by Ken Altabef
Weakness and fatigue drained her anger away, leaving only despair. She reached for the hilt again but her father’s sandal came down along the center of the blade, pinning it to the ground.
“Go home, Dresdemona.”
Dresdemona let the tears flow until they puddled along her sister’s collarbone.
“It’s just not fair,” she sobbed.
“Go ahead and cry, Drezzy. Let it all out.”
“He’ll never let me join the Hunt. Never. He doesn’t respect me at all.”
“It’s alright,” Annis said. “It doesn’t matter.” She gave Dresdemona a squeeze and kissed her on the temple.
“It does matter!” Dresdemona insisted. It didn’t matter to Annis because she was weak. She was everything Og-Sethoth had tried to make Dresdemona out to be—frail, simple-minded and helpless. She had clung to Dresdemona for years like a drowning woman. Always drowning. Day after day. There was no end to it.
Annis had been so happy when Dresdemona was adopted into the family. Her two brothers, Crow and Greenier, had no time for her. They despised her weakness as much as Og-Sethoth. At last she had a sister to relate to. But she wasn’t interested in any of the same things as Dresdemona—Dresdemona wanted to learn to fight, to be independent, to make a name for herself. Annis just shuffled through life from day to day, taking whatever was dished out to her, achieving nothing, afraid of everything.
“Maybe he didn’t want you getting hurt,” Annis suggested.
“That’s what he said,” Dresdemona pouted. “He acted like he was protecting me. He humiliated me in front of all the others! Now I’ll never get another chance. I hate him!”
“I hate him too,” said Annis. Dresdemona wasn’t sure if her sister was serious, or just repeating what had been said to her as she so often did like some deranged little parrot.
“He wants to keep me weak,” Dresdemona said. “But some day I’ll make it on my own. I won’t need him anymore. I won’t need anybody.”
“You won’t leave?” Annis seemed terrified of the possibility. “Please? You can’t leave!”
“I shouldn’t have to leave.”
“You don’t.”
“I’ve nowhere to go. I can’t go back to Avalon.”
“Oh, tell me about Avalon! Tell me about the Effranil!”
“I’ve already told you everything. The music, the songs, the light. Everyone was happy all of the time. Everyone was perfect.”
“What a wonderful place. Whyever would you leave?”
“I didn’t belong there.”
Annis sniffled and Dresdemona pulled away. Why was Annis crying now? There was no point in asking. She was always crying over something or other. Besides, there were other things Dresdemona needed to know. A plan had started to form in her mind. “Does Og-Sethoth ever take a mate?” she asked.
Annis put her hand to her mouth and began chewing the tips of her fingers. She was so frail, always seeming on the verge of madness. “He’s had lovers occasionally over the years. I’ve seen it once or twice. He shuts them up in our house. We’re not allowed to see. We don’t see anything but we hear them scream. They don’t last long. At the end there’s hardly anything left to bury.” Annis stuffed as much of her hand into her mouth as would fit, as if she could say no more. A pained expression twisted her features. Dresdemona was sure there was something else she wasn’t saying.
“I’m your sister,” Dresdemona said. “You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”
“Sometimes… sometimes he touches me. I hate him. I hate him! I hate him!”
Now it was Dresdemona’s turn to comfort her crying sister. She could think of nothing good to say.
“Did?” Annis asked, looking at her with tearful eyes, “Has he ever tried to… has he ever approached you?”
“No never. He pities me too much. I’m not even worth that to him.”
As expected, Wrock and Redbelly placed first and second in the ritual combat, earning their places in the Wild Hunt. Inza and Fauvra were both injured but expected to heal. The only casualty was Humeros, killed by Wrock during their match. Dresdemona watched the duels from the rear of the crowd, not wanting any of her former comrades to know she was there. She did not attend the feast. If Imbolc was a time for ritual cleansing and rebirth, she would observe the holiday in her own way. She had only to wait until the party ended and the celebrants drifted off to their beds with belies full, exhausted and drunk.
After administering the ritual combat, the King of the Winter Court oversaw the feast. He laughed and drank with his cronies until late into the night.
