by M. D. Elster
The land rolls gently; there are granite boulders dashed about, but far fewer sharp, jutting mountains and craggy ravines than there were on the walk to Raven’s castle. The flora shifts ever so subtly, and evergreens give way to deciduous. As we continue on, it is as though the season shifts, and the leaves on the trees burn red, orange, and golden — all of them culminating in a bright autumnal blaze. Eventually the trees give way to underbrush, and then the terrain turns to yellow rolling hills and finally, an endless desert of sand. The various patches of daylight begin to unify, until a golden four o’clock hour stretches long shadows as far as the eye can see. It is a beautiful light, a light that leans, a light that renders even my sad pale skin bronze and full of life.
“It’s a sea of sand,” I murmur.
“Each king lives how he prefers. Raven loves his snow and cozy gothic gloom,” Mr. Fletcher explains, “but Lion loves a long autumn sunset that stretches eternally over the desert.”
“I see,” I say, and just as the words leave my mouth, we crest an enormous sand dune and I get an eyeful of the Lion King’s castle. It is wide, sprawling, and breathtakingly handsome: An impressive oasis of a fortress surrounded by a glittering moat, the pale stone of its walls lit up like rose gold in the near-sunset glow. From the top of the dune, I can see the castle walls are laid out like a sort of six-pointed star, with turrets positioned at each point that are crowned with exotically curved domes. Leading into it is a beautifully arched, covered drawbridge carved out of what looks to be pure ivory. It gives the impression of delicate lace.
As we draw nearer to the archway of the grand drawbridge, I gasp.
“Hearts!” I exclaim. “Raven’s crest was clubs, but Lion’s is hearts!” I turn to Mr. Fletcher, who wears a slightly irritated expression. “Don’t you see? That is another suit in the traditional deck of playing cards. I also saw it stamped on a key…”
“Quite naturally. It is one of four, dear girl,” he remarks, clearly annoyed, “but as I told you last time, there is nothing playful about Lion’s royal crest. All of this, our land… this is not a game.”
“Of course,” I hasten to reply. “I only mean to point it out. The playing deck is ancient — perhaps there is a connection, no matter how distant.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But for now, let us both concentrate on the task at hand. I recommend you do exactly as you did previously at the Court of the Raven King. Let me negotiate our way past the guards, and once we are inside, you do your best to play nice with the nobles of the court. The way to the Lion King’s heart is through his ego: flatter him whenever possible. And take care not to insult him! Do you understand?”
I nod, and we proceed through the lacy drawbridge chiseled with intricate heart patterns and symbols.
“Who goes there?” two guards cry as we approach. I look and this time see a pair of thin-yet-well-muscled, mongoose-headed men dressed in exotic-looking military uniforms sewn from golden cloth and trimmed with crimson. They move to block our way with a pair of scimitars, the hilts emblazoned with hearts.
“Is that… is that Fenric Fletcher, commoner-fox of the Glade?” one of the guards asks.
“I wouldn’t think you’d be foolish enough to come calling here, fox,” says the other guard. “The King has handed down a list of visitors that we are to treat with active suspicion… and you are one of them. We’ll have to take you to him right away, and he shall decide what to do with you.” The guard smiles, relishing his power over Mr. Fletcher, but before the smile lasts too long on his sly mongoose lips, his eyes fall on me, and he startles with a jerking motion. “What… What is this creature?” he demands. “What manner of monstrosity have you brought into our midst?”
I look at the guard, realizing he means me. I would take offense, but this, too, is familiar conduct when compared to our visit to Raven’s Court.
“How dare you!” the other guard hollers in an accusatory tone. “You must have some nerve if you are attempting to bring a miscreant from the Snake King’s Court into our midst!”
“Relax, gentlemen. She is hardly from the Snake’s Court. She is a human girl,” Mr. Fletcher replies. “And part of the reason I seek the Lion King’s company. The girl has expressed a desire to meet him.”
Both guards, upon hearing this, shrink back, and take a second look at me, eyeing me from head to toe.
