by Sage, May
I’m seething, which is never a good thing.
Anger is a familiar companion, and I am so accustomed to it I could mold it, modify it at will. Not tonight.
I see a glow of greenish magic crawl from me to my grandmother’s feet, slithering its way to her. I enjoy what I see in her eyes: fear.
“You forget." I hold my chin high, and bare my teeth. "None of your lessons were ever needed. I can vanquish any enemy with ease.”
These are my words, and they aren’t.
Nyx has never written them word for word, but I feel her influence in my turn of phrase. That’s strange enough to spook me into letting go of my magic, but I keep glaring at Meda.
To my surprise, she nods with what I interpret as amusement. “Finally. Some teeth. Bring them with you tomorrow night. And now, sleep. Child.”
She's right; I am childish, irritated by nothing more than the truth. I should sleep. The very real threat of Morgana's wrath matters more than the shadow of Nyx. I have to remember that. Yet part of me doesn't want to. Lost in Nyx's world, I start to understand how irrelevant Morgana truly is. She's ruled for four hundred years, and she has yet to have achieved anything of note; she's another Maeve.
I sleep, dreaming of long-forgotten times, of carpets of moss and garlands of wildflowers hanging on the pillars of great halls, now covered in silk and tapestries. I like to think I might have liked Nyx. She would have understood me. Her violet eyes are fixed on me through my dreams.
When twilight comes, I struggle to roll off my bed, and Meda's words come back to me. She's right; I've barely slept for days, and I'm weak. I can't afford to be.
I frown, glancing at the book on my bedside table. The book that's worth more than all my belongings combined—except for the dress I've bargained for with Drusk. I'm sure he's spent more than three gold coins on that.
I bite my lip, shaking my head. I'm not reading it tonight. I shouldn't read it tomorrow, either.
I've heard of books with curses woven inside the binding, hexing anyone who reads them. I don't think the journal is one of them, but it has a strange effect on me. A pull at my heartstrings. I want to believe it's because I love reading, and I haven't had many occasions to, but there's more.
A problem for another time. Tonight is Samhain, the end of the harvest season, the start of the darker part of the year, where our kind thrives.
And I will attend the court celebrations.
With Drusk.
I bathe and wash my hair, brushing it while it's wet. My mother's care three weeks ago is long undone; my ends are split and the tresses have lost their shine. I'll have to braid it.
I approach the dress naked, unsure of what underthings would fit it best. Unwrapping the brown sack, I stare in disbelief.
The gown is a soft cloud of gossamer from feet to waist, with two panels of my blue velvet fabric embroidered with gold thorns splitting at my thighs—everyone will see a lot of my legs under that daring cut. The velvet bodice has a square neckline and a low back, but there's blue lace stitched with diamond stars from the throat to the sleeves. I'll be covered from ankle to neck, and not covered at all, all at once.
I have my answer. I can't wear anything under that dress.
When I slip it on, I find that I don't need to; Ma'am Rolo made sure that my breasts are supported. I could run in this dress. Or dance until I ruin my satin slippers.
I'm observing my reflection in the heavy marble mirror on my wall, trying to stand in a way that makes me look as though I belong in this piece of art. As it catches the moonlight, the color changes to a dark purple. I smile, and find that when I do, it doesn't look so wrong on me.
I'll have few reasons to smile at court. Hopefully, I can also pull it off with a scowl.
I catch sight of a smudge on my left shoulder and rub it. To my surprise, it’s not fading at all.
I turn my back to the mirror and twist my neck to look at myself.
Right between my shoulder blades, there’s a dainty rose with bright red petals, and vines or thorns reach my neck on either side, their branches and thorns extending to my shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. Flowers are for mourning, and I’ve had no cause to mourn anyone at all, yet the mark is there. Since when? I can’t tell. I’m not sure when I looked at my back last.
Footsteps approach, but I don't let them disturb me.
"Mh. Finally bothering to dress as befits your station, I see."
