by Dawn Metcalf
Joy shook her head. “No.”
“Your True Name, Joy,” Filly said. “I know your True Name. And you gave it to me willingly.”
Joy froze without feeling the cold.
Filly nodded. “Yes. You see? I wanted to know who you are. Or at least whom you belonged to before the ravens circle to claim you as their own.”
“But I’m not...” Joy struggled to make the words combine. “I’m not one of you. I’m not one of the Folk. I’m human.” That is what they’d fought for: her human freedoms. Because she was human. Filly had to know that. Her theory about Joy having a True Name made no sense. “I’m a human with the Sight.”
“And who is to say that a human with the Sight is not somehow somewhat related to the Twixt?” Filly said while drawing great semicircles in the sand with her toe. “It would explain a great many things, would it not? Perhaps the rumors are true and those with the Sight have a drop of faery blood in their veins? Or perhaps you are something entirely new? I imagine the change began when Ink marked you, or when you began traveling through the Twixt, or when Aniseed splashed you with her potions that set fire to her web of glyphs. I don’t know, but I made up a test and you passed every time. You have a True Name and it is Joy Malone.”
“That’s...that’s impossible,” Joy said, mind whirling. “That makes no sense! By your logic, everyone I’ve ever met could control me like a puppet and I’ve done lots of things that people told me specifically not to do!”
“People knowing your True Name isn’t the same thing as giving them your True Name,” Filly said. “You have to do it willingly—offer your full name to that person, yourself—in order for it to work. That is why polite circles demand things like formal introductions and calling cards. You cannot be controlled through secondhand information.” She tossed her head in the wind. “But I met you early on and when I asked for your name, you gave it to me.” The blonde warrior stood back and considered Joy frankly. “Who have you given it to? Do you remember?” Joy stared into space, thinking carefully: Ink, Filly, maybe Inq? Graus Claude? Her insides rolled over as the implications swam through her head. How many times was I told to trust someone or not to worry, to hand something over, to let it go... And Joy had done it, willingly, obeying without thinking, every time. Had they known? Had they always known? Filly nodded as if she understood perfectly.
“I am your friend, and you can trust me, but offering others your True Name has made you vulnerable. Controllable. Not entirely, but then again, you’re not entirely one of the Twixt, and yet not entirely human, either,” she said. “You pose a danger to yourself and others who would seek to use you as one of Ink’s tools.” Her blue tattoos accented the sly glint in her eyes. “This is unacceptable to warriors like ourselves, so I wished to make you aware of it and offer you a choice.”
“A choice?” Joy asked. “What choice?”
“The choice to claim yourself for yourself,” she said. “The Folk have found a way to protect ourselves—it’s written into the Edict of all those who dwell in the Twixt.” Filly nodded again solemnly. “Even you.”
Joy could feel it like a hot brand between her shoulder blades: the alchemical smudge that was slowly morphing, becoming something irreversible, irrefutable, set into her skin.
My signatura.
Filly watched understanding dawn. “It won’t manifest if you don’t complete it,” Filly added, letting the unsaid go unsaid. “But you are stronger, lighter, fiercer than when I met you. I see it in you—you have begun to change. The Twixt has started to claim you, to protect you, but a half-built wall is no wall at all.” Filly raised her chin. “As I said, I am your friend. And I will tell you how to claim it, if you want to do so.”
Joy curled her arms, hugging herself, walking faster and faster as she tried to outpace her thoughts. Revelations and epiphanies bubbled and popped in her brain. What if it’s true? What if I’m not human? Then what am I? What about Great-Grandma Caroline? What about Stef?
They weren’t fully human. They had the Sight.
They had True Names.
They were vulnerable, controllable.
And the Tide would kill them all if they ever found out.
“What happens if I don’t? Would it stay unfinished? Would it fade away? And what happens if I do? Would some part of me still be human? Or will I become invisible, too?” The questions shot out rapid-fire, matching her growing panic.
“Hel if I know,” Filly said. “I just wanted to be the first to solve the riddle. I’m surprised the others haven’t figured it out yet.” She picked up a piece of driftwood, curved and worn smooth. “Maybe they have and haven’t told you. But it’s your choice and yours alone. I don’t know the answers to your questions, but I can tell you what happens to those who choose not to shield their True Names. You think you’d survive long enough to defy the Council thrice over? There’s no one still here who hasn’t locked the power of their True Name into a sigil. Once that happens, the words Joy Malone will be only sounds that you can choose to answer or not. They will hold no power over you.” She swung the stick back and forth. “Of course, you can also choose to be human and leave all of this behind, but you should at least know your options before making that choice.”
Joy pushed back her salted hair. It crackled. She was reminded suddenly of a sign hanging in church: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
It was her choice.
“Tell me.”
And Filly did, looking eager as a storyteller with a gruesome campfire tale. Afterward, Joy stared at her while rubbing her arms in an effort to keep warm.
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all?”
