by Sage, May
My father, my grandfather, the queen. No one believes me. They think I’m trying to be clever, hiding my purpose. They might even think that a conspiracy is brewing. I want to be that smart. But I don’t have any idea why my power surged last night. I’m simply not as devious as any of them think I am.
I just wish I was.
Alven is startled, speechlessly assessing me. I can tell he’s trying to decide whether he should trust me on this.
I shouldn’t begrudge him. While the high fae can’t lie, we find new, constructive ways to deceive each other on a daily basis. Omission. Twisted words, skirting around the truth.
I’ve spoken plainly enough though. At long last, he nods to accept my version of the event. “If that’s the case, then you need to learn to keep your heart much closer to your chest.”
I don’t quite understand what he’s telling me, but nearly seven decades of acquaintance have taught me that asking for clarification is a pointless endeavor. He won’t explain himself. For my sake, more than his.
Walls have ears in these finely carved, sculpted caves. Even in the servants’ quarters.
My heart?
I didn’t think I had one worth mentioning.
I leave court a lot more confused than I was when I walked in.
Granted, my head is on my shoulders. There’s that.
I find Bess a few feet away from where I left her, grazing grass. She neighs at me, warning me against attempting to disturb her snack.
Everyone is ordering me about today. Even my damn horse.
I’m late for work, but I head home first, once Bess allows me to mount her.
I reach the beech woods surrounding the domain my parents claim, and leave Bess to find her way back to the stables; I don’t have the time to head there and back on foot. I leap from tree to tree—my preferred method of transport if the woods allow it—to speed up my pace until I’m in front of the ancient, crumbling castle.
White stone in some parts, wood in others; there’s even an iron tour from the old days when the gnomes and dwarves of the west used to live here. They moved to Nithavellir a few hundred years ago.
It’s beautiful in its unapologetic oddness. And it’s ours.
My parents wait for me in front of the golden gates, Nero holding Ciera’s shoulder. They’re an odd couple—she, a lithe beauty with sharp cheekbones and cunning eyes, towering over her mate by an entire head, though my father wears heeled boots. He’s shaped like any sprite, thinner than the gentry, almost fragile compared to us, with hair and eyes the blue of the deep sea. Lady Frost tells me that in her circle, their story is considered romantic; the princess and the boy who could have been a servant. My father’s a musician, to his mother’s dismay. She prefers professions that require washing blood off one’s sleeves on a daily basis.
One look at them, and I’m glad I’ve decided on the delay. They’re a mess. Anxiety radiates from their every pore.
I leap from a twisted branch, over the gates, and land at their feet.
My arms circle their shoulders in a tight embrace that makes me feel like a little girl.
“I faced little threat today.” A lie of sorts. They know it, I know it. This meeting could have gone a different way. No doubt the gallows were already ready on the city square. But the tongues of fae can often manage a lie or two, as long as we ensure we use adequately vague adjectives. What does little mean, at the end of the day? It could change from one person to the next. A little murder before dinner was quite more to contend with than a little salt on potatoes.
Little always lies.
“The witch wanted to know why I slipped this afternoon. I explained I slept badly. She invited me to Samhain.” The condensed version of events makes them sound so inconsequential. I almost believe myself.
My father sighs in relief.
My mother doesn’t. Ciera knows the woman who raised her. “Samhain?”
I manage a smile. I can’t deceive very well with words, so I’ve learned to do so with my expressions instead, when the need arises.
“Indeed. It’s just a revel—they have one every week.”
“Samhain is the winter gathering for the court, Vlari. We don’t get summoned for these things.”
There are a number of celebrations at court, but the two that matter most are Samhain and Beltane. Every other celebration are festivals invented as excuses for opening priceless wine and dancing, whereas the two original fests follow the beginning and end of the harvest seasons. Celebrating them is essential to the welfare of the realm; during Samhain, the lords give back magic into the land to ensure that the crops and game survive the winter. In a land where magic and nature are so closely linked, it is ill-fated to ignore the traditions.
The royals haven't summoned my parents to court—not since my mother’s marriage—and me? I am persona non grata, except for the occasional appearance, like tonight.
Trying to dismiss this was going to be pointless.
Thankfully, I had another way to evade questions.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m safe.” For now. “I’m impossibly late for work.”
I hug them, and turn my heels, ignoring my mother’s protests. She wants to know what was going on.
That makes two of us.
A Wind of Change
The duchess Lera Frost employed me without so much as an interview the moment I applied for the position of assistant in her household. This is the labor of sprites, imps, brownies, and pucks—rare are the gentry who ever covet such positions. Our kind are landlords, politicians, soldiers, not mere servants.
Daughter of a rich family, Lera Frost and her dowry caught the eye of Duke Genrion Frost, a commander in the queen’s army, about two centuries ago. Back then, there were whispers about Genrion only liking her for her fortune, but they renewed their vows, though he’d already gotten his hands on all her money by then, so it must have been love.
Despite that, the gentry never quite accepted her, for the same reason they couldn’t accept my father.