Dresdemona entered Og-Sethoth’s bedchamber a few hours before dawn. The King lay on his feather bed, already fast asleep.
“Father?” Dresdemona called. He hardly stirred. Drunk and exhausted, his weakened mental condition allowed her to form a partial mind link and sent a stab of pain through his head. “Father!”
Og-Sethoth opened sleepy eyes.
“What? What are you doing here? Get out!”
“I didn’t see you at the feast.”
“Get out or I’ll have you whipped. I mean it.”
He came instantly awake and as mean as ever. If an assassin had penetrated this chamber hoping for an easy target they would have been torn to pieces. Og-Sethoth was impossible to kill. Dresdemona realized the danger of what she was trying to do right now—to use the gladdrun on someone like Og-Sethoth. She’d worked the spell surreptitiously on some of the Winter Court faeries over the past few years, but had no guarantees it would work on the King. He was not like them. He was part Nephilim himself. And if she should fail in this…
But she’d already established a partial connection. It was time to do the rest. She had only a moment to initiate the gladdrun, filling his nostrils with that particular scent of saffron, damp moss and hyacinth. Og-Sethoth’s sleepy eyes glazed over for an instant. Dresdemona fueled the gladdrun, pushing hard but keeping something in reserve for the other part. A half measure? Against Og-Sethoth? Risky at best.
But Dresdemona knew the gladdrun did not work unless it were stimulating an urge that already existed. She altered her appearance, taking on once again the glamour of the young girl, the lonely waif who had presented to the Winter Court two years ago and had so stimulated Og-Sethoth’s unaccountable interest. She recreated the illusion perfectly, wearing even the same tattered remnants of an Effranil gown.
And she spiked his brain with desire. Such a wild, lecherous desire. She didn’t know if it would work. If somewhere buried deep down this spark would strike flame.
“Take me,” she said. “If you want me.” At once playing both innocent and painfully alluring, she let her threadbare clothes slip to the floor. Passions flared within Og-Sethoth. She felt his desire surging like a tidal wave. The things he wanted to do to her…
He cast aside the clinging bedclothes and lurched toward her. She didn’t step back. As he reached the edge of the bed she cast the second part of the gladdrun, flooding his senses with the restraining directive. Cardamom and rusty nails. “Don’t move!”
It felt good to release the second part. Now she was holding nothing back. Giving it her all because her life depended on it. Og-Sethoth’s perverted thoughts were intense, but now his passions raged against the restraint.
She caught some of what they entailed and had to bear the horror if it. His teeth ripping at her sensitive flesh, the perverse joy of her pain fueling his pleasure. He wanted to hear her scream and with each scream he would be driven to new extremes of passion. But he was unable to act on these impulses. The restraining order held.
A self-destructive battle waged within Og-Sehoth’s powerful mind. His passions were so extreme, building to greater and greater urgency as they were forcibly denied. He was at war with himself. Unable to move, he struggled harder and harder. His ancient heart thudded in his chest, his mind strained against itself. He wanted to hear her scream, but it was Og-Sethoth who screamed now. Unable to move, it was a silent screa
m. He wanted, he wanted, but he couldn’t act, he was impotent to act and, though none other could ever defeat him, he slashed himself bloody. He tore himself apart.
In the end he fell back against the feather bed, his heart pounding spasmodically until at last it gave out. He was stone cold dead. The little faery assassin had succeeded where none other could, by wielding the blade of his own iron will against him.
When it was done Dresdemona’s strength gave way. Her mind swirled with wave after wave of release and fatigue. She found herself on the floor beside the bed as her senses slowly returned. She must get out of here before anyone found out what she’d done. She resisted the urge to go to the bed and defame the corpse.
She turned toward the doorway. A dark silhouette stood there. The faery stepped forward. It as Annis.
“I... I heard his screams.”
“He didn’t scream.”
“I know, but… I hear things… sometimes.” Annis ran toward the bed.
“Leave him.”
“What did you do?” Annis asked frantically. “What did you do?”
“You can’t tell anyone what happened here. Crow and Greenier will kill us both if they knew. They’ll have to.”