“There’s a song, but it’s unimportant, and a ritual bath, which is even less important, but the one thing that you must do is give up something of yourself—something uniquely yours—in order to bind you to your Name.” She straightened the horsehead pendant at her throat. “All true magic demands a sacrifice. And it must be done, as they say, willingly, sealed in blood.” Filly broke the knot of wood between her thumbs. “Declare the words, have them witnessed and prick your thumb. One drop of blood is all it takes.” Grimacing, Filly scratched her scalp under the wet braids. “I don’t know if that last part’s important or if the Council just likes to see us bleed.” She eyed a smear of storm clouds heading in over the cliff. “The choice is yours, but best do it soon,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m not the cleverest of the lot and others will guess.” Her eyes blazed in the hazy sunlight. “You have many powerful enemies as well as many powerful friends—neither will likely enjoy the decision you will have to make.”
Joy couldn’t help asking, “Then why do you care? Why tell me this?”
Filly stepped into Joy’s personal space, larger than life. “Because I am a warrior, not a politician or lover. Because the others don’t understand, except maybe the Bailiwick—I cannot change what the Nornar decree, and I know a fighter when I see one. I know that and I trust it.” She clapped a hand to Joy’s arm, unaware that Grimson’s mark lay beneath her wet sleeve. “You will fight. And you will do so with honor. You will do something, Joy Malone, and it will change the world.”
And, knowing that Filly spoke her True Name, Joy could do nothing but accept that this was true.
EIGHTEEN
SHE’D BEEN SUMMONED within the hour. She was lucky that she’d had a chance to take a shower and change out of her ocean-soaked clothes. Joy didn’t know whether the timing was due to bureaucracy or her four-leaf clover, but she was grateful nonetheless.
The grand amphitheater curved overhead like a giant flower, cavernous and awesome with sloping, petal-shaped walls. A central, star-shaped skylight glowed with the dregs of summer sun despite it being late and, as far as Joy could tell, several miles underground.
Green sparkles moved lazily along the ceiling like drunken fireflies. Golden strands, thin as tinsel, hung at varying lengths from tiered heights. Mosaics of semiprecious stone covered the walls, glittering black, red, ochre, green and a deep blue turquoise down to the rows and rows and rows of gallery benches surrounding a central dais. The Council seats sprouted from the ground in a semicircle of smooth, white shoots facing a desiccated stump whose rings were worn smooth with age. Whether by guilty feet or countless years, Joy couldn’t guess as she craned her head behind the heavy green curtain to try to take it all in.
She stood waiting in an arched alcove off to one side of the ground floor, level with the central stump, stage left. If the Council chamber had been built to impress, it had done a splendid job.
She let the curtain settle and twisted her fingers in the edge of her wrap. She’d worn a halter dress, the one she’d worn to Stef’s graduation, along with a matching pashmina, strappy heels and hose. A breeze touched her back. She pulled the shawl tighter. Squeezing her clutch purse, Joy wobbled in her shoes and squirmed.
With her toes squashed into fashionable triangles, her ankles were feeling the pressure after a summer of flip-flops and flats. She fiddled with the strange fabric of the curtain, her planned speeches and practiced defenses muddled thick in her head. She wished Inq hadn’t left after escorting her to the chamber. She glanced back at the grand staircase by which they had appeared. She wondered where Inq had gone. She wondered if Ink had come. She wished that she could catch a glimpse of them before everything she had to say was said and there would be no turning back. But she was alone.
This was it: Joy Malone versus the Twixt.
Stef couldn’t come with her. They both knew it, but for very different reasons. He’d walked her to the Carousel on the Green; its massive carnival features loomed dark and quiet behind the fence. He’d held her hand as long as he was able before Inq appeared.
“You don’t have to do this,” he’d said.
He was wrong, but she hadn’t told him so.
“I can do this,” she’d said.
Stef had sighed and nodded. “I know you can. And I know you will.” Then he’d glared at Inq, the Other Than waiting to take Joy before the Council of the Twixt. “Bring her home soon.”
“I will,” Inq had said. “Trust me.”
But Stef didn’t.
Joy had tried to look brave as Inq took her hand and walked them both Under the Hill.
The last thing she wondered was whether the DJ was there, lurking somewhere in the shadows. And then the world folded in on itself as the Carousel blossomed open, drawing her into the heart of the Twixt.
“Are you well?”
Joy turned. A young man with a shock of white hair and a pale, open face glanced at her with concern. His eyes were an odd color, green-gray like the sea, and his clothes were from another century, a pale double-breasted suit with swallowtails peeking out from beneath a high-necked feathered cloak.
“Thanks, I’m just...” Joy surprised herself by being honest. “Nervous.”
“Don’t be,” he said gently. “Whatever you have to say, it is important that the Council hear it. That is why they invited you here, after all.” He twitched aside the curtain with his right hand as the seats began to fill. Joy watched a bronze-skinned man with incredibly large antlers speaking to a creature that looked like a cross between a peacock and a flamenco dancer, all jewel-tone colors and crested crown. Several fat, jolly men in bulbous hats chittered among themselves as a green, sticklike figure waved at them to shush. What could only be a gryphon cawed loudly from an aerie seat. A knot of black-skinned elves argued, punctuating their angry voices by waving silver staves. Joy’s stomach fluttered as her brain balked. It was hard to separate the panoply from the noise.
