Fragile Eternity tf-3

by Melissa Marr

  She’s too pretty to be human. Unnatural—Aislinn pushed away the old prejudices, but not before the rest of that thought was there—just like I am now. Not human.

  “We are sad that he’s gone.” Siobhan’s voice was whispery. “We tried to make him stay.”

  Aislinn stopped. “You what?”

  “We danced, and we even took away his charm stone.” Siobhan pouted, seeming falsely young as she did so. “But Niall came and took him from us. We tried, though. We tried to keep him with us.”

  Yelling at Siobhan wasn’t going to help. Despite the posturing of vapidity, Siobhan was clever. Some days, she was unnerving for it. Mostly, Aislinn thought the Summer Girl was loyal to their court—just not so loyal that trusting her was a safe bet.

  Aislinn tightened her robe belt and sat down, not on her bed but on the stool in front of the dressing table. “Niall took Seth from the park. Did he take the charm stone?”

  Siobhan smiled slowly. “It was he who gave it to Seth, so he’d not leave it with me, would he?”

  “Because the charm made Seth…” Aislinn lifted a beautiful olive-wood brush, but she didn’t do anything with it.

  “Impervious to our glamour, my Queen.” Siobhan came over, took the brush, and began brushing Aislinn’s hair. “It kept him safe from any illusions a faery might press onto him.”

  “Right. And Niall gave it to him, but you took it.” Aislinn closed her eyes as Siobhan methodically pulled the knots from her hair.

  “We did,” Siobhan confirmed.

  “Did you?” Aislinn opened her eyes again and held Siobhan’s reflection in the mirror.

  The faery paused in her brushstrokes and admitted, “No. I wouldn’t upset Niall that way. If you asked it of me, I’d cross him, but unless I must…We’ve been dancing together for centuries. He was the one who taught me what it meant to be not-mortal. When my king turned his attention to the next mortal…” She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t upset Niall unless my regents required it.”

  “I didn’t know he had a charm stone,” Aislinn whispered. “Did he mistrust me that much?”

  “I don’t know, but I am sorry that you are sad.” Siobhan resumed brushing.

  Aislinn’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss him.”

  “I know.” Siobhan shook her head. “When Keenan turned his attention away from me…We all tried to replace Keenan. I sometimes thought I had.” She looked down for a second. “Until he left too.”

  “Niall. You and he were something more—”

  “Oh, yes.” Siobhan’s expression left no doubts. “Eternity is a long time, my Queen. Our king was often distracted, but until you were found, Niall had a purpose in our court. He hid his darkness with dizzying bouts of affection. I took the lion’s share.”

  She walked over to the wardrobe, opened it, and pulled out a dress. “You ought to dress for dinner. For the king.”

  Aislinn stood and went over to the wardrobe. She ran a hand along the outside. The tableaus of faery revelries carved into the wood didn’t make her pause anymore. The opulence of the room didn’t either. Keenan had found these things in an attempt to make her happy; he’d decorated the room lavishly, but she couldn’t deny that she liked it—or the dresses inside the wardrobe.

  “I don’t want to dress up,” she said.

  Siobhan’s princess-perfect face was a vision of contempt. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Wallow. Weaken us as Bananach scouts our perimeter. Distract our king with your selfishness. Keep him from finding happiness with you or with the Winter Queen.”

  “That’s not—”

  “He stays away from Donia in order to be by your side when you need him, yet you still refuse to see him as you should—as your true king and partner. He’s willing to sacrifice his new chance with her in hopes that you’ll move on. Yet you weep and hide, and he worries and mourns. Both of you saddened is unacceptable. Our court requires laughter and frivolity. This melancholy and denial of pleasure weakens the very core of who you are—and weakens us as a result.” Siobhan closed the wardrobe with a slam and, in the next heartbeat, turned a plaintive gaze on Aislinn. “If your mortal isn’t here to share laughter and pleasure, if our king is denied his joy at loving the other queen, if you are both so maudlin, we grow weak and sad. Your laughter and bliss filters into all of us, as does this wallowing in despair. Go to dinner with our king. Let him help you smile.”

