Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  “I dunno. Same slop as everyone else.”

  “Same slop as everyone else,” Nora repeated in a sharply sarcastic tone. “It’s a wonder I can get through the day. I can still authorize the transfer, I suppose. This injection will ease his discomfort a bit.” She turned back toward Trask. “If the patient desires the treatment, that is.”

  Trask eyed the syringe warily. He thought of the Chrysalid. Ten years ago, he had seen the monster, peering down at them through a jagged hole in the clouds. The seething menace filled half the sky, staring down at them with a million eyes. It had hissed at them, its voice a bizarre cross between a shriek of horror and the purr of a crocodile. “Dance, children! Dance!” All across the courtyard men had fallen, convulsing as they writhed along the cobbled stones and were changed in hideous and horrifying ways. Yes, he knew the sufferings of the Changed Men very well.

  He had no idea what a direct injection of the Wild Tyme might do to him. But what did he have to lose? In the end, he nodded solemnly. Nora placed her thumb on the depressor. The fluid suddenly jerked in her hand and Trask thought he heard that fateful voice calling to him once again. “Dance with me!”

  She proceeded with the injection.

  “Good luck,” she said, standing up and brushing off her trousers as if with great repulsion at the conditions in the cell.

  “I’ll certify him as fit enough for travel,” she announced. “See that he at least receives a few hours out of these chains today, and a cup of brandy and water this evening at bedtime.”

  Chapter 42

  Eccobius took a deep breath. He always felt queasy whenever Dresdemona was in the room. It was a funny thing. When she wasn’t around he thought of her almost constantly, but when she did grace him with her presence he felt so jittery, so nervous and uncomfortable, so unworthy, he’d rather be anywhere else.

  “What a wonderful collection of old books you have.”

  “B-b-books?” he stuttered. “Oh yes, I’ve been collecting them for ages.”

  She sat atop the corner of his desk. Looking away from him, he could only see her in profile. But still… that incredible forehead, the delicate slope of her nose, those lips…

  She laughed. “When I was the Queen of England I had access to a library such as you would not believe.”

  Eccobius saw a vison of Dresdemona as queen. He imagined her standing before a mirror, dressed in a long white gown made of soft brushed silk, with layer upon layer of lace coiled over a full hoop. The hoop hung askew on her hips at a tantalizing angle. The bodice glittered with tiny diamonds and was cut so low the copper-toned skin of her breasts practically heaved over the top. His mouth went dry.

  “Do you like music?” she asked.

  “I-I-I do.”

  “I used to love the opera. Humans are such petty fools, of course, but there is a rare genius among them when it comes to music. Haydn was such a man. Something about a full orchestra. The pounding rhythm touches me deep inside. Faeries could never be made to play in such perfect synchronization—at least not the sort of faeries we have around here. In Avalon things were different.”

  He could hardly tell what she was talking about. Music? He saw the vision of his faery Queen, now standing before his desk, one delicate shoeless foot on its clean, polished surface. A perfect foot. A perfect ankle. He traced the line of her calf, the curve of her thigh. He could just see where the hoop had lifted a little, just enough to show a flash of…

  She slapped him across the face. “Now listen!”

  His cheek burned, bringing him back to his senses.

  She sneered at him. “You were speaking of taxes?”

  “I was? Oh, yes, I was. Taxes have been doubled on all farm products, but only those produced by individual commonwealths in the province of Durham. In addition, the Exchequer has imposed a surcharge to the window tax, mandating that all new construction be subject to a doubling thereof as well.” Eccobius felt his stomach settle a bit. Talking about facts and figures helped to clear his head.

  Dresdemona pushed off the desk and paced slowly across the room. “It’s obvious these new taxes are aimed squarely at Everbright. Parliament might just as well pass a Faery Tax!”

  He cringed, thinking she might strike his face again. “Moonshadow says we should just pay them. So long as the farms are productive, we may as well keep the King’s collectors off our backs.”

