Everbright

by Ken Altabef

He reached for another leaf and ventured a touch. Another chiming note, a sparkle of azure blue and Threadneedle felt a wave of the accompanying emotion—unrequited love. The feeling disoriented him. It could not be true. He was in love with Nora and she returned his affections. The tree, however, forced him to feel unpleasant pangs of longing and desperation. For Dresdemona?

  “Threadneedle?”

  He turned round to see Dresdemona approaching from the edge of the copse.

  “It’s good to see you again.” She stepped up close. Threadneedle still fought to cast aside the yearnings the tree had forced upon him. If nothing else, he thought, she does know how to make a spectacular entrance.

  And it was good to see her again, though he would not admit it. She had aged well in the past century. In his mind’s eye he could still envision the young faery he had fallen for, her strong, determined eyes and the soft, hesitant tremor to her lips. Dresdemona’s face was a bit harder now, but no less beautiful, having developed a mature confidence that was quite attractive.

  “You’re calling yourself Dryxlla again,” he said. “Not Dresdemona?”

  “No. Not anymore.” She smiled pleasantly. “Not ever, really. Dresdemona was a disguise, a means of protection. But I have always been Dryxlla. Always Effranil.”

  “Always?” he asked. “Then why did you leave Avalon?”

  She hesitated. In all their time together she had never told him. “I made a mistake. They couldn’t forgive.”

  “Sounds like a trend.”

  She scoffed. “I played a song incorrectly. That’s all it was.”

  “You played a song incorrectly… on purpose?”

  “You know me very well, Thread.”

  “And yet you never cease to surprise me.”

  “Why take such a harsh tone? It’s been such a long time. You’ve forgotten what we had…”

  “I never forgot!” He felt his face tighten with anger, even after all this time.

  “Good.” She gazed earnestly back at him.

  “Good? What you did to me? That was good?”

  “I loved you, Threadneedle. You know that’s true. But I owed a debt to the Nephilim, and when Aldebaran came to collect I had no choice. He would have killed you. I told you to run but you were too much in love to do that. Too much in love.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you… subjected yourself to him… for my benefit? To drive me away?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Threadneedle had never considered the possibility. That changed everything. Didn’t it? “What did you owe him?”

  “Never mind that. He’s gone. Tell me about this new love of yours, this actress.”

  “Never mind Nora. She has no part in this.”

  “I should hope not.”

  Threadneedle hadn’t meant it that way and began to object, but Dresdemona turned half away. She stroked one of the emotion trees, bringing forth a musical note and a dull yellow light. Threadneedle felt a thrill of anticipation.

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  “You’re the only one I’d ever shown these to. Remember? In my memories. I showed you so many things. Everything.”

  He didn’t believe that was true. She was as multi-faceted as Avalon itself and revealed different things to different lovers. She hadn’t been honest with him. Not completely.

  She brushed a fingertip against the edge of his hand. “We had such plans, you and I. We were going to reshape the Winter Court, bring back the proud traditions of our people. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You believed in our dream.”

  “I believed in you. I don’t any more.”

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  Wasn’t it? Was she still the same person as before? Was he?

  “You remember Avalon,” she said. “You’ve tasted it, when we kissed. But that was many years ago. In the meanwhile you’ve walked a good deal of this world, Threadneedle. You’ve seen a lot in your—what shall we call them?—restless wanderings? After you left the Winter Court, did you ever find what you were looking for? Anything that could possibly compare to what you lost? Did you find it in that half-faery girl?”

  No, he thought. No, he had not.

  “It’s here,” Dresdemona continued. “The dream. Me. You can have that here.”

  Was that really what he wanted? He felt pulled in two different directions, torn between past and present. But there was no denying it, Dresdemona’s pull was by far the greater. If the past could be made present again, if he could feel again the things he’d felt for her...

  “Why didn’t you ever go back?” he asked in some vague attempt to turn the tables. “Back to Avalon?”

  “I can’t go back. But we can bring it back. To this place. It can be as if you never really left.”

