by Ken Altabef
He glanced up at the dimensions of the cavern. “And it’s so large. So much bigger on the inside than it should be, bigger than it could possibly be, if I miss my guess. But it’s a trick. If this cave were really this size all of Durham would’ve collapsed into the ground long ago. How is it done?”
“I can’t say,” James said. Then, thinking he sounded unnecessarily secretive he added, “because I don’t know. Faery architecture. It’s a specialized talent.”
“Alright. To business then. The Lord’s business. Is it much further?”
“No just up ahead.”
The Vicar looked around again. With the exception of a few squads of fireflies that blinked in yellow and green, he saw no one about. “Is everyone asleep? It’s so quiet. Are there children?”
“What?”
“I haven’t seen any above ground. None at all. Are there children here?”
“A few.”
“Kept down here. It hardly seems healthy. I only ask as it pertains to their spiritual upbringing. I do hope they shall have the chance to be saved. As Christians, I mean. Is there any way I could speak to the parents?”
“It doesn’t work that way with us.”
“Oh?”
“We’re here, Vicar. The men.”
James led the way beneath a vine-clotted archway. Inside was a modest home where several of the Changed Men kept their hearth. The antechamber was empty but just beyond, in a large sitting room, they were met by a half dozen of the poor unfortunates. Dog-faced Roderigo was there among several other Changed Men, the members of the Grayson staff who had suffered disfigurement and madness out on the plain below the raging Chrysalid.
The Vicar stared with amazement at the group. Some were green-skinned, some blue, others had long pointed noses and ears, others had developed doe's feet or goat's horns. One man had been saddled with a pair of large round owl’s eyes of yellow and black, and a beard of thorny brambles.
James was certain that no other missionary, no matter how far-flung their outpost, had ever looked upon a more raggedy bunch of supplicants. To his credit, Desmos took it all in stride.
“I am glad to be welcomed here, among such fine men,” he said. “In a short time, I wish to learn all of your names and to know you well. Are we all Anglicans here or some other denomination?”
“They were all Anglicans.”
“Good.” He held his hymnal high. “I am prepared to offer full service tonight. We’ll have a reading from Matthew I’ve chosen especially for this evening. And then we will celebrate the Eucharist.” He withdrew a folded garment from a fold in his black cassock and shook out a broad white gown with balloon sleeves. He drew also a small white linen pouch from his vestment, which James supposed contained the holy wafers.
“And so, before the sacrament, I will take confession.” He glanced around the room. “Perhaps there is a place we may speak in turn. In privacy?”
Roderigo whimpered.
“Father, Roderigo can’t speak.”
“No worries, my friends. Roderigo, you shall think about the nature of your sins. God will hear. I will absolve.”
Trask swirled the liquid in the bottom of his beaker. He still had not the foggiest notion what to make of it, and he was running out of tests. He had diluted it and spun it, decanted and boiled it. He had immersed tadpoles in it to see if they might grow wings; he had dipped various seeds in it to see if they would sprout and bloom; he had teased it and shocked it and exposed it to the essences of every metal and ore he could think of. The Wild Tyme would not work its wonders for his eyes.
He ascertained it had a specific gravity less than water as it floated on top of water and sometimes, inexplicably, hovered slightly above it. It glowed faintly of moonlight, especially in the dark, though he could not isolate a power source. He played eight different colors of light upon it, as separated by a complicated set of prisms, but it always retained its silvery glow. Direct exposure to moonlight caused it to bubble slightly. Through all of his endeavors Trask had come no closer to being able to isolate the Wild Tyme, no less extract it from the bodies of the Changed Men. Completely at a loss, he poured the isolate into a thin glass tube and secured it in his cabinet of tinctures and chemical suspensions.