  “But I don’t love him.” Aislinn knew the words sounded weak, even as she said them.

  “Do you love your court?”

  Aislinn looked at her, the faery who’d had the courage to tell her what she very much didn’t want to hear. “I do.”

  “Then be our queen, Aislinn. If your mortal comes home, you can deal with it, but right now, your court needs you. Your king needs you. We need you. Take pleasure in the world…or send our king to Winter so he can have pleasure. You keep him at your side but give him nothing to smile about. Your pain is hurting all of us. Accept what you can take of the pleasure he would offer.”

  “I don’t know how,” Aislinn said. She didn’t want to move on, but she admitted—to herself, at least—that she treasured Keenan’s comfort. She looked at Siobhan, well aware that her confusion was plain in her expression. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Siobhan’s voice gentled as she said, “Choose to be happy. It is what we have all done.”

  Chapter 22

  For the next four days, Seth waited in Sorcha’s hidden city. After Seth’s initial meeting with the High Queen, Devlin had deposited him in a spacious set of rooms, complete with an elaborate terrarium where Boomer was happily ensconced. It wasn’t bad—but for the one critical detail. I left Ash five nights ago. He wished now that he’d answered her calls or texts the day he’d gone. His phone didn’t work here. He had no signal at all.

  That was really all he lacked: contact with Aislinn. Everything else seemed to appear before he could want it. Meals arrived in his room, and he broke the injunction against accepting faery food. He’d made his choice: he wasn’t leaving the world of faeries. Short of death, this was the path he’d be on. The first moment when he ate the food that was most likely delivered and prepared by faeries felt momentous—like acceptance of a change, like the physical commitment to a new path. He’d wished Aislinn were beside him when he ate the strange meal of unfamiliar fruits and paper-thin pastry, but then again he’d wished she were with him every moment of every day.

  He spent most of his time in his quarters, but he’d roamed a bit. After the first day, he realized that he always ended up back at his rooms once he’d thought of it—so he experimented. He had only to think it and take three corners, and no matter how far he’d walked, he was in the hallway that led to his doorway.

  A few faeries watched him; a few mortals smiled at him.

  Inside his rooms, he’d been given art supplies aplenty—but he couldn’t focus. Sitting around wondering about the High Queen’s decision wasn’t ideal for creating. He’d meditated. He’d sketched some. He’d read in fits—books of law and discourse, treatises in the Workings of Faerie, several dense essays in the In the Companie of Subterraneans. He’d walked aimlessly. He searched for new insights in the books he found. He was in a building with rooms holding nothing but books: everything he could dream of was at his fingertips.

  Everything but Ash.

  If it wasn’t for missing her, he suspected he’d be happy in the space Sorcha had allotted him. It was set up as if for an artist. One wall was all glass so the light that filtered into the room was wonderful. Beyond that window-wall was an immense garden. Within the room, he had easels, paints, inks, canvas, paper, and in a side room, he had some supplies and tool options for his metalworking. Everything but inspiration. Sketching the garden from within a cell wasn’t tempting.

  The restlessness he’d been fighting the past four days took him to the immense window again. This time, under closer inspection, Seth realized that within the window was a door of sorts. He
pressed a half-moon shadow on the glass and the window split to open outward, allowing him access to the garden. As he entered it and looked past the flowers and trees, he saw the ocean, a vast desert, arctic plains, grasslands, mountains…Inside his room, he could only see the garden, but when his feet touched the earth outside his room, something unreal filtered into his vision.

  Or real.

  As he concentrated on the ocean, he could taste the briny air. Years ago, he’d lived by the sea. Linda loved that. His father wasn’t much for the water, but Seth and his mother had relished it. She’d found motherhood much easier when she felt freer. The sea breeze made her feel that way. Seth could taste it in the air, that familiar salty tang. It seemed too real to be an illusion.

  The entire universe is at Sorcha’s hands.