The difference between common fae and the gentry isn’t so much in our physical appearance or abilities; most of us are winged, some are marked by nature, with horns or feathers on their hair, skin green as moss, and clawed feet. The real difference is that common fae are known to be blessed with little magic, while the gentries come from lines that have traditionally been granted higher powers. For that reason, some gentries thought it the duty of their kind to only breed with other gentries—or humans—in order to preserve our strength.
It’s sheer nonsense. There are weak gentries and strong common fae. We’re individuals, defined by our own abilities, not our race. I’m proof of that. Rystan Drusk is proof of that.
I like Lera well enough, and I sympathize with her ordeal.
She loves having me as her pet; none of her peers can boast of having their very own princess at their beck and call.
Not that anyone actually considers me a princess, but Lera likes it all the same.
She dismisses my apologies when I arrive four hours later than I ought to.
She’s having guests today; her circle of powdered ladies, wrapped in silk and furs. Lera has me playing the harp while they have tea, though my skills are barely above passable with any instrument. She just wants me to be seen and heard.
I can’t say I mind.
At my age, many fae live alone—in Hardrock, or in the lower courts, where life is cheaper. There are entertainments and friendships to be had, but I decided to wait at home for a while. My parents couldn’t possibly manage alone, financially.
My mother has no trade. She keeps the house, and feeds us with her bow and arrows. Though a decent hunter, she doesn’t have the physical strength to drag around enough substantial game or to sell it. She kills what we, and our small household of knights and servants, eat. Herself, my father and grandmother, me, one sprite, a handful of imp maids, a brownie, and three goblins—that’s enough mouths to feed to keep her busy.
My
father plays just about any instrument, though he’s a master at the viola. He’s often commissioned at social gatherings such as these, but his income is barely enough to keep the house, grounds, and take care of the small town around our keep. The nonessentials—such as roof maintenance—are neglected.
I’d feel guilty wasting money on a place of my own when they so desperately need my assistance. And I love the Court of Mist, fallen though it might be.
Needing the money makes any task Lera demands of me manageable. So what if I have to butcher another autumn ballad on that daft instrument? There are worse trades. My earnings paid for the renovation of the roof on half the house so far this year. Before winter’s here, I should have enough to get the rest of it done, which will prevent me from waking up under two feet of snow again.
My apartments are in a deserted part of the house, away from any other living thing. For that reason, renovating it has been at the bottom of the list of priorities. I don’t mind the rain so much, though I must admit I prefer when it stays outside of my bedroom.
I have other ways to pay for the roof—I could ask those who owe me favors to lend me the builders or give materials—but working is no hardship. What else would I be doing in the early hours of the night, when all those I frequent have trades of their own?
I could spend my time in the market, but I’d grow bored of it if I had nothing else to do.
“Does she sing, too?” Flora Hawthorn asks Lera.
I grit my teeth, expecting the answer.
“Oh, Nevlaria is a sweetheart. She does absolutely whatever you want her to do. Vlari, dear, would you sing for us?”
Of course I will.
I hum among the notes my inept fingers play, wondering what song I’m least likely to destroy.
No daughter of Nero Bane could have failed to understand a thing or two about music—I was born wrapped in piano sheet music and winter songs in the gardens. It doesn’t mean that I’m any good at rendering it.
But she overpays, and tips too.
* * *
Long is the night where the maiden roams,
Long is the road, so far from home,
Dear is the river running down the mountain,
And sweet is the blood running 'round the fountains.
She drank at his neck,
Kissed his lips,
He took a promise,
Rotten at the tips.
Long is the night where the maiden hunts,
Steep is the wall to clawless hands.
Run, run, mortal man,
For fair is the maiden and sweet is the hunt.
* * *
Seasonal, if a little bloodier than most popular tales. I can’t quite tell if it talks of a hag or a white lady—it could even be a siren. There’s no lack of females fond of flesh in the Immortal Lands.
My ballad is met with applause, which means that none of them know a thing about music at all.
I plaster a smile on my lips and turn to acknowledge my audience.
Then my fingers freeze over the strings. So does my mouth.
At the door, there’s a man I haven’t seen since Whitecroft. A man I didn’t think I’d ever see again.
He’s changed in fifty years. He’s always been broader and taller than most gentry, but now, he’s ridiculous, his frame taking up most of the doorway leading to Lera’s drawing room, his large shoulders considerably bulkier than anyone else in the room, knights included.
He wears black breeches that accentuate the line of his narrow hips and light flat boots so similar to the ones I favor, though his are encrusted with blue jewels at the ankles—sapphires, that he also wears on two rings and a heavy gold necklace at his throat. His long coat and vest are equally dark; one velvet, the other damask.
Drusk looks like a lord of Tenebris. I can’t reconcile myself with this vision. It doesn’t compute in my mind. He’s Drusk, the boy who defies all authority, the boy who never tried to fit in. All had flocked to him despite his difference. Maybe even because of it.
I shouldn’t be this shocked and disturbed to see him, but I am.
