Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  He gave no other greeting, and remained gazing out the window.

  “Well met, Meadowlark Barb-sprite,” James said.

  The faery leaned forward and peered over the ledge. “Do you thinkest I should jump?”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Not at all.”

  James sat beside him, and considered the twenty-foot drop. “It’s quite a long way down. But you might possibly survive.”

  “Oh, then why bother?”

  “You want to die?”

  “No. Hardly. I want to win.”

  “And what does winning look like to you?”

  “That’s just the problem. I like my goals elusive, I love mayhem and chaos, let the wind take me where it may. But a fixed idea, a goal. That ruins everything. There’s no way around it, you see. It’s always there. If you don’t have the thing you desire, you suffer. Constantly. But if you can’t get it? If you don’t dare? If every step forward runs you the risk of total annihilation? What then?”

  James had absolutely no idea what the mysterious faery was talking about, but that was not at all unusual.

  Meadowlark continued, “Best mayhap to end the strife in a cleaner way. But as you say, if this peak not be high enough, I may just have to wait until the towers are all finished, let Everbright stretch to the night sky. And then we shall see.”

  “I see I’ve found you in a melancholy mood indeed.”

  “What other mood is there?”

  James smiled. “I seem to remember a merry-making, mischief-loving, free-wheeling scamp used to prowl Barrow Downes by the name of Meadowlark.”

  “Fie!” he said, blowing a sour note. “Murdered! Tortured to death by Love!”

  Love? James assumed he must be referring to the Dark Queen who had cast some magic on Meadowlark a few years ago and made him her paramour for a time. The way James had heard it, Meadowlark had broken the spell only just in time to save his mother’s life at the Royal Court.

  “Fie!” said Meadowlark again. “And why have you come here? To increase my torment? I seem to remember a fine young man, interested in healing and suffrage. Is he now replaced by some foul tormentor?”

  James scoffed. “Actually I’ve come to ask you for advice. I’ve received a message from my lost love.”

  “You come to me for advice? On affairs of the heart? I could almost laugh.”

  “No. Advice on the Winter Court. You’ve spent time with them, more than anyone.”

  “Yecchh! Grave dwellers and fear-mongers all.”

  “The message is from Arabelle. She says she wants to return what she stole. My heart, I suppose. Whatever that may mean.”

  Meadowlark stuck his nose in the air as if all the world was his stage. He quoted Shakespeare, “Young men’s love lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”

  “I would dispute that, but really it doesn’t matter. She wants to meet with me tomorrow night. Should I go? Do you think it could be a trap? What might they be after?”

  Meadowlark blew a few discordant notes on the pipe. “Everything’s a trap, and love nothing but the worst of them. Why do you ask me this? Of course you are going to go.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “I have to know.”

  “A fool in love will walk into the gaping maw of a tiger. Is there a choice? Love calls, one must answer. Ahhh, but you don’t dare tell anyone of this or they might call the dogs out after her, I see. So you come to the only one as much tainted as your lady-love. Not for advice. For company!” And at last he smiled that famous smile. “What time tomorrow and where shall we meet?”

  Chapter 3

  Theodora had not expected to enjoy this ride so much. Graymane was a three-year-old colt, lean and strong with a white coat and a platinum mane. Though born in the Grayson stables, the horse had been raised on faery fare and had grown to maturity possessed of a wicked disposition and an independent streak a mile wide. It wanted nothing more than to run free. And sitting bareback atop Graymane, Theodora felt a strong connection to the spirit of the horse. She was running too, leaving Everbright behind if even just for the day. She didn’t know what sort of greeting awaited her at Grayson Hall but her anxiety and anticipation melted away as the miles fled beneath the horse’s eager hooves.

  She clung to the horse’s platinum mane, her thighs clenched tight against the pulsing charge forward, and let out a howl of sheer delight.

  Still, certain details must be attended to. She had to decide what glamour to wear. For the past two years she’d chosen to appear as her normal faery self, as Clarimonde, eldest daughter of the fabled Moon Dancer. Why not? She was among her faery family at Everbright and Barrow Downes. She had no need to pretend otherwise. And yes, she could visit Grayson Hall as Clarimonde as well, for everyone on the estate knew of her true nature as a faery. But that didn’t feel right. For the twenty years she’d lived as Lady Grayson, all that time claiming Grayson Hall as her home, she had maintained the glamour of Theodora Grayson. Putting that old shape on again was a simple matter. Theodora’s tan skin and long chestnut hair felt as comfortable and familiar as a calfskin glove. But a full year had passed since she’d last seen her husband and she wondered how much she should age her appearance. She’d always tried to present a youthful look for him, but not too youthful. He was forty-seven now, already well into middle age.

  She felt she need not present him any further reminder of the differences between them by appearing too young. She painted a few strands of gray into the illusion’s long chestnut brown hair. Wrinkles? Theodora had never been overly prone to vanity but she just couldn’t see it. She settled on just a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Good enough.