Annis threw herself at her father and wailed, rocking the corpse back and forth. “He’s gone, gone, gone.”
“He was a pig. You hated him.”
Annis choked on her sobs. Tears streamed from her eyes.
“Stop it!” hissed Dresdemona. “We have to go. Now.”
“You killed him!”
Dresdemona had no more patience for this. She took her sister by the arm and yanked her off the bed. Annis tumbled onto the hard stone floor. The drop knocked the wind out of her. Dresdemona contemplated what to do next. She might have to kill Annis as well, but she couldn’t leave her body here. Then again, maybe she could. If Annis were strangled. If the others knew about Og-Sethoth’s treatment of her. It might make some sort of sense.
If only Annis would stop that pathetic sobbing. They were both vulnerable every moment they lingered here. Her only chance to survive the next few days lay in playing the role Og-Sethoth had chosen for her—the Effranil refugee, frail and helpless and below suspicion.
“Shut up!” she raged, digging her fingers into Annis’ shoulder and whirling her about. Then she realized that Annis wasn’t crying. She was laughing.
Annis shook off Dresdemona’s hand and now she seemed transformed as well. She stood tall, her face hard and cold as some type of avenging angel herself. She spit in Og-Sethoth’s dead eye, then rearranged the bedclothes atop her father’s corpse with deadly competence. Dresdemona reconsidered.
“You’re right,” Annis said. “We have to go.” Then she faltered again, her eyes uncertain, her lip quivering. “Don’t leave me tonight, Drezzy. Sleep in my bed. Just for tonight. Hold me. You promise?”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
“Let’s, let’s,” repeated Annis. “But I wonder who will win?”
“Win? Win what?”
“The fight. Crow and Greenier are going to have to duel over this. And it will be to the death. To find out who will be the next King.”
Chapter 17
Theodora had lost track of how many days they’d kept her cooped up in this little room. At least a week had passed since her arrest at the Spring Hitch. Meadowlark had tried to intervene, to distract the soldiers with his antics, and been clubbed down. They hadn’t arrested him. They wanted to make an example of her—of the Lady Changeling.
Like all faeries, she couldn’t stand being contained. The small holding cell in the military barracks was too small to make pacing back and forth a useful hobby. It had no window except a tiny square in the door and the lack of fresh air left the room feeling oppressive and stale. She had no candle at night and the dim light from the hall was periodically snuffed and relit at odd intervals which bore no resemblance to a logical schedule. She had nothing to look at except four gray stone-and-plaster walls and slept fitfully on a cot with a threadbare blanket.
All visitors were strictly kept away. Her only human contact came when her chief jailor, Lieutenant Simms, brought her meals. They fed her the same military rations that King George provided for the soldiers—salt fish, a pound loaf, boiled beans and an occasional bowl of overcooked rice. And then there was Captain Abercrombie, who stopped by periodically. For the first few days she’d complained to him of the harsh conditions in the holding cell, but aside from half-hearted apologies for the poor state of their facilities, she received no satisfaction whatsoever.
Abercrombie seemed to have no official reason for his visits besides simply passing the time. He inquired as to her health, provided no real information on her legal situation, and then invariably lapsed into reminiscences of his various military campaigns. Theodora had no idea why he should suddenly become so chatty. She originally considered his friendliness a cynical attempt to gain her confidence and sympathies, but then had the idea that perhaps Captain Abercrombie, though free to roam, considered himself a fellow prisoner incarcerated within the larger confines of Everbright itself.
He sat on a three-legged stool, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles as comfortable as you please as he related details about his early life. He’d been born in Sutton, Bedfordshire in 1722 to a hard-working blacksmith. As a young man he helped tend the forges and work the bellows. The long days of hot, tedious work did not leave him hungry for more. With the outbreak of the war of the Austrian succession, he joined the newly raised 1st Royal Dragoons as a cornet—a commission he didn’t have to pay for as it had been newly created. In April 1745 he received a promotion to a lieutenant of the mounted infantry. Two years later he managed to scrape the money together to purchase a captaincy using an inheritance from a wealthy uncle. His war horse had been named Fury. At the end of the war in 1748 he returned home, married and had a daughter. He spent the next few years as a family man running a small hostelry in Bedfordshire, living once again in the same house where he’d played rounders and shuttlecocks as a boy.