“I remember the first time I saw these Halls,” he said, gazing up at the ceiling. “I thought my head might twist right off my neck—there was so much to see! I tried to take it in all at once.” He gave a self-humoring smile. “I think the Council Hall is meant to be overwhelming, so don’t be surprised if you’re feeling overwhelmed—it’s built into the design.” He shrugged. “Of course, I believe it should also be welcoming and encompassing, to allow you to feel part of something larger than yourself—to let you know that you are not alone.” His voice was kind and coaxing. “You belong here as much as anyone.” The curtain closed and Joy let out a little sigh of relief. “There, now,” he said. “Feeling better?”
“A bit,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“Then my good deed for the day is done.” He did not offer his name or ask for hers, which she now knew to expect—and why—but the strange etiquette made its absence less noticeable. She was still agitated, sensing a latent hostile threat beyond the curtain, as if something slithered in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Right now, Joy would take any small kindness that she could get.
“Thanks again,” she said, wondering if he’d be so gracious if he spied Grimson’s mark upon her arm. She hadn’t removed it. Like Monica’s remaining scar, she knew better—some experiences left a mark. For better or for worse, they’d been earned.
The feather-cloaked gentleman gestured toward the curtain a final time. “I must go now, but know that after this first sorry business is concluded, the Council is open to anything the Folk here have to say. It’s important that all our voices be heard in order that they may govern wisely.” He smiled graciously. “You are important to us.” Joy gave a shaky smile. He obviously had no idea who she was, and, for a moment, she was grateful for that much. That last small protection of anonymity would be gone all too soon, and she would stand before them, vulnerable and alone. He seemed nice, but what she really wanted was Ink by her side.
He gave a quick bow and mounted the gilded stairs, his cloak sliding elegantly behind him. Joy fidgeted on the carpet, thick and rich as soft earth.
The murmurs beyond the curtain grew louder so that she could make out individual voices talking, some speaking in languages she didn’t recognize and others speaking in sounds she didn’t recognize as language. She peeked again, scanning the hundreds of inhuman faces, looking for a pair of all-black eyes, telling herself that she was part of this—that this was by design.
There are no accidents.
A sharp rapping split the air, startling her. The voices smothered to stillness.
“Order to our Order.” A reedy voice cut through the vastness, buoyed by the ringing, unnatural acoustics. The entire Hall rose in their seats as hundreds of Folk spoke as one, “We present ourselves as representatives of our most noble Houses, whose collective oaths constitute this, the Council of the Twixt.” The sound of their declaration was a force, like the ripping cliff winds or the crashing ocean waves. Joy rocked on her heels and grabbed the archway for support. “Which, in accordance to our laws, ascribes and mandates an onus to grant counsel, judge fairly, decree wisely and transmit faithfully the will of the Court so to best govern those who uphold the last vestiges of our stronghold and honor upon this earth.” The recitation included one collective breath. “To this end, we thus remain your humble servants and stewards until the Imminent Return.”
Everyone sat with a sound like thunder.
Again, the reedy voice sliced through the sudden silence.
“The Council calls forward Joy Malone.”
Joy knew this was her cue and forced her feet to move. Her hands parted the thick curtains as she walked toward the stand, her consciousness floating above her body in a surreal cloud tethered by an awed, impossible fear. Even competing for Olympic qualifiers, Joy had never had an out-of-body experience—she felt literally scared out of her skin.
The sudden vastness of the chamber woke her senses to uncomfortable sharpness; she could hear the creak and rustle as Folk strained to catch a look, the low murmur of gossip skittered along the benches, and she felt the press of
hundreds of eyes dissecting her every move. Mutters whispered in the darkness, reminding her of Aniseed’s trap, of shadows and blood and coffee cake. She kept her gaze on the rings of the stump, thinking of mahogany eyes ringed in foxtails and an evil, malicious grin. Aniseed had been a member of this Council.
Joy took a deep breath and looked up.
Graus Claude was resplendent in a formal robe of aquamarine silk, embroidered in cuffs of gold fitted with pearls. He sat behind the small partition and stared at her with an unreadable expression. She thought, perhaps, he still hadn’t forgiven her for her latest trespass. A thin, elderly man sat center stage with snakelike scales along his throat and a long, wispy moustache that wafted in a breeze that wasn’t there. A dark redheaded pixie with scalloped ears and swollen lips bright as cherries sat next to a squat woman reclining in a bowl-like seat—her soft, doughy face was the color of mushrooms and her brown hair hung loose to the floor. A sexless figure of faceted crystal stared down at her with eyes of molten flames, its every movement giving off a sharp ping and crack. An elderly dryad sat nearby and stared at her, his face a knot of woody vines and his hair braided with twists of berries like beads. Something indistinct floated in a teardrop-shaped tank, suspended gently over its seat, and near the end of the row stood a severe-looking man with sunken eyes and a dramatic widow’s peak—he glared down at Joy like a physical push. At his left stood the young man with the feathery white hair. He wore an expression of shock and disgust. When she saw him, it was immediately clear that he wished she hadn’t.