  She had approached him very closely, now her face only half an inch away. Perilously close. She seemed so sincere, so open and even a little afraid. This was a Dresdemona few had ever seen, and none recently. He sensed she wanted to kiss him but was unwilling to make the first move. If she tried to kiss him and he should turn away…no, she couldn’t take that chance.

  Just then a breeze came up from the east, a very specific breeze it seemed for it stirred only one of the leaves on a nearby emotion tree. A bright blue light shined forth, accompanied by a perfect note. Bright blue. True love.

  He wanted to kiss her, to taste her again, to find out for sure if she was still the same. But it was too dangerous. He thought of Nora, back in London. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  Dresdemona pressed forward and kissed him. Their lips met and melted together. In the kiss he saw her as the perfect Effranil, he tasted the music he had once tasted with her. He wanted more.

  He felt her shudder against him. Her feelings were real. He was sure of it. He wanted more.

  He pressed forward, knowing that all he could desire, a perfect bliss, was only a heartbeat away. All he had to do was take it. Nothing stood in their way. He wanted it.

  Dresdemona broke off the kiss.

  “I did what I did to save you,” she said, wiping a fleck of his spittle from her lip. “All this was ours. Could it be again?”

  He would not answer. Things were happening too fast. Her confessions about Aldebaran had changed everything. His heartbreak, all his recriminations, had been misplaced. How had he not seen that? But he could not fully accept her. He sensed something wrong deep inside. She has a darkness there, he thought. I hadn’t seen it before because we were too young, but it has always been there.

  He thought of the duels he’d fought to take and maintain control of the Winter Court. Always Dresdemona had inhibited his opponents, arranged things so that they would not win. So that he would kill them. How had she done it? How had she controlled them? With sex? Was there nothing she wouldn’t do for power? For control? This situation was much more complicated than simple lust, or even love. He needed time to think.

  She became irritated with his hesitation. It wasn’t her style to beg. Nor to repeat an offer. Her eyes narrowed. Had she been so sure that one kiss would change his mind so completely?

  She turned and, saying nothing, walked away.

  Threadneedle felt renewed pangs of regret, though he knew this time they had not been forced on him by any emanations from the emotion tree.

  He needed time to think.

  Meadowlark was happy. Happy! He hadn’t felt true joy in a very, very long time.

  He fingered a few notes on his pan pipe but couldn’t think of anything to play. For the past few years it had only been melancholy tunes and lonely dirges. No need for any of that now.

  Perhaps he should sing? The bard said it best—Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?

  “Ah, Macbeth,” he muttered. “You have nothing on me. And I have, at last, the heart of dear Clarimonde.”

  At last! At long last!

  He had won. They had made sweet love in th
is very willow tree. And what was love if not the promise of more love? To that end he waited here, at the far end of the park, away from the maddened crowd as they went about their preparations for the night’s celebration. Dresdemona had apparently brought large quantities of coin and currency along with her to Everbright and, taking advantage of the new monetary economy the faeries had now adopted, was spending vast amounts to ensure that this year’s Midsummer Eve would include a feast and dance far superior to any other. First she dangles the promise of Effranil lore in front of them and now she seeks to buy their favor with food and wine. Tricksy bitch.

  But enough about Dresdemona. Why devote another iota of his attention to that foul beast when he was much better served to concern himself only with Clarimonde? She had promised to meet him here at noon and he had no doubt another sticky wet assignation was in the making. Not in the same tree. No, certainly not. Love grows cold whose methods grow old. He must think of something else. A walk in the park? Oh, but that was too mundane. Another aerial adventure? Coupling in flight! He didn’t know if such a thing was even possible but certainly worth a try. The birds do it, the bees do it. Don’t they? Who knew?

  Who cares? I feel as if I could fly right now. I’ve nothing to weigh me down.

  Nothing. Except the boy.

  What about the boy?