  Seth could see why she didn’t come live inside the main part of Huntsdale or any other city when she had utopia hidden in this space. Donia had the small corner of Winter year-round; Keenan and Aislinn had their park; but Sorcha seemed to have an entire world behind her barrier. Seth couldn’t quite see why anyone would leave here willingly. It was perfect.

  He stopped himself. He had to stay focused so that when she allowed him to speak, he could try to convince her that he belonged in the world of faeries. Donia had listened when he spoke; she’d given him the Sight. Niall listened when he spoke; he’d offered brotherhood. Faeries seemed to respond favorably to sincerity and courage. Blind adoration, on the other hand, wasn’t persuasive—not that he had anything logical to offer as a point of debate. He didn’t want to be a finite mortal in a world of eternal faeries. He hoped she’d be sympathetic when she finally chose to listen to his request—and that she’d let him speak to her soon. He wasn’t sure how long he would be asked to wait or if he could leave if he was tired of waiting.

  Am I a prisoner?

  He had no answers, nor anyone to ask. Sorcha’s court wasn’t like the Summer Court with its constant chatter and laughter. It was…calm, and not very embracing.

  The exception to that was a faery whose body seemed to be cut of the night sky. Each day she’d paused to offer to share her studio supplies if he ran out.

  “You could come to my studio. You could create,” she said.

  “That’s kind,” or “I appreciate it,” he would say, carefully avoiding any form of “thank you” each time. He’d learned enough of their rules to know to avoid empty words.

  “No speaking past the threshold,” she repeated each day. And then she’d left without pause. Knowing she was an artist made her seem almost comforting, almost familiar—but for the flickers of distant starlight radiating out as she moved. She cast white shadows on the walls. It made no sense, not logically, but Seth had given up on expecting faeries to adhere to the rules of mortal logic or physics.

  Today, when they exchanged their daily comments again, he decided to follow her, but he’d only gone a few paces when he ran into Devlin. The emotionless faery hadn’t been around since the night he’d choked Seth. Now he stood like a physical barrier in the hall. “Olivia walks where you cannot.”

  Seth watched the starlit faery round a corner and vanish from sight. “You going to strangle me again?”

  Devlin didn’t smile. His posture and movements bespoke strict military training, steel-straight spine and every muscle ready. “If my queen requires it, or if it’s in my court’s best interests, or—”

  “Following Olivia on that list?”

  “If you follow Olivia into the sky, you’ll freeze to death or suffocate. It would be unpleasant either way.” Devlin maintained his military-straight posture. “Mortals aren’t designed for sky walking.”

  Sky walking? Suffocate? Freeze?

  Seth stared down the hall where Olivia had long since disappeared. “‘Into the sky’ literally?”

  “She works with a different medium than you do. It’s a rarity born of her mixed heritage.” Devlin relaxed briefly; his expression was one of awe. “She weaves starlight. Tapestries of filaments so transient they melt each day. The sky isn’t a place for fragile mortals. Your body requires breath and warmth. Neither is possible there.”

  “Oh.”

  “She would’ve woven a portrait of you, but the consequence would not be one most mortals like.”

  “It would kill me,” Seth confirmed.

  “Yes, her portraits are sometimes anchored longer with mortal breath. Breath for art. Balance.” Devlin’s voice had a fervor Seth recognized: it was madness perhaps, but it was madness over Art.

  Somehow that revelatory moment of passion made Seth feel more at peace.

  “Sorcha requests you attend her,” Devlin said.

  Seth quirked a brow. “Attend her?”

  The taciturn faery paused. He stared at where Olivia had vanished several moments past. “You might be better off following Olivia. My queen is—like your queen and like Niall—required to consider the well-being of her court first. You are an aberration and thus in a rather untenable situation.”

  Seth glanced at Boomer in his immense terrarium, assuring again that the boa was contained, and then closed the door to his room. “I’ve been in an untenable situation for months. This is about fixing that.”

  “Bartering with faeries is not a wise plan,” Devlin said.