“So the rumors are true! You did bring a human girl to the Court of the Raven King!!”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Mr. Fletcher nods. “And now I intend to bring her here.”
The first guard looks me up and down, squinting as though dubious. “I have not seen a human child before. Hmm…”
“The king will want to see her right away,” Mr. Fletcher interrupts, reminding him.
“He’s right, Amos,” the other guard says to his colleague, then turns to us. “Hurry along with you! Although — be warned, fox: We weren’t lying when we said you aren’t so popular with the advisors of the Lion King’s Court just now. You showing up with a human girl in tow will not lighten suspicion about your unnatural interest in human blood…”
I try to exchange a worried glance with Mr. Fletcher, but he does not make eye contact.
“Nonsense,” he purrs in an easy, dismissive voice. “Idle gossip. You know the courtiers have nothing better to do; they get quite carried away with their own speculation. You can see for yourselves, this human is quite alive and missing no blood.”
We are ushered through the entrance, and Mr. Fletcher turns to me and drops his voice.
“All Four Kings have weaknesses, my dear Anaïs; each has a different weakness in particular. Lion’s is his pride. If he thinks you are here as his prize, it will curry much favor.”
“Where are we headed now?” I ask as Mr. Fletcher leads me through a series of rooms, halls, and courtyards, weaving indoors and outdoors and indoors yet again. But unlike Raven’s castle, which was full of gas-lamps and chandeliers and Victorian knick-knacks, Lion’s castle is much more exotic, with all the trappings of a Turkish bazaar. Instead of gas-lamps, the rooms are lit by colored glass globes, and metal pendants hammered full of perforated holes. I smell lovely but potent incense — some kind of clove or spice. We pass a number of inviting gardens as well, all of them peppered with burbling fountains and surrounded by monastic-looking cloisters.
“Just like the Raven King, the Lion King keeps court in a great common room — that is where his throne is, and that is where we will find him.”
“Another Hall of Chequers?” I ask.
Mr. Fletcher smirks at me. “More or less. Every king must have his throne room. This one is called the Golden Champions’ Hall.”
Before I can ask more anxious questions, we draw up to a doorway and encounter a second set of guards. These two creature-beings are slightly larger than the mongoose-headed guards posted at the drawbridge gate, but are still thin, muscular, and slinky somehow. I peer more closely into their animal faces and see that they look a bit like housecats, but their features are somewhat more exotic. I can’t quite place them, but then I notice the telltale short black tassels of fur hanging from the tips of their pointed ears, and realize: they are Lynxes. Mr. Fletcher persuades them to let us through.
We take our first steps into the hall. It is stunning — made of echoing marble; the ceiling is a dome of solid gold patterned in more hearts and six-pointed stars. I look around, taking silent inventory of the differences and similarities with respect to Raven’s court. There appears to be a general mammal theme in Lion’s court, whereas Raven’s had been predominantly filled with bird-headed courtiers — an obvious natural affinity between certain creatures. Moreover, it quickly becomes apparent that cats, above all other animals, dominate Lion’s court. The first few faces I glimpse as we enter the Grand Hall is that of a tiger, a jaguar, and two feminine creatures — a civet and a cougar, I believe. They are unusually dressed, attired in silky pantaloons and robes as though they are char
acters in one of Scheherazade’s thousand tales. The tiger-headed man and jaguar-headed man wear finely tailored gold-and-crimson vests and flowing breeches, while the two ladies, one a civet and the other a cougar, wear long silky gowns sewn with all manner of beads and golden trinkets. They are so weighted down with jewelry, in fact, even the smallest movements they make creates a soft tinkling of music.
While there are quite a number of cats, I nonetheless notice other animals in the room, as well: a hyena, a giraffe, a bear, and some variety of monkey — Rhesus macaque, I think? All are milling about, I see one courtier playing an unfamiliar reed instrument, charming a snake from a basket. Others lay about on silk cushions, reciting poetry, or else dancing around, demonstrating swordplay… and above all else, they all seem to be engaged in gossip. As I am quickly learning, gossip is the true pursuit of any amusing courtier or courtesan.