  Damn it all, Meadowlark could not help but feel the nagging bite of responsibility. Responsibility. Aggghh, that was a new one. He’d never been responsible for anything in his entire life. But if Oberon was his, and surely he was, how could he leave the boy solely in the hands of someone like Dresdemona? Surely she had his best interests at heart, probably, maybe, and with that pair of gruesome banshees to protect the boy, he was safe enough. But Meadowlark thought he should have some say in the rearing of the little whelp. He should teach Oberon a few things. Useful things like… well, like… well…

  Enough. There was no sense torturing his brain seeking to innumerate his own virtues. There were none. That, he understood. In any case his time was better spent thinking of ways to entertain and delight Clarimonde. That was his need at present.

  Too late. Here she was now, strolling down the garden path. Meadowlark felt his heart race a little. Her lustrous honey-dew hair, the seductive curve of her bare shoulder, the sway of her hips.

  He jumped down from the tree.

  “Sweet heart, my heart,” he said but found himself unable to bring the sentence to any sort of witty conclusion. He took her hands in his own and stared longingly into her eyes.

  “Meadow,” she said. “Here we are at last.”

  Something struck him strange about her tone of voice. This was not the sweet nothing he had longed to hear her whisper. She spake with bitter irony coating her tongue.

  He gazed more intently into her eyes and the illusion broke.

  He found himself holding hands with none other than that moldy-faced Winter Court assassin Pox.

  Pox gave both his hands a painful squeeze and then punched him in the face.

  Meadowlark fell backwards along the grassy plain. The back of his head clunked against the trunk of the willow tree. “Owww! I don’t suppose we could talk about this…”

  Pox drew his sword.

  “I see.”

  Still groggy from the tree’s impact, Meadowlark struggled to his feet. He carried no weapon but conjured the illusion of a long, pointed sabre, glinting in the midday sun.

  He vaguely realized that the illusory sword was, in fact, not a very good idea. He couldn’t block anything nor harm Pox with it. And it certainly did not intimidate his opponent.

  The nonexistent sword was good for only just one thing so he made sure to make it happen. Holding his sabre out front he dared Pox to come on. The assassin was only too happy to oblige. He stepped forward swinging mightily.

  Meadowlark met the blow with his illusion. Pox, expecting at least some resistance, found himself completely thrown off balance when his swing passed through empty air. He overbalanced and fell forward. As Meadowlark sidestepped, he kicked his adversary in the rump. He laughed as Pox went sprawling to the ground.

  Meadow dispensed with the glamour sword. Good for a laugh, that was all.

  But his situation was still dangerous indeed. Pox, and his very real sword, quickly recovered. “I’m going to kill you!” he spat.

  Meadowlark wondered if Pox could fly.

  Don’t wonder, he rebuked himself, just do it!

  Meadowlark hastened to empty his mind, to convince the world that he was as insignificant as a piece of dust. Not surprisingly, this was quite easy because in another instant, as soon as Pox had time to draw back his weapon, Meadowlark would be rendered completely insignificant.

  Meadowlark rose shakily up into the air. Pox swung his blade, just clipping the heel of Meadowlark’s boot. He floundered for just a moment then levitated up out of reach. But before he could breathe a sigh of relief, Pox shot confidently upward. At first Meadowlark assumed his foe had only taken a mighty leap but Pox rose above him easily, turned in mid-air and the punched down at him.

  Meadowlark took the blow with the side of his face, completely shattering his concentration and sending him crashing back to earth. The impact left him dazed and shaking. He looked up at his opponent but there was no mercy in Pox’s eyes.

  “Get up! I won’t kill a man on the ground.”

  Then perhaps I should just stay down here, thought Meadowlark. I don’t mind crawling in the mud for the rest of my life if need be. Theodora will be along any moment—Clarimonde, I mean Clarimonde—and when she sees me pummeled into the dirt like this no doubt her admiration and love for me will just blossom and grow and grow…

  But then, he had a better idea.

  He struggled to his feet.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Kill me.”

  Pox drew back his blade.