I don't think Nerella has ever come to this part of the house.
The long-limbed puck with nimble twig-like fingers has served my mother since long before I was born. I've never asked, but I think she used to attend court with her.
She's never been fond of me. Nerella likes pretty dresses and complicated hairstyles, and I have time for neither.
"Don't get used to it." She snorts at my quip. "Did Mother send you to me?"
"I sent myself. And a good thing, too. Now, sit."
I do as I'm bid, settling on my dresser, and without a word, she gets to work on my hair. I let my mind wander as she works while humming a soothing tune.
Dusk gives way to night before she finishes taming my hair. "There. That's the best I can do."
The best she could do was braiding a crown around my head, fixed with one of my mother's silver diadems, and taming the rest of my hair into soft waves. I look tall, older, wiser, and crueler. I could kiss Nerella for her magic.
As I don't think she'd appreciate it all that much, I say instead, "I owe you a favor."
That amuses her. "And you'll remember it. Now, be quiet, I need to do your face."
By the time she's done with me, I'm not myself—Vlari is gone. I see Nevlaria, princess of the realm. Good. I'll need her tonight.
Queens and Pawns
I didn't expect Drusk to come here. We haven't clarified the technicalities of tonight, but I thought we'd meet before Hardrock. Yet when I walk down to the entry hall, I find him there, in the sitting parlor, conversing with my father.
I didn't even think he knew where I lived. That we reside in the Court of Mist is common enough knowledge, but he's never been here.
I can't reconcile myself with the tableau: Drusk and Nero, chatting comfortably. I can't imagine what they might have in common. One, a soldier, the other, a musician. I still and eavesdrop on them from a distance.
And look.
Drusk wears a navy double-breasted coat similar to any of his usual outfits, though it's embroidered in gold, just like mine. His shirt is satin, underneath. The only marked difference is that his hair is better combed than usual.
Men's lives are so simple.
"It's been too long since I've eaten a good gruel. My wife is very much about meats. Raw meats, if she can get them, and cold meats. So is my mother. Come to think of it, the only person in the house who will eat anything other than carcasses is my Vlari. She loves flowers, best. Candied violets, and poppy petals. I think she'd like gruel."
Drusk chuckles. "I can't quite picture it. I thought I'd eaten enough gruel for the rest of my days—there wasn't much more in the front. But when my father makes it, it's something else."
"It's home." Nero nods, like he understands only too well.
I wonder about what it's like for a man like my father to have married Ciera Oberon. His mother is here now, but I don't think he knew her well, in his youth. She reared him, and as soon as he was old enough, let him make his way in the world. They were too different for Meda to know what to do with him.
"You're very welcome any day, sir, if you pass our way at dusk. We don't live far, just a few miles south, at the border of the Court of Stone's domain." He casually waves southward. "My father makes enough for ten guests, and the door is open to any who wanders in."
"A generous offer. I'll take it, too, when I’ve had enough of boar and venison. We—"
Whatever he's about to say dies on his lips as he sees me.
I walk toward the hall, self-conscious under his scrutiny. I wonder what Drusk
thinks of the dress, of the hair, of the dusting of shine around my eyes and the blush of my cheeks.
All he says is, "Handsome dress."
This feels more like a compliment to him than anyone else; he’s happy with his purchase. I want to kick his shin. "What are you doing here? I thought we'd meet in town."
He shrugs. "I figured you wouldn't want to ride all the way and risk ruining your gown."
I hadn't even thought of that—credit to how little time I spend in pretty clothes. "Oh."
My father gets to his feet and hugs me as I approach. "You're beautiful, blossom. Dance, sing, and make merry tonight."
I know what he doesn't say in front of Drusk: that I should do my best to enjoy myself rather than spending my time worrying over what the queen has planned for me.
"I'll try."
He squeezes me harder before letting go.
I'm about to ask if Mother intends to see me out, when I feel her presence come from the grand staircase. She's also in finery; the Court of Mist will celebrate too, although it won't be a grand affair—just dances and songs in the woods, around a bonfire.
