That’s disappointing. There’s been some suggestions about how to keep the Mirrors going without him, but I had hoped…”
“You’d hoped I’d help you kill him? No chance. I don’t mind being Redacted, but I’ll run before I’ll help you murder someone, even if it would save the Mirrors. You’ll have to set the Beast on me.”
He flinched. “I was never trying to murder the genie.”
“So, what were you trying to do?”
“I wanted his lamp. The magic’s in the lamps, I think. And, I don’t know… I wanted to speak to him. I thought he might know something about the Mirrors, something we don’t know.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Mistasinon answered, smiling softly. “That’s rather the problem.”
Bea looked him up and down. “You know, I’d almost believe you. If it wasn’t for the ogre and all the witchlein and the maimed King. Apart from all that, your story is really plausible.”
“None of that was my doing. That was the Redaction Department.”
“Well,” Bea said, rubbing her temples. Her headache was coming back. “I suppose I can ask them myself, soon enough.”
“You’re not going to be Redacted. I told you, I’ve been helping you.”
“How can you possibly stop them Redacting me?”
“I finished your story. I handed your Book in myself. They’ve got no reason to Redact you, and the Redactionists aren’t really in a position to start throwing their weight around, not after that fiasco.”
Bea stood up and walked over to her kitchen. She poured herself a glass of weak beer from the jug. “None of this makes any sense,” she said, sipping the drink. “I know it doesn’t. But every time I ask you a question you’re going to slip out of it, aren’t you? You’ll say something that seems like you’re answering, but actually all you’re doing is telling me what I already know.”
“I got you a place at the FME Academy.”
Bea stared at him, stunned. Well, she thought, that was something I didn’t already know.
“I’m not joining the FME Academy. And they can’t possibly want me. I hid an Anti. I changed the stories.”
Mistasinon stood up and joined her in the kitchen.
“Bea, there’s two ways through this. The first is to join the Academy and pretend everything went as planned. As we planned, remember? You did it. You finished a story – and very, very well. Monsters and evil Advisers? Rebel outlaws saving the King? The belief is pouring in from that region, and it’ll spread quickly enough. Or you can go out that door and turn your back on it all, and just hope people don’t start asking questions, or that the Redactionists don’t start see
ing you as someone who isn’t a team player. I’m not going to make the choice for you, Bea. It really is up to you. But…”
“But what?”
“You’ve got friends, Bea.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Not me, Bea, not me. But the Redactionists?” He searched her face with his large, brown eyes. “Please, Bea. Join the Academy. Isn’t this what you always wanted anyway? Think about it like this: your dream has come true.”
Chapter Forty-five
Bea stood in the chill sun.
Winter was approaching. She thought about her family, out there somewhere in the Sheltering Forest. Winters were always hard in the Forest, but now she couldn’t help wishing she was with them.
She was standing in the open square outside the GenAm building, the Teller’s spire stabbing at the sky. There were about thirty other fae with her, waiting to be signed up for the Academy, all from different tribes – although, unsurprisingly, she was the only fairy. Bea was also the only one who hadn’t been recommended by an established FME. But she was also the only one who had finished their very own story. It was obvious no one knew what to say to her. Bea didn’t mind. She didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway.
The ceremony itself was quick. All they had to do was repeat the words, their hands on a Book. But the GenAm had decided to turn the occasion into a celebration. There were Raconteurs in the crowds, and beer, meat and bread were circulating. Everyone seemed delighted by the sudden show of largesse. All except Bea.
Her full name was called and, accompanied by sotto voce giggles from the other recruits, she walked, head up and back straight, to the Head of the Plot Department. The Head Plotter was a boggart who sat rigid in her seat, not saying a word when each of the new recruits came to kneel in front of her and declare their oath.
Bea dropped to her knees, her only aim to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. She opened her mouth to begin when a creaking voice called out to her. Bea looked up. The whole audience joined her. The Head Plotter had spoken.