I was saved by the strains of Stravinsky's Firebird, an apparent favourite of the Britannian's. The dandy made an immediate excuse, reapplied his masterful disguise by tossing the sheet back over his head, and left us as we were.
“Did I sense hostility between yourself and dear old Walter?”
“I'd rather not comment,” I snarled.
“Why?”
“On account of doing something others would regret.”
“Do you do such things often?” The faerie advanced in mock, creeping fashion.
“Only when the need arises. I really don't know what you see in him though.”
“I don't see anything, you silly boy.”
I was a little nonplussed at being called a boy. That was one thing I hadn't been for half a millennium.
“Walter has my father's ear, that's all. It never does to get on his wrong side. Walter has a way of making things occur if you do not play along with him, or so I'm told.”
I marvelled at how the woman could talk as though nothing had happened. Eternals do not feel bitterness in the same way as humans used to on account of the lack of soul, but even so, I had almost killed her.
I concluded that I should just come out and apologise for the previous evening, when a shout of, “Linka!” from the distant balcony drew both our attentions.
“Ah, so much for the mystery of the mask,” said the faerie. “I am beckoned by he who must be obeyed.” She made a false noose action and pretended to hang herself.
The action was quite lost on me as I was in a tailspin towards insanity. I had even less idea who I was talking to now that I knew the woman's name than I did before I thought her Chantelle.
The faerie now known as Linka put her right hand against my cheek and slowly withdrew her mask with her left. I was awestruck. She was easily the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and certainly not in full womanhood. Her emerald eyes shone with youthful exuberance. She appeared untainted by man even though an obvious draw. A perfect specimen, ethereal, a wisp of rose petals in the eye of a hurricane; I was beguiled. Her touch, soft and gentle, almost melted the rock that was my heart.
“I have to go now, Jean. Will you come, too? I should love to have you as my escort for the evening. Plus, if there's a secondary competition for most raven-like companion, I might win twice.”
“I would love to,” I stammered, despite her mockery. “But, Linka, if that is your name, I thought I knew everybody left in this sick world, all those of importance anyway. But, my dear, I do not know you. I beg of thee, who are you?”
The girl leaned in close, put her lips to my ear and whispered, “I am Linka, King Rudolph's youngest daughter, sister of Chantelle and the hidden gem of The New Europa Alliance, or so my father says. Does that clear things up for you?” She then kissed my lifeless cheek, turned, and glided away between the flickering light of the bonfires. The scent of spring went with her and left me desolate and alone.
I thought she giggled as she made her way back to the masquerade ball, but it might as easily have been Chantelle sniggering from beneath the Danube that unctuous river of blood.
Chapter Three
-
Surprised
Linka swept into the ballroom like a breath of fresh air, whilst I lingered on the balcony a dark pollutant. The masked guests parted before her, which allayed my earlier paranoia, until she came to a halt in the middle of the arena. There she swivelled in the fashion of a spinning top and presented her arm. The masked ensemble all looked my way.
I'd never been one for undue attention, so that corridor of guests caused a degree of trepidation, but only a degree. I took one large gulp of night air, removed my coat, folded it over the balcony rail, and then strode into the ballroom. Head held back, black, silk shirt billowing about my arms, I stood out amidst the glamour like a brooding shadow. My silver cross, the one keepsake from before my parents' deaths, slapped against the bare skin of my chest. It was a deliberate act of rebellion against those who so abhorred the symbol even if I didn't fully appreciate why. Reflecting the candlelight like a star the necklace provided a sense of empowerment over the masses as they gasped and groaned. What could they say? What could they do? Nothing. After all, I was about to dance with a princess for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“My lady,” I said on approach and bowed to my hostess.
“Monsieur,” said she, mimicking her sister's French accent.
Mimicking was the correct description, as all those of good breeding knew, people only spoke French to appear sophisticated, which by doing so proved they weren't, or indeed that they were French, which was just unfortunate.