  She still loved Eric with all her heart. That hadn’t changed. She doubted it ever could. And he had accepted her faery nature in the past, even embraced it. Why did she feel that it was so inappropriate now? That she still had to hide behind a human face? Let’s leave that one unanswered, she told herself, and just go with the flow.

  When she came to the tree-lined path that led to the front gate she felt a rush of anxiety come fluttering back. It was both a pleasant and uncertain feeling, as if she were courting all over again. The horse felt it too, bucking slightly. She slowed him to a walk. The great gates were open, as always, and she passed through and headed for the stables.

  Frederick Boothe, the ancient stablemaster, sat out front of the paddock, idly carving slices out of an apple. He jumped up when he saw her, a look of genuine excitement splashed across his wizened face. Dropping both the knife and the apple, he waved his hat. Theodora climbed down from the horse’s back. Boothe shook his head at the lack of a saddle, smiling to see her again. Only a year had passed but he seems so much older, she thought. What about Eric?

  “Good morning, Frederick. Graymane requires some water and a bucket of fresh oats.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Boothe, patting the horse’s flank in his easy, friendly way. “I’ll see to it right away.”

  Theodora took two steps toward the house but then turned back. “And how is Missus Boothe?” she asked.

  “Peachy!” he replied. “Oh, she’d love to see you, ma’am.”

  “No time. I’ll be off again in under an hour, I imagine.”

  Boothe nodded vigorously and frizzed the horse’s bridle. “I’ll have him right fed and ready to go, ma’am.”

  Theodora walked along the cobbled path to the front door. Then she hesitated. What if she found the door locked? She had no key. She’d have to ring the tinkler. Ring the bell of her own house? She was still the lady of Grayson Hall. No, she couldn’t bear that. Not at all.

  She went around the side and through the garden. This had been one of her favorite places and it disappointed her to see it had been maintained so poorly. Most of the perennials had already come up but no one had added anything new nor even watered the soil adequately. The garden sadly lacked a woman’s touch. Or a faery’s green thumb.

  She entered the side way, through an elegant door of
frosted French glass that led into the grand hall. Having circumvented the front door, she hoped she need not meet the valet. No more reunions with the servants. She wanted to see her husband.

  The first place to look for him was his study. “Eric?”

  She found Eric immediately in the next room, seated alone, at the grand dining table. A mass of ledgers were splayed out across the grand wooden surface. He looked up as she called his name.

  He didn’t say anything and she didn’t know what to say. She stepped closer. He didn’t seem happy to see her even after so much time. In fact, she had received a warmer welcome from the stable man. “Theodora,” he mumbled. He sounded like a man lost in a suffocating dream.

  She sat down at his right hand. Her eyes immediately caught the painting of Griffin Grayson that had been hung in the place of honor presiding over the head of the table. Of course this was not the grand portrait that had hung in this spot for so many long years. She had destroyed that one. This was a smaller, rougher rendition probably rescued from some moldy corner of an attic somewhere. In this one the Puritan patriarch seemed even sterner and meaner than before.

  “Why have you come?” he asked.

  Theodora couldn’t stand to sit under that cruel gaze scowling down at her from the painting. She moved around to the other side and sat at her husband’s left hand.

  “I bring an apology. And an offer.”

  She had rehearsed that line so many times in her head on that morning’s ride. It was supposed to sound contrite and hopeful but, speaking the words out loud, they sounded awkward and insincere.

  Eric coughed slightly. She wondered if he’d not been well. He had nearly died a few years ago after suffering a stab wound while escaping imprisonment in the Tower of London. The faeries had done their best to heal him but perhaps not succeeded completely. He’d had to rush back out into the field again, in an attempt to rescue Princess Charlotte.

  “The apology first. Eric, I am terribly sorry for what Moon Dancer did to you.”

  “How can you apologize for something you didn’t do?”

  “This isn’t just me. This comes from all of us—all of the faeries at Barrow Downes. Since you seem to hold all of our kind responsible, perhaps it’s only right that we express our regret to you en masse. At this point that’s all we can do.”

  He did not seem impressed. He didn’t bother to affirm acceptance of the apology. Oh, what did it matter? She wanted to know if he still loved her. That’s what she wanted to know. And this fumbling tactic brought her no closer to learning it. His expression dripped bitterness like rainwater. Or maybe that was the answer.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  “Well enough.”

  He did not look well. “And the estates?”

  He sighed, flicking the ledger. “I have three ships.” He shook his head sadly. “Three. I used to have fourteen. The three ships are constantly engaged, but the profits only just cover the upkeep and do not allow me any chance to buy any of the others back. The farms do well but suffer the same fate as all the other estates in the north country. The faery farms surrounding Everbright,” he said the word bitterly, through gritted teeth, “produce such high quantity and quality of grains, we human farmers are hard pressed to compete. Really, whatever do you do with all that money? Piling up some huge faery hoard?”

  Theodora scoffed. How little he understood them. “We don’t care a whit for the King’s currency. We never have. We use the money to purchase building materials and skilled labor, that’s all. The workmen in the north do very well by us.”

  “But not the farmers.”