Last night, I dream of our first meeting, and freak out so much my power bursts out, and now he’s here? It makes no sense.
The rest of the room notices him. “Oh, Drusk! Wilden mentioned you’d come by today. You’re early. Come, sit.”
He’s here to see Wilden, the duchess’s son. It makes sense that he would.
Rystan grins—or smirks—and joins the squealing ladies.
They don’t even pretend to pay attention to me anymore. I stop singing, playing a low, slow song even I can’t mess up, as they flutter around the newcomer like moths to a light.
Lady Molton squeals, visibly delighted. “We heard about the attack!”
Lera fixes her with one of her rare cautioning stares. “Such a shame.”
Molton blushes and sighs. “Yes, all those people.”
“You were heroes!”
I have no idea what they’re talking about; I feel off balance. I don’t follow politics closely, but if all of them have heard of something, it feels like I should have, too. Lera usually tells me whatever tidbits she hears from her circle.
Of course, it didn’t help that I arrived impossibly late today.
“So very glad you’re home safe…”
“How are your wounds?”
“You were so brave!”
It sounds like there was an attack. I can’t help it; I’m interested. I want to join them. I want to ask questions. I’m a moth, and he’s my flame.
I force my fingers to move on the strings again, slowly, and with more care than before. I give it all my attention, all my passion.
Even I, daughter of Nero, who’s heard the best players in the land practice at home when they’ve visited my father, admit that today, I don’t play badly, though I can’t recall which song I pick.
To my shame, I still hear them. Part of me is paying attention to the ladies and their guest, refusing to let myself get lost in my song.
The dozens of ladies don’t let him get a word in at first. He chuckles.
“You flatter me.” His voice has changed, too, in all this time. It’s lower. Darker. More indecent. “I did nothing beyond my duty. And I was lucky to escape the assault. I’ve been given the rest of the week to rest, and I’ll return to my post shortly.”
“Surely not!” Lady Frost exclaims, clearly disappointed she wouldn’t get a lot of time to parade her newest treasure. “Wilden said you’d be around for a while this time.”
“Indeed. I have to undergo some rehabilitation, so I’ve been posted at the royal keep, where I can get the care I need, and serve under the command of the king consort.”
My fingers slip, gripping the wrong chord and bringing the attention back to me.
The first thing I see—the only thing I see—is his gaze.
That hasn’t changed at all. His eyes are still dark and deep, midnight black with a hint of blue, like his hair. And as they did back then, they look at me as though I am a menace he intends to dispose of.
I can’t blame him. I feel the exact same thing about him; from the very start, I’d detected that he was a threat.
I suspect he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. I’m just Vlari—the weak, the meek, the irrelevant.
I feel my face heat as I mumble an apology for my slip, and resume my song.
Rystan Drusk. Back here?
That cannot be good.
At all.
I studied at Whitecroft from age fifteen to twenty-five, like any other member of the gentry. In the first years, I was mostly ignored, occasionally teased.
Rystan Drusk, age nineteen, joined us when I was sixteen, as his lessons, back where he came from, hadn’t been as demanding as the ones we nobles undergo. He finished school in five years, leaving when I was in my early twenties. I heard in passing that he joined the army.
He was no one to me. I shouldn’t be so rattled to see him again.
I�
��m not.
I’ve only spoken to him twice. He doesn’t matter at all.
Air of Madness
Fifty years ago
* * *
I doodled in the corner of my long parchment sheet with my favorite purple quill to combat boredom, my ethnography test on seelie customs long completed.
I wasn’t entirely certain why I remained in my seat. Habit, I guess. I was accustomed to being as unremarkable as I could manage in class—finishing my work in a few minutes when we were given an entire hour didn’t seem incompetent enough.
As the hour had almost come to a close, and some of my classmates were beginning to leave, I was considering handing my work when I bristled in alarm, my head snapping to the windows.
An attack.
It didn’t make sense. We were safe here.
Long ago, all the way back to the reign of Nyx, the queen built this place.
At the core of our very land, she built ley lines diverting some of the magic from the lesser courts, in order to ensure direct control over the provinces. Finding one spot where all ley lines converged, at the heart of Tenebris, she knew that no lord could claim this territory.
I wondered whether she’d considered moving her court there, but the Shadow Peaks have magic of their own, and I didn’t think she would have liked leaving the ancestral home of her clan. Instead, she built our school. An establishment that didn’t quite belong to any of the courts, standing at the edge of all seven soils.
It was guarded by knights, wards, and nightmares. Our lessons were taught by the fiercest heroes and monsters of legends. Nothing but the best for us.
Not just anyone attended Whitecroft. It is reserved for the children of nobles, rich gentries, and, occasionally, a few notable kids who exhibited uncommon powers. In my days, that only occurred twice—a girl who started before me, and Drusk, one year after.
I owed my place to my lineage—I was a legacy, and therefore, entitled to attend free of charge, to everyone’s displeasure. Mine, most of all. I had nothing in common with the rest of them. Our family was scorned by the queen, which was reason enough for the nobles to detest the sight of me.