by Katie Zaber
“I can’t wait,” I say.
I cross the ballroom. The happy dancing couples make me think of Blue. I wonder what he is up to. If he’s upset, worried, or if he ran from the insanity and found someone new. He should. We only spent two nights together, three if you count him coming to check on me. It’s not as if we knew each other. Not like I would have permitted that to happen. He was nice, but it’s best for him to find someone new. He’ll make a woman happy, and she’ll make him happier than I ever could.
Manadhon trails behind even though I can’t hear his footsteps and he hasn’t spoken since he asked me if I was ready. An ever-silent guard, he inspects everything. His eyes never stop moving, darting around the room, searching for danger. I take my seat but notice Manadhon doesn’t. He looks over my shoulder, ever alert. The King is busy conversing with a group I didn’t meet. I have met no one I value important. All of them are sniveling nobles, each wanting a piece of fortune and nothing else. I didn’t speak long to any of them. The most interesting thing the majority said is how valiantly my father fought.
Bing. A loud bell resonates throughout the room. It must be the dinner bell from the way everyone heads to their table, taking their seats, including my father. Like clockwork, servers swarm the room, each carrying two dishes: A small, whole stuffed bird on a bed of mashed potatoes with roasted vegetables, accompanied by a large bowl of seafood. The seafood bowl contains various crustaceans I have never seen, swimming in a hot butter sauce. Everyone receives a plate of each. There’s so much food. I can’t imagine they will eat half. It’s such a waste.
Eyes on the king, people wait for him to eat before consuming their own meals. He raises his glass high, takes a sip, then digs into his seafood. He loves seafood. It makes sense, since he grew up on the beach. He must have eaten lobster tails his whole life.
“Fancy party. Food is amazing. Did you do this all for me?” I ask coyly between bites of chicken and potatoes.
“This was planned months in advance, but I made a couple last-minute arrangements. I thought you would like this dish. More homey than originally planned.”
Now with the opportunity to talk, I can’t think of anything to say. Questions I had thought of earlier now escape me. I scrape my plate free of garlic mashed potatoes. Taking my last bites, I steady myself once more, feeling less tipsy and my stomach fuller.
“Did you plan this?”
“Plan what, dear daughter?”
“Tonight, everything. You never answered my question. How did I come here?”
He sets down his fork and knife, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t speak, instead, he drills a hole into my head with his stare. “That, I am still piecing together.”
“You didn’t bring me to Capo?”
“No. Nor do I know who did.”
I can’t tell if he’s lying. He looked me in the eye while speaking. But if he didn’t bring me, who did, and for what purpose? I have an ever-growing stack of questions and a dwindling stack of answers.
“How did you discover me?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere. A redhead among humans is unheard of. Once I heard your description, I sent Manadhon to bring you here safely. I know nothing more.”
That’s a troubling thought. Kilyn is right. His spies are everywhere. I stare at the hanging acrobats who twirl above everyone’s conversations like golden spiders. I wonder if they spy on the room. Even if they can’t hear clearly, they have a bird’s-eye view of the whole party. The more I watch the spider-like acrobats, the more I realize they hang in a grid, spread out every ten feet. I’m now positive they collect fragments of gossip. Guests mingle under them, considering them objects, decorations, not spies collecting information. No one pays attention to them. No one notices the eyes and ears hanging above. On the other hand, are they so used to the constant spying that they have grown accustomed to its presence?
“So, do you think you are King Midas?”
The king sits back with a smirk. “No, I’m better.”
Chapter Twenty - Megan
“So what does that make me?” I ask.
Bing.
Another dinner bell rings, signaling dinner over. Teams of golden gods file into the ballroom, removing two dishes from each guest. They take away from me a full plate of hardly touched seafood and an empty plate holding the carcass of a scrumptious bird. We stop talking while they clean the table. We each decide what words to say next: A backhanded compliment, a quick gibe, or playful banter. It gives me a moment to reflect on his inflated ego. I can’t remember Father being self-centered or pompous when I was a child. Are my memories twisted into a malformed timeline to convince myself that there was a point in my life when I was happy? Memories to dream about while cleaning Mom’s vomit off the floor, in tears?
“Queen Midas in training. Princess Midas for now.” His lips curl into a wicked smile. “One day, you will make a great queen. I will assemble courtesans to befriend you. A Mistress of Robes and a Mistress of Coiffeuse for hair and makeup. The young handmaiden accomplished a formidable task dressing you, but you will need professionals from now on. She can still assist with mundane tasks, be your friend. Also you will need a team of teachers to assist and train you in how to control your gift once it emerges.”
I have so many questions to ask. I haven’t even given a thought to powers or the possibilities of having different powers. I wonder if it’s like the X-Men universe. Are people born with unique powers, or are there a few variations? “When will my power emerge? What is yours?”
“Children display their powers early, not long after they learn to walk. Yours should manifest soon. I create a deadly substance. I call it tar. Some consider my power destructive, but it has saved many lives. It is useful during war, not so much in times of peace.”
“Is that why you’re feared?”
