by Allison Pang
“What about her?” I punched Melanie lightly in the arm. “She’s the one with the magic violin.”
“I’ve got my own problems.” Melanie gave me a wry smile. “At least it won’t be boring.”
Moira’s mouth pursed. “With you two, it never is.”
We walked the remainder of the road to the palace. Time may have been of the essence, but I suspected Moira wanted to give Talivar a chance to warn the Steward of my approach, the presence of the Queen notwithstanding. The princess had assured me that a hot bath and clean clothes would be provided, along with a small meal before we were presented to the Queen.
“Things run at their own pace here,” she murmured. “And protocol is almost always followed, regardless of the rest of it.”
I nodded. Truth be told I would have loved a nap. Something warned me that I would need all my wits about me in this place. The road was deceptive in length, a twisted, windy thing, overgrown with gnarled roots and creeping moss, bloodred mushrooms and crystalline flowers in the softest hue of azure. Before and behind us remained the guard, but it was slow going with us occasionally forced to march in single file around a particularly large tree. And yet somehow it all felt empty, the air still and stale.
As if the magic was fading.
My thoughts wandered to the Barras and the massive wave of transient Fae there. The Unseelie Court was considered simple and callow and feral to the elves, perhaps. But Jimmy Squarefoot surely had not been, even with his fearsome appearance. And Kitsune had her own graceful sense of judgment and honor.
The Fae, I realized, were racist. At least the elves, with their need for beauty and perfection. What fate, then, to one who didn’t meet such stringent requirements? It didn’t take me long to realize Talivar’s appeal to the lost Unseelie kingdom … the outcast prince, a friend of royal blood, and a possible way home.
“I would have thought there would be a more straightforward way to get there. Doesn’t it seem dangerous to have the main road so overgrown?” Melanie ducked beneath the branch of a low-hanging willow.
“That is precisely the point,” Moira said. “Natural defense such as this give us time to prepare and are often much easier defended. Besides, the forest around us can be quite deadly given the proper motivation.”
I thought about the table of bones from this morning and shuddered. “No doubt.” I debated the wisdom of pointing out that by shunning the lesser Fae from the inner sanctum of their kingdom, the elves may have removed one of their internal ways of defense. In the end I bit my tongue. I was the stranger here, after all.
We rounded the last bend and the palace proper came into view. As we approached, I could see that while the inner sanctum did appear to be rooted directly in the base of the tree itself, the palace extended behind it for quite a ways. Spiraled staircases wove up to the taller branches, cleverly notched into the bark. I could only imagine how easily archers might hide deep behind those leaves to let fly a rain of arrows. Death from above, maybe.
“It’s impressive, in a retro-Lothlorian sort of way,” Melanie said. “But it seems like it would be easy to … I don’t know. Set it on fire?” The princess stiffened and Mel backpedaled. “Well, it is made of wood. I was just assuming that it would … um. Burn?”
“The tree drinks from an aquifer,” Phineas piped up before Moira could draw herself up any further. “It runs far below ground here, but its natural magics have infused the bark with powers of regeneration. Not that it hasn’t been tried before,” he added beneath his breath.
“Legends say we are merely fallen angels.” Moira’s eyes stared off into the distance as though she were someplace else entirely. “We cannot return to Heaven, but neither do we belong in Hell. Living in the trees reminds us of this—halfway between the earth and sky.” She winked at me. “Or perhaps we just like the view.”
“I’ll bet Benjamin would like it. Leaping from branch to branch like a little bird?” The image pleased me and I could only hope the boy would get a chance to do so.
Moira’s face became troubled. “Please, Abby. Don’t speak of my son here. I want him beneath notice. As long as he is safe, that is all that matters—but I do not wish Maurice to discover more than he already has.”
I bit down hard on my cheek. “Sorry.” Moira ignored me, her attention drawn to the sudden appearance of Talivar, striding from the main doors of the hall. Exasperation bit deep into the lines of his face and I wondered if he and the incubus had already managed to get into it again. Not that I’d seen Ion since he’d wandered off either.