Linka was like her sister, yet not, as removed as a puddle from the sea. She had the same cut of chin and raven hair, but possessed none of Chantelle's posturing. But it was her eyes, those emerald orbs that burned so fiercely from behind her mask that set her apart. Linka carried more allure in an emerald glance than Chantelle had in a year of amethyst staring. How I'd not noticed, put two and two together, was quite unlike me, almost unheard of. I prided myself on observational detachment; it gave me something to do. Linka oozed a confidence that came from class, not effort. She was stunning, and I, besotted.
How she knew the waltzes were restarting, I had no idea, but we moved straight into one, gliding together as though on ice. I was the artist and she my muse. Two minds moved as one body. And, for a while, I almost smiled. Almost.
* * *
The night passed in whirls of dappled light, waves of music, and a plethora of leering masks. It soon became obvious that although I had, and in truth, still did not know Linka, the ensemble did. Men envied and women seethed. I cared for neither. I only had eyes for my dancing, faerie mirage. The girl got me so hot under the collar, figuratively speaking, that I thought I may sweat for the first time ever and wondered what it would feel like? But it never happened.
It was whilst contemplating such strange thoughts that I noticed some of the boxes around the upper tiers of the ballroom to be occupied. The artificial candles, toned from saffron to deep amber amongst the revellers, reacted to the lofty occupant's moods in crimson halos and blooded skins. One grand stall contained the corpulent and unmistakable figure of King Rudolph himself. His one elongated fang protruded over his lower lip like an ill-bred dog, which ironically he was. He seemed to be in the select company of the Hierarchy's top brass: Lord Worthington of Britannia; Duke Gorgon of the Baltics; Crown Prince Vladivar of the Red Alliance, to name but a few of the more recognisable. The usual harem of clingers-on accompanied them, most just minor duchesses. And, with unequivocal certainty, every single one of them stared at the pair of us. On instinct, I winked a reply, then wished I hadn't, as Vladivar reddened beyond the lighting and Rudolph looked fit to explode.
“Do I bore you, Jean?” Linka asked, dragging my attention back from those above.
“Good grief, no! I was drawn to the heavens, so to speak, and their occupants. I think I am being murdered by glaring.”
“Oh, ignore them. They'll go away after a while.”
“One of them is your father, my dear.”
“Well, he probably has more reason to stare than the others.”
“I suppose so. You must be of particular importance for him to have stashed you away for so long,” I ventured.
“Not really, I just know things he doesn't wish others to.”
“Ooh, I'm intrigued.”
“You can stay intrigued,” she beamed. “Oh, and there is the little matter of my sister's whereabouts. You were the last person to be seen with her after all.”
“Was I?”
“I think you know you were, Jean. I think you know exactly where she is, but would never tell.”
“I would never talk behind a lady's back.”
“She's no lady,” Linka fairly growled. “I hate her.”
“Linka, my dear, she was still your sister whatever your differences.”
“Was?”
“Is, you kn
ow what I meant. Anyway,” I said, trying to change the focus of our conversation, “Why has your father not asked me about Chantelle if that is what he believes?”
“Merryweather,” she breezed.
“Pardon?”
“Merryweather spoke up for you. He said you'd been with him almost all night, so Chantelle must have disappeared on some dalliance. It certainly wouldn't be the first time,” she added. “She's been gone for days before. No matter how father punishes her she only seems to rebel further and strike up partnerships with the most undesirable princes and the like.”
“And, me,” I added.
“Oh, definitely you.”
“And, now you have.”
“Indeed.”
“What do you intend to do about it now you're as naughty as your sister, if not more so?”
“Well,” she said, as she leaned into me. “Between you and me, Jean, I think it's bedtime.”
“That's very forward of you, Linka but I'm really not that sort of man,” my coy reply.