  “You see, there’s the difference between us, right there. I know the value of money. Moonshadow knows nothing about the world of men. I have sat upon their throne. Perhaps Moonshadow should relocate to the colonies if she wants to be so badly used.”

  “From what I hear,” Eccobius said, “the colonies move closer to armed resistance every day.”

  “It’s not surprising is it? With young Georgie’s heavy hand on the scale. But we’ve no need to confront the Crown directly over this, not yet anyway. The solution is simple. We’ll help the local farmers to boost their production, then take half of the profits when they sell. When they sell, we shan’t have to pay any of these new taxes. You understand?”

  “I-I I can’t authorize this.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “Moonshadow—”

  “Moonshadow needn’t concern herself with every little thing that happens. Surely.” Dresdemona leaned over the desk. Eccobius saw her again dressed as the Queen, a dazzling array of jewels in her tiara throwing off flashes of emerald and sapphire light. She leaned forward across his desk, emphasizing the cleavage and once again drawing his gaze. Tiny beads of sweat glistened between the curves of her breasts. He licked his lips.

  “I want you to send gifts to all the surrounding farms,” she said. “Candyfruit, thistlewine, that sort of thing. We will need allies in the days to come. One advantage of our location here—British troops have to pass through the surrounding farmland to get to us. These local bumpkins can form a natural barrier, a warning system, perhaps even an armed defense from the rear if necessary. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, I understand. And then there’s that other thing…”

  “What other thing? Make sense you fool.”

  “The Minister of War has asked for two conscripts—faeries to spy for the King in the New World. Moonshadow has not yet given answer.”

  “The answer is no! Definitely not! We don’t spy for him. What’s he going to do about it? If we don’t stand firm, we will be slaves.”

  “They may send troops.” He could not take his eyes off her looming bosom.

  “They will send them eventually, anyway. The only question is how we are going to handle them. Let me worry about that.”

  Eccobius couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Queen was so strong, so fierce, and yet she had the face of a pretty little girl. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Her lips were so plump, the flesh so warm and intoxicating…

  “And why is there a Christian chapel in the middle of our property?”

  “Ch-ch-chapel? Oh, yes. By mandate of the King. Hardly anyone attends. The soldiers go, but only because they are obligated to do so.”

  “No faeries?”

  “A few.”

  “Enough talk!” She turned to go. “One more thing: I want you to announce that I will be sponsoring a dance and a feast in Seelie Park in three days’ time. Midsummer’s Eve. If Moonshadow insists on keeping my people from Barrow Downes, we will dance and make merry aboveground. In full sight of our English guard dogs.”

  Meadowlark walked briskly along Honeysuckle Street, headed for the West Tower.

  Most of what he had told Clarimonde was true. Using her powerful sex magic, Dresdemona had owned him, body and soul. And he had hated it, mostly. And he had wanted to kill her, even while they were making love. Dresdemona took a perverse pleasure in that, the same way she took a perverse pleasure in using him, or anyone else, for her perverse pleasures. And he had broken free of the Dark Queen only by virtue of his love for Clarimonde. All true.

  Now that he had at last joi
ned with Clarimonde, and she seemed to like it, he felt himself a new man, at last free of Dresdemona. Mostly. There was that one other little thing. He had no choice; he had to find out if she still had a hold on him.

  A few moments ago he’d watched Dresdemona go into the Administration Building. And now, at midday, most of the other Winter Court faeries were out and about, but there would still be a few left inside the tower. And he had no idea where that devil Pox might be lurking.

  The West Tower faced the park. Its rear façade lay opposite Honeysuckle Street, at least it did today. The streets and avenues of Everbright had a habit of slowly changing positions overnight. On this particular day Honeysuckle Street was home to a mixture of residences and shops. The shops were a relatively new concept for faery folk, inspired by the biweekly market held in the square. Most faeries still thought exchanging money was nothing more than a merry jest, but Meadowlark wondered how long it would take before the King’s currency became the basis for every transaction among his people. That would not be a good day for the faeries.