“We have a small problem.” The prince took Moira by the arm. “The Queen has insisted on seeing Abby now. Maurice is before the Council again.”
“This is about me giving testimony, isn’t it?” The blood drained from my face as I set Phineas down. Sure, I wanted to see the bastard gutted for everything he’d done to me and my friends, but to do so here, where the chances of me screwing something up were so high seemed ludicrous.
“I’m afraid so,” Talivar said grimly. “I had been hoping to get you prepared to see her first, but it looks as though she’ll have her way. She is not having one of her better days, Abby. Try not to anger her, if you can.”
“What the hell kind of advice is that?”
“The best I can give you right now.” He ducked his head to kiss my cheek, his voice dropping low. “Be cautious in your words. Maurice has his own supporters among the court, although they may not always be obvious.”
“Great. No pressure or anything.”
Phineas prodded my shin with his horn. “Stop whining. It’s unbecoming.”
“Like I have anyone to impress?”
“Your father, for one,” he said, his tone gentle. “Let’s not melt down in front of the family.”
My anger drained away at the thought, leaving behind only a hollow weariness. “Fine. Let’s get the gawking over with. Then maybe I can get something to eat.” My stomach rumbled at the thought, but at this point it was probably better that it was empty. Nothing like vomiting on the Queen’s ruby slippers to make my humiliation complete.
I let Talivar slip his arm into mine as he escorted me up a set of limestone steps, bleached soft and white and overhung with ivy. My hands shook and his fingers tightened around my elbow, somehow managing to steer me in the right direction without making it look like he was helping.
I glanced behind me to see Melanie and Moira bringing up the rear, Melanie peering about her in a strange fascination, as though she were writing music in her head. Maybe she was.
Moments later we were whisked down a series of hallways, all within the inner reaches of the tree. Light slanted from above through a canopy of soft leaves, bathing the floor in tiny pools of gold. My heart lurched as though it meant to take flight through my mouth.
An intricately carved set of wooden doors opened as we approached and I had only a moment to notice they had the same sorts of markings as the stone Door at the Judgment Hall. I swallowed hard, barely noticing the wall of courtiers lined up on either side of the throne room. I had a vague approximation of a multihued explosion of silks, the aching beauty of the people around me nearly overwhelming.
A page announced us by name, but I ignored it as Talivar led me down the steps into the throne room. My focus narrowed on the curved, crescent stone table, so much like the one in the Judgment Hall, except this time there was actually a full contingent of elves filling the seats, each one attired in lavish dress and a bland expression. Before them was the Petitioner’s chair.
There I met Maurice’s beetle-bright eyes, steeling myself against the sly smile creeping over his face. His wrists were bound in front of him, but I didn’t take any solace from that fact. Anyone who’d ever been in his presence surely had to know it was his silken viper’s tongue that was the real threat.
I had the sinking feeling we were playing straight into his hands. At the very least he appeared to be enjoying my discomfort immensely.
The throne itself w
as carved directly into the tree, burnished to a soft golden color, smooth with the passing of more years than I could probably count. It sloped with great curling armrests, living vines bursting from the seat like a waterfall of greenery. Tiny pink roses dotted the edges.
Upon it sat the Queen of Elfland, cross-legged and regal.
And bored as hell.
Her eyes glittered as her gaze raked across me. A feral intelligence lit up her face, and she shifted upon the throne, the porcelain curve of her calves peeking from the tattered shreds of her dress. Pointed ears, draped with rings of gold, thrust up from the riot of honey-blond curls piled upon her head.
She pitched up when she saw us, crouching so that she was balanced on the balls of her feet and cradling her head in her hands. “Naughty,” she muttered. “Naughty, naughty lover to have betrayed me so.”
Talivar stiffened and I risked a glance to see an echo of pain ghost over his face. It was bad enough to have your mother go slowly insane, I supposed, without watching her drag an entire kingdom down with her. He bowed, indicating that I should do the same. I attempted an imitation of a curtsey I’d have done on stage in my former ballerina days. The effect was probably ruined by the combat boots, but I wasn’t going to beat myself up for it.