  “Well, that brings me to my offer,” she said. “It’s one I should have made months ago. We faeries can help improve the Grayson family fortunes. We’d be glad to do it. With a little help, the Grayson crops could be as bountiful and robust as our own. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t profit from our emancipation—after all, you brought it about as much as anyone else. More than anyone.”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “But why not?”

  “Profit? From the murder of an innocent girl?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He coughed once more. “If there is a way to save my soul, Theodora, the faeries can’t offer it.”

  Theodora was surprised by this talk of soul. Eric had never been a particularly religious person. During their marriage they had attended services weekly, either in the High Church at Graystown or the small chapel on the Grayson property but Theodora had understood this mostly to serve purposes of propriety and example. In their private talks Eric had often scoffed at the conflicting tenets of Anglicism and was not clear even on his own belief in God. Now he seemed almost consumed by it. He’s changed, she thought. But of course he’s changed, after all that’s happened.

  People change.

  They stared at each other for a long while. The valet brought a plate of food—apple butter scones and tea and fresh cherries. A silly legend came to mind. It said that if humans ate faery food they were left in the ‘power of faery’, so they were warned never to eat it. It was silly and untrue, she knew. But here was a plate of human food, and she would not eat it.

  “I’ll say it again. I’m sorry for what happened—what she did to you. All of it. I told you.”

  “Sorry? Is that it?”

  Exasperated, she added, “You’re right. Being sorry doesn’t do any good. But there’s no changing the past. Moon Dancer is dead; she can not answer for the crime. You know it wasn’t your fault! Why continue torturing yourself?”

  Eric glanced up at the portrait of his Puritanical grandfather.

  “Eric, at some point, you just have to move on.”

  “I think you’re right.” He coughed again. “You should go.”

  She thought to say, ‘I want to come back,’ but she didn’t want that. She couldn’t leave Everbright. And to ask him to join her there seemed pointless as well.

  Chapter 4

  Oberon slept the untroubled sleep of a pampered child.

  Every few minutes he rolled one way or the other, scrunching his forehead, nuzzling his cheek against his blanket and parting his lips slightly to allow a thin streak of drool to ooze down.

  Dresdemona sat at the foot of the cradle, observing his every move. To either side stood one of her banshee handmaidens, though they regarded neither Queen nor babe. They stood rigidly, as still as stone, each with an incisive gaze pointed in opposite directions like a set of demonic bookends. The child’s skin shone a dusky green, his hair as jet black as his mother’s. He seemed to be developing the high forehead of the Effranil while still retaining the stubbed, wolfish ears of his father, Meadowlark.

  Dresdemona studied every movement, every twitch and tremor of the child. Was he dreaming? Did children dream? Who could say? She knew so little of children. Unlike others she might easily control, Dresdemona dared not interfere with the workings of her child’s mind. In all her years she had never had a child, had never wanted a child, until her recent plan had called for her to produce an heir to the British throne. Now that she had Oberon, everything had changed. She had wanted him to be King of England, and someday he would. She’d make certain of that. But first perhaps King of the faeries. Why not? As such, Deepgrave was no place for him, slowly rotting underground among the stones and bones, feeding on scraps and castoffs from human society. He must rule Everbright.

  As part of her previous scheme, this baby had not been grown in a protective mushroom like all the rest, but inside her own womb. She felt a strong bond between them, stronger than most faery babies, who knew neither father nor mother. His childhood so far—two years in this dreary place—had been so unlike her own.

  She had been raised in paradise and had found it wanting. Though he came from humbler beginnings, she swore things would turn out better for Oberon.

  Paradise. She had only a poor recollection of her earliest years. Dresdemona had been born in shining Avalon, the Isle of the
Blest, buried deep in the mists of time, a phantasmagoria of light and love. As Dresdemona understood it, Avalon was folded into space as a sort of a pomegranate with a hundred pocket dimensions stuffed into time’s shell in juicy little clusters. The Effranil inhabited one of those many pocket dimensions.

  She had a different name then—an Effranil name. Dryxlla Pendragon.

  Having hatched from her mushroom at the age of ten in typical faery fashion, she had no knowledge of her true parents but had been raised among the other children by the community as a whole. Her childhood memories of the place and its many wonders were hazy at best. She recalled a forest of trees made entirely of light, so bright they should have blinded the eyes but instead delighted all the senses—the green light tasted of mint, the yellow of mustard and poppy seeds. She remembered breadfruit and candied air, each day a never-ending parade of games and delights. And music.

  The Effranil were the quintessential faeries—tall and straight and wonderfully fit and beautiful. Their skin tones shone in silver and gold, or sparkling crystal or shimmering aqua, or warm copper as her own. They so much oozed pretentiousness, even looking the part with high, thoughtful foreheads and tall, elegantly pointed ears that rose ofttimes even above the crown of the head. And they were insanely over-concerned with rule and order. Not rule and order for its own sake but for the sake of music. In the land of the Effranil music was everything. They breathed it, they dined on it, they conversed in musical tones. And music demanded order. Chaos had no place in a symphony or sonata, and to the Effranil the entire world was a symphony.