  The West Tower stood six stories tall and Meadowlark felt certain Dresdemona’s chambers would be at the top. He couldn’t just walk in the front door. Thus, the rear façade.

  He stood at the rear base of the tower. Now to clear my mind, he thought. Let the world know that I am an insignificant speck, unworthy of holding onto.

  Somehow this trick seemed harder than it had been before. The problem, he realized, was that now Clarimonde was never far from his thoughts. And if he loved her, and she loved him in turn, he could not really be totally insignificant.

  I have to lie, he thought. Lie to the world. How hard could it be?

  Aware that he did not have an unlimited amount of time to complete his task, Meadowlark paced back and forth along the base of the tower, wearing the ground back and forth in a useless repetition of movement. Useless. Completely insignificant. Nobody knows I’m here, nobody cares. I might just drift away. That’s the stuff. Inconspicuous and insignificant.

  When he felt sufficiently inconspicuous and insignificant, he attempted a short levitation. He drifted upward two stories before feeling the sudden urge to cling to the building for dear life. Things were going fairly well. Hanging onto the cold stone of the building, he felt even less important. In fact, probably no one would even care if he let go. He might as well let go. Nobody would care.

  Up he went another few feet, though this levitation was decidedly more tenuous than the first. Having reached the fourth floor, Meadowlark cast a suspicious look down. It was quite a distance, and the weight of gravity preyed on his mind. A fall from this height would extinguish his life permanently, however pathetic and meaningless as it was. He felt his chances of success were shaky indeed. Should he attempt one more jump? It really was a long way down.

  He could probably work his way into the window, but having to traverse the fourth floor of the tower and then reach Dresdemona’s chambers two flights above without being noticed seemed an impossible task. He would have to chance one more levitation. What did it matter? After all, he was only a piece of worthless dust, a stray bit of fluff, however handsome, that must certainly drift on any errant breeze.

  Up he went again, latching onto the window frame at the sixth floor at just the last moment when gravity snatched once again at the seat of his britches. He peered into the window. The view on the other side was partially obstructed by a pair of gauzy curtains hanging in the way but Meadowlark could see that the room was unoccupied. The top latch on the window was unfastened and it was even open a crack. Easy peasy. Meadowlark hung on for dear life as he pried the window up far enough to squeeze inside.

  The room he had entered was some sort of a combination sitting room and store room. It contained odd pieces of exquisite furniture, stacked kegs and boxes and other assorted junk. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Loud voices came from the next room. A group of surly faeries were engaged simultaneously in some type of card game, a drunken brawl, and a competition to determine who was the best at thinking up lewd insults. Unfortunately, Meadowlark would have to pass the open doorway if he were to continue down the hall. He peered cautiously around the doorframe, imagining he would see Pox sitting at the table, or three or four Poxes.

  Okay, he thought. It’s just one. And probably much too distracted to see me cross the doorway. Probably.

  Just to be sure, Meadowlark cast a glamour that made him resemble a dull gray mist. If anyone was paying attention they would know a faery had crossed the doorway but might not be driven to attack immediately. If not paying attention, he was an insignificant smudge drifting by as seen out of the corner of an eye.

  Success! At the end of the hall stood a grand door of solid chestnut, framed with an ornate border of elegant carvings. This was the place.

  Meadowlark turned the latch and eased the big door open. A dire chill tickled his spine as he stepped into what was clearly Dresdemona’s bedroom. He must be crazy coming here. A candle stub burned in a sconce on the table. The dim light illuminated an elegant four-poster bed, the full-length mirror and the other accoutrements—had they brought all this stuff all the way from Deepgrave? As he glanced at the bed another chill ran down his spine. The things she’d made him do on that bed…

  Best not to think of all that now. At the far end of the room was a standing screen of fine wickerwork. Meadowlark squeezed past and entered a dark, windowless alcove. This was the place. The nursery. A cradle stood in the center of the room. A mild cooing sound issued from within. The child.