Linka threw her head back and laughed. She laughed as though the world might end, then laughed some more. Her sheer delight tinkled through the chamber like a flautist in a morgue. Once her hysterics had stopped, she gestured a nod over my shoulder. At that, I realised us alone, the last couple in the auditorium and that the horizon was in the first hues of lightening.
“Bedtime,” she said again.
“Bedtime,” I agreed, with a wide-eyed nod.
Linka led us from the dance-floor. But, realising something missing, I broke free and dashed outside for my jacket. I did so adore my ravenesque outerwear. It was gone? That was irksome to say the least, but there was no time to worry about it. I raced back just as Linka dipped below a small side door to the expansive ballroom. Through this she pulled me into a reassuringly dark passageway. We could, of course, both see perfectly well being children of the night, but I found the lack of light somewhat comforting. It was certainly far more appealing than the prospect of being frazzled on the spot.
We made our way along the bricked walkway, silent but for the clopping of our footsteps, until we started to descend. The passage angled downwards at a steep gradient, not enough to cause a slip, but enough to suggest you might. Curiosity then got the better of me and I broke the echoing of our passing with the most childish of questions.
“Where are we going?”
The girl said nothing, just shushed me with a finger to her masked lips. So, I continued behind her like a good little boy, frustrated at not being in control, but glad I'd lost it to such a beautiful creature. Eventually we emerged into an enormous area, again in complete darkness. In fact, I had my suspicions the place had never seen light in its lifetime. There was also an infuriating smell of mould and mildew. Unable to stomach it, I brought forth my red, silk handkerchief and put it to my face, then remembering my manners offered it to Linka. She shook her head, retook my hand, and led on.
It didn't take long to realise the true scale and enormity of the place I found myself in. It was some sort of cavernous space of gargantuan proportions. Linka obviously knew it well, but I didn't, and was a little perturbed at knowing nothing of its existence. The habit of not knowing things was not one I wished to acquire. I prided myself on knowing everything in life. Doing so gave me a real insight into ridiculing it. Surprises left me working off the cuff, and I liked to be prepared.
“We are here,” whispered Linka.
“We are where?” I said with a hint of anger.
“Here,” she indicated with her hands. “Look closer, Jean.”
I did just that, then rubbed my eyes in comedic fashion. Every lumpy outcrop of which I'd presumed rock was in fact the rounded end of thousands upon thousands of sarcophagi.
“Bedtime,” she said, and smiled.
I had a smile of my own, but for a different reason to she. I wasn't sure that sleep would've been on my agenda? Hence the disappointment when she tapped on the rump of one outcrop and said, “This is yours.” She then moved off with a coy smile and a wave leaving me alone and frustrated in the pitch-black. I was unused to being unused. It was most disconcerting! Maybe I'd lost my allure? I scowled, opened the sarcophagus lid to a mouthful of dust and clambered in. The lid closed without a creak.
Only when I'd made myself comfortable and felt the first strains of sleep tug at my eyes did I wonder what on earth I was doing there?
* * *
I found it hard to focus. My sleep had been suspiciously by its depth and I did not appreciate the hand that writhed at my shoulder.
“Do you mind!” I growled. “Get your hands off me.”
“It's me, you idiot. Keep your voice down or you're done for.”
“Merryweather!” I exclaimed.
“Shut your trap,” he hissed, shaking his head in mock despair.
“What's going on?”
“Shh! Just follow me and keep quiet.” Merryweather half coaxed, half dragged me from my bed, and then set off at a gallop through the cavern pulling me along behind him. Much as I wanted to rip his head off, I allowed myself to be manhandled until I was fully awake and then able to take up a loping position at his side.
“What the hell's going on, Merryweather?” I implored in hushed tones. He just shook his head and kept on running. In truth, I was amazed he could run at all. I was so used to his effete antics that it seemed almost unbelievable. But his fleeing form and paler than pale look indicated more than just urgency. At least our footsteps had awoken no other of the room's occupants, which I presumed were many. Then, before I knew it, we were out of the cavern and running pell-mell down another passageway. On and on we ran until I sensed the faintest trace of light up ahead and stopped dead.