His brow wrinkles as he contemplates his words with care. “I suspect I intimidate. That is not my intention. Being the king is difficult. There is a fine line between too forceful and lenient.”
“Nothing worth doing is easy.” I stare out at the crowd; happy faces, dazzled by the atmosphere, smile back. “Mom would love this. The grandeur and glamour. Both would.”
“Yes, but it is best to keep people safe where they are until moving them becomes necessary. As much as I miss her, it is best not to uproot her. She is more delicate than I thought. You must realize it would confuse her, break her further.”
“There’s a chance she could be happy to be reunited. That’s all she wants.”
“They are safe where they are. That is final.”
So, they are in danger.
Seconds later, he gets up. He bows slightly, excusing himself to mingle with a group as far away from me as possible. I am alone in a sea of people. I have no one in this even stranger place. At least Capo had average people. Here they are all rich and glitz, not my crowd. I usually like to feel lost in a crowd, but that was before everyone watched me. I feel lost, but no one wants to help me find my way. They would all rather watch me fail helplessly. Just like how it felt when I was trapped in the limo, watching my mom go crazy while everyone gawked. I have never liked attention or an audience since then.
From my throne, it’s easy to view the whole room. It’s hard to make out individual faces, but you get the entire view. A group of people draws my attention. They stay away from the main dance floor, sticking to the shadows and outskirts of the room. Two couples, they easily catch my eye with their vast variations. Sage feathers cover two of their tall bodies. Sporadic blues and purples break up the green. Large irregular heads and beady yellow eyes observe the room. The couple next to them is hairless, though the one has a fin resembling a mohawk. Translucent skin covers their bodies, round fish eyes sit parallel to two slits where their noses should be, their mouths are lipless. What are they?
“Manadhon. Over there, what, who are they?”
Like a statue coming to life, Manadhon steps forward and stares in the direction I’m
looking. “Those would be the Syreni and Umbuttah delegates. They come to all the important events.”
Syreni and Umbuttah are real. Tristan and Xander said they were legends. What other things are real?
Their silhouettes mimic human, but they display major evolutionary differences. Neither couple is wearing clothes, or at least anything that would blend them into the crowd. The Syreni wear what I would generously call togas while the Umbuttah conceal their nudity with feathers.
I stand. I’m curious about the couples, but they walk away toward the nearest door, escorted by two Fae. I’d never catch up to them in time, unable to navigate the mosh pit of the crowd. With their backs turned, I can see the Umbuttah have separate arms and wings. Each wingspan must be equal to their height if not doubled, as each wing is folded multiple times, tucked behind their backs. The translucent one, without the head fin, has henna-like tattoos starting at base of their neck, climbing to the crown of its head before fading. I assume they are equivalent to birthmarks.
After an hour, the ballroom thins out. I haven’t left my seat since my meal. Dessert was a dainty tart with a peach-like fruit filling topped with whipped cream. I ate a bite but couldn’t finish it. My stomach is too upset, tied in a nervous knot.
A couple more groups of people introduced themselves and left. Nobody said anything of real interest. No real news. Only the same humdrum comments everyone else made. My father is a heroic king, gallant in battle, and made the land more prosperous, richer. Which translates to: He killed non-followers, enslaved their families, taxed the middle class until they became dirt poor, and then forced them to work to death, all while creating more revenue for the rich. He’s a monster.
“Can we leave? Would that be rude?”
Manadhon looks down, a shadow watching every movement. “Yes, we can.”
“Should I say or do anything?” I still act tipsy even if any alcohol I consumed no longer has any effect. I did two shots after dinner out of sheer boredom.
“No one expects a speech, not tonight. It would be fine for us to take our leave now,” Manadhon says.
Not a second too soon. Finally, I can go, wrestle out of the gown, wash off the makeup, relax, and maybe, just maybe, sleep. I’m unsure if the Mara is still a threat. It sounded like Brynjar destroyed it. Really, I wish we had finished that conversation.
Out of the ballroom, I decide to play a game, give Manadhon a test. He was helpful tonight, even if it is his job. Now to see how easily he can be tricked.
“What was that drink called? They went down so easy.” I step on the hem of my dress, causing me to trip up a step. “Wait. Need to rest for a minute.”
His move.
He sighs. “I thought you drank too much milvin. It finally caught up with you.” With ease, he loops an arm under mine, and then suddenly we are outside my room.
The sudden change makes me stumble. I am not used to traveling a distance in a second. The stumble only makes my acting more believable. I add a hiccup for good measure.
“You drank an impressive amount. I never saw a woman handle that much liquor and walk out of a party independently,” he says.
A compliment.
“I tried.” He opens the door, holding me up with his other arm. I swear, in one single step he brings me to the gigantic bed, all the way on the opposite side of the room. That alone makes my head spin. Now I am actually dizzy. He helps me sit on top of the fur comforter. Once the room stops spinning from the instant travel, I give him a mischievous smile. I stare him in the eye. I want him to see I’m a good actress, besides sober. “Did you notice my glass of water filling up? How I always left it somewhere and requested just a sip?”