Drusk looks from her to me, and seems confused, as though he doesn't quite understand how such a tall, ethereal fae could have birthed me.
The desire to kick him increases.
Ciera is also paying attention—to him, not me. "That's a striking man, daughter dear.” Her voice is silk and shadow. “Why ever would you keep him to yourself?"
I grit my teeth. I've explained that an acquaintance is escorting me tonight; I told both of my parents it was just a bargain. Why is she embarrassing me like this?
"He's not mine to keep. Drusk, if you're ready?"
"Oh, no, I think not. You'll introduce your escort to us, Nevlaria." She seldom uses that tone; the voice that reminds me she's been raised a princess of the realm, and could well wear the crown.
It's going to be a long night. "Rystan Drusk, my parents, Ciera and Nero, lords of the Court of Mist. Mother, Father, Rystan Drusk, soldier, wielder of Myst. Who's absolutely no one to me." Not a friend, nor an enemy. "Now we're going to be late."
His dark horse is strapped next to a brown mare; they pull a small black carriage without banner—it's a simple conveyance, well made. The driver is a pale green-skinned pixie, to my surprise—there aren't many pixies south of the border. I'd never seen one before my grandmother came to live with us. He nods at me in acknowledgment as Drusk holds out his hand nonchalantly to help me in.
Inside, I find the wooden bench covered with thick, plush furs, and the windows hooded by velvet curtains.
Our old carriage is in such a sorry state, entering the luxurious vehicle furthers my feeling of having disguised myself as something else, someone else tonight.
"Ready when you are, Pirrin!" Drusk calls to the pixie, and we're on our way, in silence.
We drive past the clover fields and haunted groves until we reach the Court of Stars, and then through the lakes and murks.
We're minutes away from Hardrock when he says, "You've never attended court, have you?"
A loaded question. I evade it. "I've been to court."
Always on a summons, meant to answer for my principal crime: existing.
"Mh. Your parents seemed wary."
I bite my lower lip, not wanting to get into the details.
"We could choose another way to make small talk, if you wish. Let us talk of music, dances, books, and lovers."
I'm comfortable with none of those subjects. "It'll be my first Samhain at court. My first celebration. The queen doesn't favor my side of the family. If you hoped to get her attention, that's not going to happen while you're with me."
"I care little for the whims of queens."
He's so nonchalant that I believe him.
"Then why did you want to be here?"
Drusk hesitates. "Do you know what it's like to be there, and yet not exist? I suppose not. Even if no one speaks to you in a room, they know you. They know your name, your status. Soldiers without great names are invisible. I thought it'd be entertaining to cavort with my superiors, and spit in the face of their disdain when they try to will me back into nothingness."
I blink, incredulous. Then a chuckle escapes me. Drusk seems to understand I'm not laughing at him. He grins back.
"That sounds marvelous. You'll dance with queens and kings and princes, and they won't be able to say a thing at all about it."
"And princesses. I shall dance with some princesses, too."
The gates are wide open, and a crowd of sprites, pucks, and imps trample all over themselves to get inside the cavernous halls. I’m stunned and confused; I would never have thought that Morgana would invite the common folk.
“They’re to remain in the halls—the court assembles at the summer palace tonight.”
I try not to resent Drusk for knowing what I didn’t.
“Why have we come this way, then?”
The summer palace is on the other side of the mountains, on the waterfront.
“Following the peaks would take a whole hour. The king advised me to pass through the palace. Though that’s hardly likely to save us time.”
I peek at the merry, slow-moving crowd through the window—then, I draw the curtains back to talk to our driver. “Would you mind sticking to the left line?”
The pixie glances back at me and nods. I’ve seen carriages pass through the royal gates; it should let us all through safely as long as it senses my presence in the back.
I close my eyes, and expand my mind, hoping my idea isn’t about to cost two horses and two fae their skins.