“What are you doing, Merryweather?”
“Saving your arse, that's what.”
“Having me crisp baked, more like. That's daylight ahead!”
“That's dusk ahead, and a long way ahead at that. Stop being such a baby.”
Being called a baby by the world's biggest fop was just the shock I required. I grabbed Merryweather by the scruff off his pristine lemon shirt and shoved him hard against the passageway's rough wall.
“I am not accustomed to being led, Walter. Where are we going and why?” The feral look in my eye drew a tear from my blond haired guide, then the proverbial flood gates opened. “Good God, man, have some dignity won't you.” He went limp in my hands and slowly slid down the brickwork. “What the hell is it, Walter?”
He looked up with doleful eyes and whispered.
“What? Speak up!” I cried, releasing him and balling my fists.
“I said, she's dead.”
“Who's dead?”
“Chantelle.”
His saying her name hit me like a stake through the heart.
“What?” I shook Merryweather so hard that his head bounced around as though attached to his body by a spring.
“She's dead,” he whimpered.
“I got that part, but you're not making any sense. Why are we running away?”
“Not we, you. They know it was you, Jean. Everybody knows it was you.” Merryweather looked up with hound-dog eyes and I saw a first glimpse of inner decency.
“Why would you risk all to tell me this, Walter?” I allowed my voice to soften and helped him to his feet.
“I loved her. I've always loved her. I may have hated her dalliances with you, but I know she would not want your blood on her hands. That's why I've saved you from those who will soon rise.”
My mind whirled at a million miles an hour, but I'd only one question to ask. “How?”
“Her corpse, what was left of it, washed up downriver. You were the one last seen with her, Jean. Damn you, half the courtesans of Europa saw you, and greater powers besides. I told them it could not be true as you were with me, but they would not have it. Fortunately, I'd seen you descend into the catacombs with Princess Linka. I followed later when I knew what was going to happen. It took a long while and a great deal
of stealth to find where you rested. Once I did, the rest as they say is history.”
“Thank you, Walter,” was all I could offer.
“They will have your head on a pike, Jean. You must leave. This passage leads to a secret door far beyond the palace grounds. You must go and quickly. I cannot come further as I tire even now. I have not slept and you know that the dead must rest.”
Merryweather offered his hand, which I took and shook. There was no point in goodbyes. I hated them anyway. So, I turned and ran. I ran faster than I'd ever had call to in all my non-life. Swifter than a hawk, I closed upon the dimming light. By the time I reached the rock slab that made for a barely passable doorway it was darkest night. Good, just how I liked it. With a fair degree of effort, I managed to move the rock enough to squeeze through the gap then had the presence of mind to shove it back into place.
The cool, crisp, night air washed over me with cleansing relief. The fustiness of the passages had been most unhealthy and had left a sheen of grey dust upon my best black, silk shirt. I beat at myself, then cursed for making a noise, then cursed at having cursed. I looked about but there was nothing except trees. It appeared I had emerged into an inclined forest. Using reverse psychology, I moved up the slope at pace, rather than down, for who would think a hunted man would trap himself upon a peak. I wasn't sure if that was how such thinking actually worked, or indeed if it was a good plan, but having already set off at a gallop, decided it best to continue.
Time passed swiftly as I effortlessly sped upwards. Until, that was, I came to a cliff face. With no other option but to return whence I came, I started to climb. My taloned fingernails proved most effective in aiding this, but by the time I reached the greatest height and had chance to pause I was very annoyed to find I had broken at least one of them. I spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees: rock, rock, rock, distant palace and Danube: very distant. The undulating river snaked around the palace like an anaconda as the turrets of the place sparkled in the star-shine. And that's when it hit: I was a fugitive, a killer and coatless. It was all very annoying, especially the latter.
The Eternals Page 3