“Might I present my TouchStone, Your Majesty. I believe she may have information pertinent to your investigation.” Talivar gestured to Moira, who moved to flank my other side. “We also bring word from the daemon encampment, which we would discuss with you in private.”
The Queen stared at us, an odd wash of emotions playing over her face. Looking at it from her perspective, I had to admit it might be a touch unnerving to see the three of us together. That her children chose to stand by my side was no mistake, and bolder than I’d have liked, given the sudden rush of voices that sprung up through the room.
“Well, it’s clear she’s one of yours, Tom.” The Queen was clearly unhappy at no longer being the center of attention. “I’d know the shape of that mouth anywhere.” She licked her own lips suggestively, the red edges like overripe strawberries.
A flash of movement caught my eye as a man entered from a side chamber near the throne, wearing a simple robe that channeled only a touch of understated nobility in comparison to the peacock gaudiness of the others.
My father.
My head hammered with a rush of those forgotten memories as I drank him in, from the tousled brown hair loosely bound behind him to the piercing blue eyes, the gentle slope of his face, and the angled chin. The strong nose. The sad smile when his gaze found mine.
Maurice made a self-satisfied cough. “Well, that’s one mystery solved. Pity I wasn’t aware of it when I took you, Abby.” His eyes narrowed. “Things would have turned out much differently if I had, but that’s quite the little group you’ve assembled behind you. Elven prince and princess. The Door Maker. Rumors of a certain amulet at your neck. One might think you’re planning a coup.”
There was another murmur at that, but Moira had already turned toward him. “Your words are not needed, traitor. Still your tongue.”
“I have earned the right to be heard, as well you know, lover. How’s our son, by the way? I can’t help but notice he’s not with you. I do hope the poor lad is okay. What with all those strange seizures going around.”
I opened my mouth to interject, but a warning squeeze from Talivar stopped me and I bit down on my lower lip instead. Maurice chuckled, the sound rippling like ice water down my spine. The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know your pet daemon is here too, Abby darling? I heard he broke your heart. Pity.” He raised his bound hands in front of him, one finger pressing into his lips. “Say, isn’t there a daemon army camped out by Eildon Tree? Convenient.”
The throne room exploded in an uproar, accusations being thrown in all directions. I shared a panicked look with Melanie, trying to measure how quickly I could get the hell out of the room, when things immediately quieted down. The Steward calmly walked toward the Council, one hand held up.
“Peace, friends,” he said, his voice ringing over the crowd with a tone of warm finality. I frowned, the soothing cadence of his words sinking all around us like raindrops on a pond.
If I’d had any doubts that this was the True Thomas of legend, they were gone now.
“I do believe our guest has overstayed his welcome once again.” Thomas gestured toward a smirking Maurice. “Perhaps it would not be amiss to see him to his cell while we sort out these grave accusations he puts forth.” A hint of mockery lingered on the word “accusations” as though one would have to be mad to believe them. Awkward chuckles emerged in response, but I caught several courtiers exchanging glances of dismay. Maurice supporters, perhaps?
The Steward gestured to a pair of guards standing on either side of Maurice, indicating they should escort him away.
Maurice said nothing, but his eyes sparkled with glee at the interruption he’d made, laughing to himself as he was led out of the throne room. I sighed with relief that I wasn’t going to be made a spectacle of this time when I caught sight of the Queen, still sitting upon her throne.
She tilted her head at me as though nothing had happened. “What do you do?”
“I’m sorry?” Talivar coughed at my bluntness and I flushed. “Your pardon, Highness. I’m not sure I understand the question.”
Her lip curled, a flash of pointed teeth showing. “What art do you perform? Are you a bard, a teller of tales, a juggler? Surely one of Thomas’s get would be blessed with some sort of talent.”
“I’m the TouchStone to the Protectorate of Portsmyth, Highness.”