I am here. I belong here. Let me through.
Welcome back, mistress.
I jolt, surprised to have heard an answer clearly in my mind. A strange answer; these gates have no reason to see me as anything but a visitor. But I feel the magic wash over us as we pass through the royal gates safely, ahead of the crowd.
In front of the crowd, we dismount and join the mayhem.
I’ve never been anywhere but the hall of crowns—and the servants’ quarters where Alven led me on my last visit to shout at me—but Drusk seems comfortable here. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and offers me an elbow. I hook an arm through, and let him guide me. The crowd parts with bows and greetings that aren’t all for Drusk.
I know these people, I realize. They’re the merchants and clients at the markets. While they might not have seen me like this, in a fine dress, painted like a doll, they know and respect me enough to let us go easily forward.
We pass a hall of thorns—great marble columns trained with thorns and roses—a hall of art, with sculptures of naked fairies painted black and gold. Next comes the great hall. I finally understand why the queen thought nothing of inviting the entire town; five thousand fae could comfortably fit in here, and maybe a giant or two. The hall is lit with millions of candles and trapped devases gleaming like starlight over the dark ceiling. Large tables have been pressed against either side of the walls, and piled up with a feast of cakes, candies, meats, and wine. Mostly wine.
I wish we could stay here, laughing and dancing with the folk, but Drusk leads me out of the hall, through a sinuous passage that opens to the eastern beach.
Sea air crashes into me from a distance. The waves are dark and violent, hitting the white-columned open-air edifice where we’re headed.
“Why do we gather here in the winter?” I muse, confused.
Holding the summer solstice here, I would have understood, but I’m frozen to my bones.
The path to the palace is covered in moss and white flowers. When we reach the first pillars, I’m relieved to find the air perfectly warm—the open hall is wrapped in a spell that makes it comfortable as a summer night.
We’re announced at our entry, and I try to shed all traces of fear when the throng parts to let us approach the queen.
I thought Morgana richly dressed every time I saw her, but today, in a high-collared white gown stitched with starlight
and strands of white gold, she’s a vision, gold speckles on her cheeks and throat.
In contrast, Alven wears black, his eyes dusted with coal.
As Morgana watches me with her cold eyes, I curtsy deeply.
She says nothing, does nothing.
“Rise, child. Rystan.” I’m shocked my grandfather has intervened, but I obey all the same.
Finally, Morgana says, “Enjoy the festivities.”
I am thus dismissed.
Her look promises reprisal, vengeance. She hates what I’ve done—the dress, Drusk. But she doesn’t seem inclined to exact it here, in front of all her court. I breathe out. It’ll be just fine. When I’m confronted, I can feign ignorance, innocence.
“I think I need warm mead after that,” Drusk says, chuckling. “The queen has never seemed this icy to me.”
“Mead sounds great, Rystan.” I’d known that was his name, of course, but everyone calls him Drusk.
Along the open arches, there’s eight long tables laden with food and wine; he finds a large lead pot of scented mead, and serves us both goblets. I wrap my cold hands around it, and sniff it. Fresh spices, honey, and brandy.
“I haven’t poisoned you, you know.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but I say, “Better safe than sorry.”
I take a sip. It’s warm, rich, and delicious.
Drusk fixes me with a stare and starts a retort, when he’s interrupted.
“By the underworld, I didn’t expect to find you here!” I tense as Dekren approaches.
He’s accompanied by his human beauty—still with him after four weeks, to my surprise. Dekren embraces Drusk, who doesn’t seem to mind, and kisses the top of my head.
“If you’ve ruined my face, I’ll tear you to pieces.” Nerella worked hard to smudge shadows on me.
“Such sweet things she says to me,” Dekren coos, before taking Drusk aside to whisper in his ear.
I grin at the human, and lower my head in a brief greeting. “Nice to see you dressed.” And it is. She wears a beautiful red gown that emphasizes her very unfaelike assets. I can only admire her curves, her sensual ways.