Today was Tuesday and like every other Tuesday he was preoccupied with thoughts of his lover. The pendulum clock on his work table neared two in the morning, the end of the second watch. Time to go. Trask did not own a wig but dressed his long hair into a queue at the back of his head, bound with a tanned leather ribbon. He fretted at the extensive gray among the fading brown, undid the whole thing and rubbed some pig-grease pomade through his locks to add a semblance of youth and vitality. A quick splash of Belgian perfume and a gargle with mouth water completed his toilette. Enough. He didn’t want to be late.
Trask exchanged his stained smock for a well-worn but still elegant frock coat and left his lab to traverse the night-time avenues of Barrow Downes. He did not often dare to come up to the surface, restricting his exposure to these Tuesday night trysts with Jacob. Jacob Lester, lance corporal in Abercrombie’s Everbright command. He’s too young for me, Trask thought as he climbed the stairs to the exit portal. He’ll have tired of me by now. He might not even show.
He had these same thoughts every time he went up the ladder. It was a sort of ritual. As the fresh night air hit, he thanked the stars above that Jacob would meet him at the usual place at the usual time with military precision, and that their lovemaking would satisfy them both. Thank heaven, he thought, for fine young military men.
As he skulked across Everbright’s central park, his anxiety over the state of his romantic tryst was replaced by a more real fear. He was a wanted man, having murdered his former lover in a fit of jealous rage in Brussels more than forty years ago. He had been confined inside the Blackthorn Asylum for the Insane, but smuggled out by another alchemist and fellow member of the Invisible College, who had taken him in as an apprentice. Then, after he had aided the Graysons in their confrontation with the Chrysalid, Theodora had agreed to protect Trask as well, sheltering him first at Grayson Hall and now at Barrow Downes. But there was never a day he walked the surface world without fear of capture and the military presence at Everbright made him more nervous than ever. Still, he could not keep away from Jacob. He just couldn’t.
Jacob met him behind the chapel, as per their longstanding arrangement. The two embraced warmly and Trask lingered in his young man’s arms perhaps a bit longer than usual, thankful that he could still enjoy this last vestige of attachment to the human race. He kissed Jacob as passionately as ever, nuzzling against his clean-shaven and sweet-smelling cheek. Even though well past seventy, the herbal remedies Trask religiously imbibed kept his libido up and he already felt his trousers drawing tighter. But still he sensed something was wrong. Jacob did not seem as eager as he would have liked and his kiss did not have the usual spark. He drew back to search the young man’s eyes.
“Jacob, what’s wrong?”
“I had no choice,” he whispered. “They found out about us. What we’ve done…”
He wiped frantically at the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes. “I had to do it. They’ll crucify me…”
As Jacob pushed Trask away he noticed several figures coming up from behind. First Lieutenant Simms headed up the bunch.
“Extend your hands,” he said to Trask.
Trask could not even move. The sudden shock of this betrayal sent his pulse racing. Thin steaks of white-hot pain shot from his chest to run down his left arm. This is what a human heart breaking feels like, he thought.
“Leopold George Rákóczi, you are under arrest for the capital crime of murder.”
Chapter 27
Dresdemona arrived at the front gate of Everbright with all the pomp and circumstance one would expect of the Dark Queen. She rode at the head of a grand procession, mounted atop a huge black steed. This horse, no ordinary beast, was possessed of unnaturally thick, corded muscles
and a head which combined the features of a wild stallion and a vicious bull mastiff. Its ears were suspiciously pointed and laid back, and a little pair of black horns thrusting from each temple proved the mark of the Wild Hunt. Several other dark beasts led the procession, mounted by her commanders of the Hunt—Pox, Ragwort and Rainbird.
Lieutenant Simms had been quietly napping at his post on the gate. When he opened sleepy eyes to notice their approach, he raised his tin whistle to his lips. But before he could blow the alarm, his eyes went wide.
“You don’t want to do that,” Dresdemona said softly.
Simms realized he didn’t want to do that. For one thing the number of faeries in the entourage far outnumbered the guard at the gate. For another thing, they were as well-armed and rough-looking a bunch as he had ever seen. And thirdly, gazing upon their magnificent leader, he felt most assuredly that he simply and surely didn’t want to do that.