Realization heats his silver eyes. He now understands why I kept asking for just a sip of water. After a second, they cool and he grins. “You fooled everyone. Why trick me?”
“A test. Can I ask a few questions?”
“Depends,” he says wearily.
“What do you know about me? About my father? Who am I?”
He tilts his head. “How do you not know?”
“My father died when I was young, or he faked his death. He doesn’t look the same, not exactly. He’s a complete stranger in more ways than one. What do you know?”
“I know that you come from a distant land. You are unaware of our culture and our way of life. He didn’t say more.”
My identity is a mystery. No one knows my origin. I must keep it this way. It’s safer for my friends, family, and me. What story should I tell? Where should I be from? I need to research a plausible hometown in this world, distant from Paradise Kingdom, that’s believable. Design an easy story to tell the masses that no one will argue or try to disprove. I need a library.
“Good. I can work with mysterious.”
He cocks his head to the other side, his eyebrows raised in suspicion.
I get off the bed and head toward the endless racks of stupid clothes to find something comfortable to sleep in. Nervous, I need to move. Anything to distract myself from the next question I need to ask, but hate to hear. “Do you trust my father?”
Flabbergasted, his mouth hangs open slightly. A stray silver hair falls, his arms cross. He doesn’t respond. Does he think this is a trap? One wrong word may sound traitorous to the wrong ears. “I have put my faith in the king.”
“Do you believe he’s a good person?” That question may have gone too far.
“He serves the kingdom as best as he can.”
He averted my question, which is the answer. My father, the king, is evil. How can a man who kissed my scrapes and bandaged my boo-boos, sang lullabies and tucked me into bed, be corrupt?
“I don’t trust him. He’s not my dad anymore. He died ten years ago. The king, from what I’ve gathered, is a monster. I feel I’m a threat he wants close. He’s dangerous. You are my bodyguard, right?”
“Yes.”
“Protect me from him. Keep me safe. I realize your position but understand this: One day, you may have to decide who you serve and who you protect. Until then, any information would be helpful. Is there a library, somewhere I can learn?”
His face is void of expression, no hint of emotion. No reflection of which direction the scales tip in his mind. “I will help to an extent. My job is to protect you against all threats. I can’t comprehend why your father would hurt you. I won’t go against his commands, but I will help. I’ll take you to the library tomorrow after lunch.”
“Can I ask a few more questions?”
“Yes, but first, tell me something about you.”
“Fine. Until you, I never met a Fae or knew I was a halfling.”
He steps back as if to take another look at me in shock. His head cocks back, his eyebrows scrunch up. “How?”
“He kept the truth from my mother and me. I grew up with humans. I thought I was human. I didn’t know my father was Fae or a king until today.”
“Someone must have given you reen. It disguises Fae to appear human. You must take it often to keep its effect.”
Who gave me reen for the last month? Who knew to drug me, hide me from my father? Was it the same person who brought me to Capo? Was it Brynjar? Was he involved in my arrival in Capo or administering the reen? He gave me something metal tasting while I was blind. Could that have been a dosage? Was it because I’m not from here that it took time for my Fae side to surface? Did my father take reen on Earth to hide his other side, or did Earth conceal his Fae characteristics, as he said? So many questions, multiple lies. “What’s your power?”
“What is yours?”
“I’m uncertain. I don’t know if I have a power. So far, I only look different. I don’t feel different.”
“You’ll discover yours in time. Every powerful Fae does. I can slice—instantaneous travel. It helps in combat. I’m one of the quickest duelists. My other gift has more to do with empathy. I can sense what others feel and manipulate their emotions. I didn’t stop your friends from breathing or moving—I convinced them t
hey couldn’t. Almost an illusion. They could have overcome it like the Druid.”
“Wait, what? Brynjar’s a Druid?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, but it makes sense.” With each answer, more questions. Do the others know? Are they safe with him? “You can travel in an instant? Is that how we got here?”
“Yes.”
“Can you sense hostility or anger?”
“Yes.”
No wonder he’s my bodyguard. He can sense danger, kill it, and get me to safety before I am even aware something is wrong. Impressive but disturbing. He can change my mood and manipulate my mind. “Do most Fae have two gifts? What about the king?”
He looks down, averting his eyes. “Having dual gifts is rare. Few people possess any main gifts. Your father can create a substance. It is pure death. He calls it tar. One drop on your skin can kill. He can create floods of it. He helped win the war, but left many areas uninhabitable.”
“Damn.”
I wonder if that had anything to do with his top-secret project on Earth. Did he come back wielding a power that is chemistry? Tar. What is tar? Maybe he is a Fae with no powers except knowledge, or he uses that as a distraction, keeping his real power hidden. A trump card.
“Can you show me what tar looks like?” I ask.
“Possibly. The library has a tar-covered room. You can’t go anywhere near it, but you can see it from a distance through glass.”
“Why would he tar a room?”
“It’s where he keeps banned books, propaganda, anything against his word. He wouldn’t destroy literature, but he didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”