“Do not mock me, mortal.” She snapped her fingers, rising to her feet to descend from the throne. “And do not make me ask you again. What are you?”
“I used to be a dancer.”
“Used to?” Her brow arched. Pushing Talivar out of the way, she circled me critically.
“I was … injured.” I kept my eyes down, though some part of me burned to look at my father, to will upon him the knowledge of what he’d left behind. But there was a tiger in my face and it would be folly to ignore her. “I am no longer able to perform in such a way.”
“Pity. I prefer songs and poetry to anything else.” She frowned, pulling at my skirts. “Where is this injury you speak of?”
My face burning, I exposed my leg, demonstrating its hypermobility. “I’m a bit messed up in the head too,” I added, revealing the scar on my skull. “It sometimes affects my balance. And I have seizures.”
That drew her up short, Talivar’s warning shake coming a few seconds too late. Her gaze darted between me and Moira and I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Silence filled the room as the others made the connection.
I was Moira’s sister. I had seizures … something she had also recently suffered from. Such a lack of perfection would clearly make her unsuitable to rule. That the OtherFolk of Portsmyth had suffered even as their Protectorate had was irrefutable proof of the bond between ruler and land. Suddenly the Queen’s refusal to reopen the CrossRoads made a hell of a lot more sense.
Bad enough she suffered her own mental illness, but to have it appear as though there were a genetic pass-down of physical instability? There was clearly a shrewdness to her methods, an instinctual need to protect her daughter despite her madness.
Moira’s face paled even as the Queen let out a low hiss. Even if it had been caused by a spell, the very perception that the princess suffered from such an ailment only lowered her status in the Court’s eyes.
Inwardly I cringed as I geared up to throw myself under the bus. “Moira’s seizures are not of her making,” I said, inspiration striking in the form of a half-assed explanation that actually made a strange sort of logic. Quickly, I explained Tresa’s deception, aiming my words more at the court than at the Queen herself. “When the spell went off, only those I was TouchStoned to were to suffer the same.” I paused, sparing a glance at Moira. “My belief is that because Moira was Protectorate, m
y seizures were given to all those beneath her protection. A sort of retroactive backlash of my own physical flaws.”
Talivar stared at me in a sort of what-the-fuck admiration and I shrugged. “You have to admit it makes sense.”
“But you are no longer my daughter’s TouchStone?” If my explanation confused her, she didn’t show it, her only focus on that of Moira’s good name. The Queen leaned close, her scent thick and cloying and dank with an underlying sweetness, as though she no longer bathed but merely tossed on a spray of perfume.
I nearly gagged at it as Talivar caught my hand to hold me still. “No, Your Majesty. Due to the … situation … we were forced to transfer the title of Protectorate to your son.”
Her eyes dropped to the ring still on my finger and she laughed, a brittle hiss. “A crippled TouchStone for a crippled prince. How fitting.”
Anger flooded my limbs as Talivar stiffened, a red haze of fury filling my vision. “The hell with this. You—”
The blow came at my face like a bolt of lightning and I flinched, stumbling from an impact that never came. The Queen’s fist slammed into Talivar’s open palm, the prince staring at her impassively. The Queen blinked in surprise at her son’s sudden movement of open rebellion.
“Not her,” he snapped. “Hit me if you must, but not her—”
His words cut off with a stutter as her hand cracked against his face. “Take your whore and get out of my sight.”
Moira rushed to her mother’s side, sending Talivar a warning shake of her head. “Come, Your Highness, let’s get you back to your rooms and cleaned up. Perhaps a spot of tea? We’ll look at the roses in your garden.”
The words nattered past me, their rhythmic and weary cadence suggesting they had been repeated many times in the last few weeks. I glanced up to see my sister and my father gently whisking the Queen from the hall.
Talivar sighed, the sound washed away by the conversation of the courtiers. As though released into mobility at their Queen’s absence, the men and women seemed to sag, though they studiously attempted to ignore my presence with all the subtlety of a shoe in dog shit. The gossip would be damned good.