Dresdemona smiled. The poor simpleton saw her as she wished him to see her. An attractively lithe figure swaying sensuously astride the cantering horse, her copper-hued skin shimmering slightly in the noonday sun, her long black hair flowing like a dark waterfall along her shoulders and down her naked back. She wore black skirts that rode her hips like folds of gathering darkness and a corset of beech bark ribs inlaid with pressed gold leaves, a garment which simultaneously lent her the perfect air of poise and nobility while revealing more bare skin than the poor lieutenant could possibly abide. Elegant. Exotic. Beautiful.
Simms stepped aside and let the procession file into the main gate. Unlike the refugees who had come before, carrying naught but the ragged clothes on their backs, these Winter Court faeries came loaded for bear. They brought bundles and bags, trunks and chests, odd bits of furniture, musical instruments, weapons great and small, flags and ribbons, scraps and sundries, worming-irons, powder kegs, kettles and cooking pots, and all sorts of glittering odds and ends.
Dresdemona dismounted, wanting to walk inside the great gate under her own steam. She assessed the place carefully, taking it all in. The buildings were tall and thin, elegant, with lush greenery and knotting vines worked into their design. Beautiful, but not yet finished. Workmen swarmed the buildings like fleas, traversing rickety scaffolds and platforms, beating balustrades into submission with hammers, saws and chisels. Their faery counterparts navigated between them, coaxing the plants to grow and weave into intricate patterns.
“What is that tower there?” she asked the lieutenant. “The tallest one?”
He stood blubbering at her for a moment.
“Answer!”
“Municipal building.”
“Fine. We’ll take it.”
She pushed him aside with one finger and they moved on.
Moonshadow peered out the window of her house, with Theodora beside her. Across the brightly lit park, the municipal building stood tall, glistening in the sun. Shadows fell sharply between its intricate cornices and architraves.
“Does the whole place suddenly appear somewhat more sinister,” Theodora asked, “or is that just an overworking of my imagination?”
“Is it really her? Do you think?”
Theodora turned away from the window. “From the description, I hardly think it could be anyone else. Lieutenant Simms nearly wet his pants.”
Moonshadow chuckled, not bothering to ask which variety of wet it might have been. “She just marches in…” she said, “with all those people?”
“That’s her style. She won’t come here looking for us, either. She’ll just sit there. She’ll want us to go to her. Perhaps we should just wait her out. A kind of reverse siege. Starve her with her own stubbornness.”
“She won’t starve. I see some of her people out on the green already. And they’re carrying weapons.”
“Oh, Damn! It won’t be long before Abercrombie shows up. And there’s no telling what may happen then,” Theodora said. “Like it or not, we’d better handle this ourselves.”
“Handle this,” Moonshadow repeated. “But what does that mean exactly? Should we go armed?”
“Probably not a good idea. We need to talk first.”
“But it’s like walking into a lion’s den.”
“Buck up, sister! That’s how she wants you to feel. But remember this is our lion’s den.”
“Right. Grrrr!” Moonshadow turned and peeled her lips back against perfect white teeth.
“Terrifying!” Theodora hugged her half-sister. She kissed the back of her neck, which smelled faintly of daffodils. “We’ll be fine,” she said. “We just have to go and talk to her.”
“What if it really is her? What does she want?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out.”
Chapter 28
Theodora felt her heart racing as they entered the municipal building. She had passed beneath its stylish lintel so many times before, but never felt such a disturbing sense of dread at the thought of what might lay waiting inside. She wondered what had become of Eccobius. The scholarly statesman was missing in action; how had he responded to the hostile occupation of his domain?