Heads turn as we enter the room, but Mr. Fletcher ignores the attention, striding proudly across the enormous hall towards the throne positioned at the far side. The floor of this great hall is piled thick with animal furs, a fact which, given the faces in the room, vaguely horrifies me. I have only made it a few paces into the room when my foot catches upon something and I trip. My trip results in a series of stumbles, followed by my body hitting an area of the white marble floor not covered in animal furs with a rather loud SPLAT. When I look to see what caught my foot, I am horrified to see it has stuck in a bear’s head that is part of a fur rug, accidentally trapped by the large, yellow pointy incisors in its open mouth. I am even more startled when I look up from my foot only to see a burly man with a very similar-looking bear’s head peering down at me with concern.
This creepy, cannibalistic coincidence is too much. I give a little yelp, but manage to swallow the rest of my scream. After scrambling to my feet, I give the bear-headed man a little nod and quickly catch hold again of Mr. Fletcher’s arm.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?” he asks, patting my hand where it grips the inner crook of his elbow.
“Yes,” I reply, but I am aware of my cheeks burning red.
My gaff inspires several stares and whispers, but it is as though I can feel one set of eyes in particular, boring a hole into my back. I turn and see the eyes belong to a dashing leopard-headed man. While everyone else is frowning and whispering, he is smiling with amusement — and with a hint of familiarity. I glance from the leopard’s eyes to Mr. Fletcher’s, wondering if they are acquainted and friendly, but Mr. Fletcher gives no sign. Before I can puzzle the leopard out, I hear a booming voice from across the room.
“FOX,” the voice thunders. “Why have you come? You dare stroll into my royal court with such casual arrogance?”
The voice — I realize with a sinking feeling — must belong to the Lion King. Mr. Fletcher remains calm and collected. He leads me in the direction of its source.
“Sire,” he says, bowing before a large, lion-headed man sitting upon an enormous golden throne. “It is an honor to see you, as always.”
“Yes. Although I cannot say the same.”
The Lion King tosses his mane with a haughty air and frowns. His displeasure is terrifying; he is impressive in every way. Over a crimson military suit sewn with golden thread, glittering beads, and festooned with medals, he is regally swathed in long, pale yellow silk robes that bear ancient-looking depictions of the sun. He sits with his legs wide, his arms leaning on a great curved sword encased in a carved ivory sheath. He is also flanked by a small group of creature-beings I can only assume serve as his royal advisors. One is a stern-faced ram with intimidatingly large, curled horns. Another is a bald eagle who — if it were possible — is even more grim-looking than his ram companion. The third advisor is some sort of cheetah who looks a little less stern, but very high-strung; I can see his lanky body quivering with nervous energy, even from several paces away.
“As you may well be aware, there is quite a lot of talk about you and your loyalties, fox,” the cheetah-headed man says to Mr. Fletcher. “Someone has been sneaking humans into our land and murdering them. The King himself announced his suspicions about you. History reminds us: You’ve been known to fraternize with humans in the past. Surely you didn’t expect a warm welcome, did you?”
“I have murdered no one, Sire,” Mr. Fletcher says, ignoring the cheetah-headed man and directing his reply to the king. “But as to the charge of fraternizing with humans in our land… well, of that I am guilty.” Mr. Fletcher smiles and bows.
The Lion King and his advisors appear stunned by this bold admission.
“I have befriended a human very recently, but I assure you she is neither dead nor drained of her blood — as a matter of fact, she is the girl you see standing before you now.”
Up to this point, their focus has been completely on Mr. Fletcher. Now they turn to look more closely at me. Their eyes widen and narrow as they inspect me.
“That bizarre creature you’ve dragged in here is a… a… human?” the man with the head of a bald eagle asks.
“Indeed, she is,” Mr. Fletcher replies. He takes a breath, flourishes an arm, and I realize he wishes to make my introduction.