  “Art isn’t the only thing worth being consumed for.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Devlin paused and gave Seth a look of blatant assessment. “Niall cares for you, so I will hope you’re as clever as you think you are, Seth Morgan. My sisters are neither kind nor gentle.”

  “I have no desire to fight them.”

  “I didn’t mean in a fight. Their taking notice of a mortal has rarely been a good thing for the mortal, and you are very much drawing their attention.” Devlin spoke the words in an extremely low voice. “Come.”

  The weight of the faeries’ gazes felt different as Seth followed Devlin through the hallways. It was unsettling to see them stop mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-breath as Seth passed. Like walking with Bananach, following Devlin involved a series of twists and turns through the building. They went up and down stairwells, in and out of rooms that appeared to be the same ones. Finally Devlin paused in the middle of a nondescript room that Seth was sure they’d just left. It has a strange doorway. Seth looked behind him for the door, and the room was suddenly filled beyond capacity with faeries.

  All staring.

  “Turn and face me, Seth Morgan,” Sorcha said.

  As Seth turned, the other faeries vanished; the room vanished; and he was alone in a vast garden with only her. To one side, flowers twined around one another to the point of chaos. Enormous blue orchids seemed to be choking daisies that tried to push between snarls of blossoms. On the other side of the path, orderly arrangements of roses and birds of paradise were growing at equidistant intervals from flowering cactus and blossoming cherry trees.

  Seth looked behind him. The faeries, the room, the building, they were all gone. It was garden and forest and ocean as far as he could see. Sorcha’s hidden city wasn’t a simple area behind a barrier. A whole world existed here.

  “It’s just us,” the High Queen said.

  “They vanished.”

  She gave him a patient look. “No. The world was reordered. That’s how it works here. What I will is what is. Most everything here is controlled by my thoughts and requirements.”

  Seth wanted to speak, to ask questions, but he couldn’t. Even with his charm securely fastened around his throat, he felt like he was caught in a glamour stronger than anything he could’ve imagined. Sorcha, the High Queen, was speaking to him in a fantastic garden…in the middle of a hotel.

  The High Queen looked at him and smiled.

  His phone buzzed. He held it up. Messages scrolled over the screen. As it was still blinking messages, he got a voicemail indicator too. He stared at his phone, at one message in the center of the screen—“where r u”—and then he looked around him.

  “It is not like over there. No m
ortal rules or trinkets function unless I think them useful. Things here are at my will alone,” she added.

  Seth knew exactly where he was. He lowered his arm, holding the phone tightly as he did so, and caught the High Queen’s gaze. “This is Faerie. Not like just that you’re a faery, but…this is it. I’m in another world. It’s not like Don’s house or the park….”

  Sorcha didn’t smile, not truly, but she was amused.

  “I’m in Faerie,” he repeated.

  “You are.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and took three steps toward him. As she did so, Seth could see that her feet were bare. Tiny silver tendrils spoked from between her toes and over the tops of her feet. It wasn’t the illusion of silver. It wasn’t tattoos like in the Dark Court, or living vines like on the Summer Girls. Thread-thin silver was inside her skin, part but not-part of her.

  He stared at those silver lines. If he looked closely, he could see silver tracery on the whole of her skin; faint outlines of veins showed under and through her skin.

  “You are in Faerie”—Sorcha took another step—“and you’ll stay here unless I determine elsewise. In the mortal realm, there are several courts. Once upon a time, there were only two. One left to find the depraved things they sought. Other faeries followed…a few were strong enough to create courts of their own. Others could have but chose to exist as solitaries. Here, there is only me. Only my will. Only my voice.” She dropped her hem so her skirt covered her silver-twined feet. “You won’t call anyone. Not from here or without my permission.”

  Seth paused. His phone had transformed into a handful of butterflies that took flight from his palm.

  “There will be no communication between my court and theirs. I would prefer you behave properly.” Sorcha glanced at his hand and the phone re-formed. “The decisions made here are mine alone. I have no co-ruler. I have neither successor nor predecessor. Your once-mortal queen’s happiness doesn’t matter here. Ever.”