In 1756 the war with the French broke out but Abercrombie was laid up with typhoid fever. He entered service again in 1758 as a captain in the Coldstream Guards, the oldest regiment in the British Army. Theodora heard about various expeditions along the French coast including the famous raid on Cherbourg. Abercrombie did not embellish these tales, but related them in the cool deadpan of an experienced military man who knew well the horrors of war, slaughter and senseless bloodshed. She really couldn’t tell if the Captain was proud of his service or disgusted by it. He seemed neither at home in Bedfordshire nor the battlefields of France. Serving under General Burgoyne in the British light cavalry, Abercrombie took a serious wound to the leg and groin, ending his involvement in the war. He found himself reassigned to the Horse Guard at the palace, a cushy job that allowed him to reunite with his wife and young daughter. It was at this point in his narrative that Theodora recognized a common theme. Abercrombie loved horses. His eyes lit up when he spoke of them and a wry smile crossed his weather-beaten countenance.
Theodora listened to his tales with keen attention. For one thing, she had no other means of entertainment. But also she sought a better understanding of the man who would apparently be her main adversary over the next few years as the faeries continued to raise their newborn capital city. She asked only one question of him. How did he feel about faeries?
“Vicar says they’re God’s creatures just the same,” he said. “I’ve killed more than a few, I can tell you. I never enjoyed it.”
As a special kindness he arranged for the officer’s restroom to be cleared out every few days so Theodora could take a cold water sponge bath. She’d been wearing the same clothes—the tight-fitting exercise togs she’d been arrested in during the Spring Hitch—for far too long and having to put them back on again and again rendered the wash up almost moot.
Most of all, the loneliness was maddening. As she sat in her cell, day after day, she thought of nothing but
running free. She thought of green meadows and night skies. She recalled happier times, of dancing circles and the Festival of Lights. She thought of smiling faces. And she thought of flying. She didn’t know how to fly. Of all the faeries at Barrow Downes only Moonshadow had ever done it. And even Moonshadow didn’t quite understand how it was done. But now, locked up in this disheartening little room, more than ever, Theodora wondered what it would take to trick the world into thinking you had no weight, to turn on a breeze, to be truly and completely free. Of course, she knew, these thoughts simply made things harder on herself, but she couldn’t help it.
Charges of sedition carried the death penalty, but she wasn’t particularly afraid of that outcome. Abercrombie showed no intention of pushing things that far. For what? For dancing on Greene Meadow and refusing to be pushed around? After they had knocked down Meadowlark and dragged her away, she doubted anyone would dare the Spring Hitch again any time soon. So the British had gotten their way just the same. She imagined that in a few days she would be released. This incarceration was only a little bit of theatre designed for the faeries’ consumption. And this, more than anything else, made her angry. That they could use her this way. Yet another example of British oppression that left the faeries feeling helpless and unable to fight back. Teaching her a lesson. Teaching them all a lesson. Hadn’t they done enough harm to faery-folk already?
She was a titled Englishwoman, a noble’s wife who had tasted the life of civility, wealth and privilege. All the finer things. She and Eric had every opportunity to lord their station over the commoners, but they’d always treated the tenant farmers well. He had bargained fairly with the dockworkers and the tradesmen and the shopkeeper leaseholders. But they were still far from equals. The Graysons had power and privilege. And that’s what the British aristocracy had over the faeries. Her people were liberated but second-class citizens still. They would never be equals. Equal! They were superior to humans in so many ways. They enjoyed better health, longer life, and a harmony with the land and nature that the soot-stained Brits could never hope to achieve. And among themselves they were all equals. Moonshadow was the leader only because someone had to make the decisions. Most of the other faeries couldn’t be bothered with such things. But she could be challenged at any time. Meadowlark had put forth a challenge a few years ago but had been voted down. And yet the concept of a democracy—a system where the people determined their leader by vote—was particularly galling to King George, especially in light of the talk of revolution bubbling up from the colonies.