“Lord Ellery.” Mr. Fletcher bows to the eagle-headed man. “Lord Randall, Chancellor Chadwick,” he says, bowing to the ram and cheetah each in turn. He pivots to face the king, making the deepest bow of all. “ Your Royal Highness: May I present Anaïs Reynard, of New Orleans?”
All of them stare at me, stony-faced. Nervously, I curtsy.
“Mr. Fletcher,” says the ram-headed man. “Bringing a human here… you are very foolish. If she comes to harm later, we shall know who did it.”
“Unless…” says the eagle-headed man, “…unless you have brought her here because you wish to tempt our own king into corruption. In which case, you are even more foolish than we thought. The Lion King is incorruptible.”
“What say you, human?” the Lion King cuts into the conversation to address me directly. “Has the fox recruited you to undermine my integrity and authority? Speak the truth! I do not like to be disrespected in my own palace.”
“I…I…”
“I SAID SPEAK UP, CHILD!”
I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “Mr. Fletcher means you no ill will,” I say. At least this is true, I think. “He said you were an honorable king, and that no honorable king would try to murder me and steal my blood for his own gain.”
“Hmph,” the Lion King grunts. “Mr. Fletcher is telling you the truth — if, that is, he spoke those words to you as you say he did.” He pauses and looks me over, his flat, hazel eyes with their predatory pinprick pupils moving up and down my person. “And yet, I don’t know if I trust you, or the fox… how do I know you haven’t come to my kingdom to do harm? Humans do not belong in our land, and they are almost as conniving and deceitful as foxes. They are dangerous in more ways than one…”
“Pardon me for the intrusion, Your Highness,” a voice interrupts. I look over and see the leopard-headed man I’d noticed a few moments earlier. “Sire,” he says now, “I watched the human creature enter the hall… if you’re interested in my opinion at all, I’d say I hardly think she is a security threat. From what I observed, she has trouble enough remaining upright on her own two feet!” He chuckles, obviously recalling my stumble while I made my way across the hall.
“Interested in your opinion? Interested in your opinion! Who says the King is interested in your opinion, leopard-boy?” Lord Randall snaps. “You forget yourself… yet again, Lewin!”
“It is Sir Lewin, as a matter of fact,” the leopard-headed young man corrects him.
“I see no knighted gentlemen here,” Lord Randall retorts.
“Quiet your snide remarks, Lord Randall,” says the Lion King. “You know Sir Lewin has become a trusted advisor in his own right. Please pay proper respect to the fact I have knighted the lad, and appointed him Jack-of-All.”
“But, Sire… he came to this court a mere peasant
! He used to muck the royal stables, for Harpy’s sake!”
“And I knighted him!”
“Yes, Sire.”
The Lion King turns back to me, and lets out a very leonine chuff. “If I want Sir Lewin’s opinion I will have it, and you will not stop me.” He turns to the leopard. “Is it your opinion, Sir Lewin, that instead of throwing this human out at once, we welcome her in?”
“It is, Your Highness,” the leopard-headed young man replies. “She may be a human but she is just a girl. She is inconsequential compared to you; I think it only makes sense to demonstrate your power and your generosity by offering her safety and refuge here in our court, and by giving her a taste of your famous hospitality.”
“You don’t mean to suggest that I invite her to tonight’s Royal Banquet?”
“Yes, Sire. As a matter of fact, I do.”
The Lion King appears to mull this over. He gives another chuff. “Very well, then. As everyone in all Four Kingdoms knows, I am nothing if not magnanimous. She shall be welcome at the banquet — with one proviso, Sir Lewin.”
“And that is?”
“You shall attach yourself to Mr. Fletcher and the human girl as ambassador and escort. I am hospitable, but not a fool. We shall keep them well-monitored at all times.”
“But, Sire…” Sir Lewin begins to decline.
“Enough! I have ruled,” the king replies. He turns to Mr. Fletcher and points a human finger burdened with many rings. “Be advised, Fox. We will be watching you.” Then the king straightens up and claps his hands twice. “And now, the hour for dining it already upon us, and I grow hungry. Sir Lewin, you may begin your service by showing the human girl the proper way.”