  Meadowlark peered over the side. Oberon lay on his back, having kicked off most of his swaddling clothes. He slept peacefully, his eyes closed, a string of drool trickling down to the mat.

  A live-born baby was an oddity among faeries. Not content to carry a fetus around for eight months, faery women deposited their eggs into the Moon Pool, where they were fertilized on Midsummer’s Eve by male faeries drunk on the power of the Moon. The children were gestated within the great mushrooms in the nursery chamber and lived their first few years that way until they emerged as full-grown children.

  Meadowlark, no stranger to drunken romps in the Moon Pool, had surely sired several children over the course of his hundred-year lifespan, but he neither knew who they were nor cared to know them. But this child was different. He had been conceived during Dresdemona’s impersonation of Queen Charlotte. Since she had not lowered herself to couple with King George during that time, the father could only be the Nephilim Aldebaran or Meadowlark himself.

  Oberon turned slightly, blowing a few spittle bubbles in his sleep. Damn, thought Meadowlark. Except for the horns, the little bastard looks just like me.

  Oberon. King of the faeries. My son.

  Damn.

  Meadowlark reached forward, intending to tuck the child’s wayward blanket under his chin when he heard a sharp hissing sound from behind. He whirled around.

  Two pair of glowing eyes pierced the gloom behind him. The banshees!

  Even in the darkness, he could make out their pale, withered faces under dark hoods, standing there in the gloom.

  When the banshees scream someone dies. One word from them and he was dead.

  Their coal-fire eyes followed as he stepped slowly away from the cradle. For now, it seemed they were content to let him live. He supposed, as the child’s father, they did not see him as a mortal threat so long as he behaved himself.

  He backed toward the doorway.

  Chapter 43

  Vicar Desmos dipped his quill. Not good enough. Midsummer’s Eve was only two days away, falling unfortunately on a Sunday. The big day for faeries to celebrate their pagan worship of the moon, and a dance was planned for the evening. He felt his sermon in the morning must be more potent, not that many of his pointy-eared friends would be in attendance. But a few, just a few to sit and listen, and potentially to spread the word. Just a few. He could not ask for more. But this Sunday the chapel must ring with the power of the Lord. He mus
t find the words.

  His mission here at Everbright could not exactly be called a success. Aside from the military men, the Word had not reached many faery ears and he had no definitive converts among them. He needed something to stir their blood, to convince them to set aside their pagan ways. His usual sermons—Acts, the Corinthians and Psalms—delivered with the aim of showing faery folk as creatures of God, hadn’t swayed the faeries and only seemed to annoy the soldiers all the more.

  What about Isaiah 6? It didn’t come any more inspirational than that. Isaiah sees the Lord on His throne, so high and glorious and realizes his own sinfulness. The prophet feels unworthy to serve the Lord. Don’t we all feel that way sometimes? We should. He jotted that down. And yet, God did not destroy Isaiah for his humanity, he purified the prophet and commanded him to do the Lord’s work. Give them something to think about, Moon be damned.

  But then again, maybe he shouldn’t put such a fine point on it. Desmos yawned. It was late. He could finish this up in the morning. He gulped down the last of his cup of wine and blew out the candle.

  The moon nearly full outside his window, he made his way to his cot. His little room in the chapel’s attic had a fine view of the Lord’s night sky outside his window. For all his tribulations, he felt at peace and content in the Lord. But what the hell was that drifting up from below? Smoke?

  At first he thought it just a final wisp from the guttering candle but the smell soon became overpowering. Burning wood. He sat up. It was hot in the room, not unusual for a summer night, but the smell was ominous and getting worse. He ran to the window and glanced down. Sure enough, a warm glow lit the night below him with flickering flame. The chapel was afire!

  He threw his robe over his bedclothes and pulled open the trap door. Must he jump from the window? He dreaded the thought.

  But the little rope ladder still hung below the trap and he hastily made his way down. His little rectory had not yet been touched by flame. He ran into the nave, finding one half completely ablaze. The pews on that side crackled and spit flame like the pit of Hell itself.