  Meadowlark grinned at him. “Say, there’s some mold on your face there.” He reached forward as if trying to wipe it off then drew his hand back. “Oh, I see. That is your face. How unfortunate.”

  Pox swung his blade. The sword tip sliced off the top of one of Meadowlark’s ears.

  “Go ahead,” said Meadowlark. “Finish the job.”

  Pox growled and grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. Meadowlark’s hands were wrenched behind his back and a piece of cord bit into the soft flesh of his wrists.

  “Thought so.”

  Chapter 46

  “Meadowlark?”

  Theodora felt foolish calling out his name like this. She carefully inspected the branches of the willow tree. It would be just like him to play a joke on her, to camouflage himself among the willow’s droopy branches. But she should still be able to tell at least that he was there, despite a tricksy glamour. She felt nothing.

  He wasn’t there. So here we go again. She was not entirely shocked. The Meadowlark of old cared not for time of day nor appointments in the wood. He could always be counted on to soundly disappoint all his promises. But she’d thought maybe, just maybe, he had changed. No, not changed so completely—she wouldn’t want that anyhow—but she thought he respected her enough, desired her enough to keep their date. Had their lovemaking been just another fling to him? Just like before?

  She didn’t think so. He had seemed so genuine. In fact, that was the pleasure of the thing. She knew he was genuine. He had been convinced that his feelings were real; she’d felt them when their minds merged. Then again. Meadowlark was an accomplished liar, even when deceiving himself. If he’d been lying to himself about the past, how long before he realized his feelings of the present were just another lie?

  Theodora felt heat flush her cheeks. He wasn’t here, and to hell with him.

  She turned her back to the tree.

  And then she thought the better of it. This situation had the smell of Dresdemona all over it. What if she had something to do with this? Why blame Meadowlark? That’s just what Dresdemona would want. Theodora decided not to play that game. She
would give her lover the benefit of the doubt, until such time as she found out exactly what was going on. He deserved that much.

  She took a deep cleansing breath. From Seelie Park she had a perfect view of the preparations for tonight’s dance. Dresdemona had spent quite a lot of money to make sure the faeries would have everything they could desire tonight. First she dangles the promise of Effranil lore in front of us and now she seeks to buy our favor with food and wine. Tricksy bitch.

  What they had built here was so wonderful. Not just the shimmering buildings and the knitted tapestries of living foliage, but most of all the camaraderie of the people, the faeries, joined together here in this special place. Everbright had a chance to be something truly incredible. And Dresdemona was determined to muck it all up. The burned-out chapel was a nasty scar on the field of green. And who was responsible for that? Dresdemona, she could be sure. And there would be repercussions. The British would not stand for such an insult. And how were the faeries going to deal with that? More bad blood. Exactly the kind of thing she didn’t want. It was poison. Dresdemona was poison. If she had her way she’d destroy everything they were building here.

  Theodora couldn’t allow it. She just couldn’t. She had to get rid of the so-called Dark Queen once and for all even if it meant taking the matter into her own hands. She couldn’t leave it up to Moonshadow. Her half-sister was too accommodating, too desirous to make nice with everybody. That attitude will be her undoing. But only if I let it. And I won’t.

  I’ve got to kill Dresdemona, she decided. It was a cold thing but it needed to be done. She’d killed before. She remembered snapping the neck of Amalric the mad alchemist at Grayson Hall ten years ago, but that had been self-defense. And she’d killed men who had hunted faeries during the Purge, but that had been war. And she’d been part of the faery party that had murdered Griffin Grayson decades ago, but that had not been cold-blooded murder. That had been quite hot. This would not be cold either. She hated Dresdemona like she’d never hated anyone else before.

  She could never forget the look on Dresdemona’s face when Theodora had exposed her scheme to usurp control of the British throne. Now, there was true hatred! It still must burn in her heart, despite her recent pretensions of civility. Dresdemona had carved a scar across Theodora’s cheek with a sharp-edged fan before she’d flown away, that day. She needn’t have done that; she just wanted to leave a mark on my face.