Rainbird and Pox met them just inside the doorway. Theodora had faced them both once before, during her rescue of Princess Charlotte from her Winter Court abductors at the St. Mark’s Benedictine abbey. Pox snarled at her with his lean, wolf-like countenance. His skin was a mottled green that reminded Theodora of several competing strains of mold that clumped over his features in irregular patches as if fighting a battle among themselves to conquer the peak of his nose. He wore a vest of some odd type of leather—possibly human skin—that highlighted the many war tattoos that littered his muscular chest and arms. Pox’s external appearance as a fierce warrior was neither trick nor glamour. Theodora was glad she had not crossed swords with him that day at the abbey—Threadneedle had dueled with him—for if it had been left to her, she would certainly have fallen to his blade in no time at all.
Rainbird was small and slender but no less deadly. She wore tight-fitting fighting togs; streaks of bioluminescent paint ran along her cheeks and arms in bright green and flaming yellow.
Pox eyed Moonshadow suspiciously. “If it isn’t the Moon goddess herself, come to call,” he croaked. His hand went to the hilt of his Italian sword. “She looks so small and weak.”
“And wearing such an ugly dress,” sniped Rainbird. Her laugh was a razor-sharp trill.
“We’re not here to quarrel,” Theodora said, “just talk.”
“Talk, talk. How about the password?” Rainbird asked.
“Please,” Moonshadow said without hesitation.
“Just so,” Pox laughed. “And remember, please rhymes with knees, so don’t forget to kneel when you see the Queen.” He laughed again and waved them toward the lift.
Not likely, Theodora thought, weapons or no weapons. She would have liked to remind the smug bastard that Moonshadow had defeated them both, bare-handed that day at the abbey, but decided to let the matter slide.
They entered the lift and Theodora released the counterweights.
“I suppose she’s in the main office,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s a good sign,” Moonshadow returned. “Attacking us with words instead of swords, they meant us no real harm.”
“I admire your optimism. Hope it doesn’t get us killed today.”
As they approached Eccobius’ office, Theodora imagined what they might find—the Dark Queen grinning wickedly as she sat on a tall, makeshift throne of skulls and bones, one death-faced banshee poised to either side. Reality proved much less stunning. Dresdemona sat on a very normal chair behind the bureaucrat’s broad oaken desk. The surface had been cleared of all the random clutter and architectural models and now contained only a few children’s toys—a pair of spinning tops and a handful of tin soldiers.
Dresdemona beckoned them inside. She was alone in the office. Her gaze locked on Moonshadow immediately. “You must be Moonshadow.” She bowed her head slightly. Her attitude was nothing but cor
dial. “So pretty. Your skin does shine like the Moon, doesn’t it? Is it some strange glamour?”
“I never wear a glamour,” Moonshadow said.
“You shouldn’t. Or human clothes, for that matter.”
“Well then, you’ve come to us a little too late for that. We’ve had to accommodate.”
“Of course,” said Dresdemona. “For Everbright.” She gestured toward the window and its expansive view out across the park. “It’s wonderful. Quite an achievement for one so young.”
“I had lots of help. This is Lady Theodora Grayson.”
“We’ve met,” said Dresdemona, her smile slipping a little. “The infamous Green Man.”
Theodora touched the scar on her cheek where the Dark Queen had scored her skin with a sharpened fan.
“Tell me,” Dresdemona asked, “Why would you take it upon yourself to thwart my attempt to rule England?”
Theodora was completely taken aback by the bold question. What was the answer? “To protect the King.”
“Why?” Dresdemona’s eyes, her pupils black as tar, bored into her.
“What you were doing was wrong.”
“Why?” Like an annoying child she kept repeating the same question, probing deeper and deeper. “It was a deception, a trick. That’s what we do, isn’t it?”
“We were negotiating with the King, in order to have a city of our own. When it comes down to it, I stopped you because I wanted Everbright. That’s why.”
Dresdemona leaned forward over the desk, toppling one of the little soldiers. “When it comes down to it, I wanted the very same thing. I was just thinking a lot bigger. I wanted fairies to rule England and Ireland, and all of the continent. And beyond. We wouldn’t have to worry about being caged here by the British government. We would be the British government. Everbright would not be a solitary city but a truly ideal place for faeries—the whole world.”