Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  Then she waltzes in here...

  Theodora glanced up at the West Tower. Dresdemona was probably up there right now, a spider in her web, protected by her warriors of the Wild Hunt and those hideous banshees. No chance to get at her like that. Using what Meadowlark had taught her she might be able to levitate all the way up to the top floor window and find a way in, but it still wouldn’t work. No, she couldn’t take the lioness in her own den. She needed another approach.

  Maybe tonight, at the festival. There would be many chances tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time an assassin used the cover of a festival to do their dirty work. Dresdemona had sent her spy Arabelle—or perhaps it was Willowvine—to kidnap Gryfflet at the feygape. Yes, the festival was the perfect time. It was poetic, really. Theodora would look for an opportunity. She couldn’t trust anyone else to do it. Dresdemona had her hooks into too many people already. She must do it alone. Whatever happened to her after the murder she would bear. Let the banshees scream her name and burn her to dust afterward. Let Moonshadow pick up the pieces. She’d be good at that; she could reconcile with the Winter folk once Dresdemona was gone. I’m not going to let that witch destroy everything we’ve worked for.

  Right. Decided then. Murder it is, and well deserved.

  Now, where the hell was Meadowlark?

  Chapter 47

  Trask tossed back and forth upon the hot, uncomfortable pile of rags and rancid straw. He was tormented by a thirst which had burned his throat raw hours ago. The guards had given him nothing to drink all day and the tarp they’d thrown over the prison cart to dissuade gawkers had amplified the summer heat to an unbearable degree. They’re cooking me in here, he thought. With his hands bound behind his back and his ankles lashed together, he lay in the straw as helpless as a trussed foul. They’re cooking me in here like a Sunday turkey.

  As the cart rumbled along, Trask had fallen in and out of sleep all day, rambling through a wilderness of thought where he could find no relief from the weary wanderings of his restless mind. A constant sense of anxiety insisted he’d left something undone, that some fearful obstacle lay ever before his path. Vague whisperers in the surrounding woods nagged at him like a guilty conscience. Guilty. Not a day went by he didn’t see the face of the man he’d killed in Brussels thirty years ago. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

  As temperatures cooled and night settled in, he came more fully awake, to suffer mostly from the persistent thirst. He had only a vague idea of where the cart was right now—some country road between the port of Ostrend and Eeklo. From the conversation he’d overheard, they were headed to Ghent for the night and then on to Brussels next day.

  As far as he could tell the injection of Wild Tyme had not resulted in any noticeable effect. The skin on his arms and back itched terribly but he put that down to lice in the straw, rather than the faery chemical. He suspected perhaps he was immune to its magic. Perhaps this resistance was due to the herbs he’d ingested for so many years—hawthorne root and gotu kola—in an attempt to prolong his life.

  He should have been one of the Changed Men himself. He’d stood out on the field with the others as the Chrysalid split the sky above. It had changed them but it had not changed him. And he thought he knew why. He’d been holding the silvered lens—the only weapon that could harm the Chrysalid. Somehow it had kept the Wild Tyme from him, acting like a sigil of lamb’s blood on a door on Passover night to keep the wrath of God away. The faery curse had passed him by, leaving him unchanged. Had he avoided a curse or a gift? Gift. He should have had the gift of the Wild Tyme but it had been denied to him, like the deaf boy left over after the Pied Piper had taken all the others away, left to wonder. Would it have made him immortal?

  Crack! The wagon suddenly lurched hard to the side, the horses whickered, the driver cursed. The cart fell completely over as the axle gave away. Trask was thrown violently to one side, his head striking the iron bars of the cage with a heavy, painful thump. The world spun dizzily around him and some salty blood stung his eye. The iron bars, which had irritated him all day, pressed against his face, making him feel suddenly nauseous.

  He had not the strength to move. He lay, breathing heavily, as the two guards argued over what to do. Lance Corporal Bates spent a good ten minutes berating the driver who should have, according to Bates, noticed that the frequent rains had eroded away the edge of the road. Bates had apparently warned him several times to mind the side of the road. The driver’s name was Swiveller. He blamed the cheap construction practices of ‘the Frenchies’, by which he probably meant the Belgians, and various constitutional and moral defects of their road workers. He was a gruff man in late middle age, at least twenty years the senior to the Lance Corporal and not in the least intimidated by his superior rank. Various other arguments followed.

  It was apparently another hour’s ride to Ghent and the inn where they had intended to spend the night. Swiveller suggested they abandon the cart and ride the horses into town but Bates didn’t favor the idea of having to ride double in the saddle with their prisoner. There was a disagreement about the possibility of repairing the wagon, but after finding that a spare axle was indeed stored underneath the flatbed Swiveller insisted he was up to the job. The task would be made even easier since the wagon was already laying on its side. Of course, righting the wagon after the repair would be the main obstacle to the plan. The wagon was stuck half way in the ditch like a beached whale, and an inconvenient row of trees made it almost impossible to use the horses in getting it back upright. Bates proposed using levers to right the ship, but the cart was still too heavy for two men. “Well,” Swiveller said at last, “there’s three of us, isn’t there?”

  Bates unlocked the side of the wagon and slid the barred panel aside. “You there, Rákóczi! Crawl out!”

  Trask slithered across the side of the truck. He reached the opening but, with his hands and feet tied, could not stand up. Swiveller untied the bonds holding his ankles and hauled him to his feet. “Look here, murderer. We’ll let you stretch your legs a bit.”

  Trask stomped the numbness out of his feet.

  “But so help me Jesus,” continued Swiveller, “if you make me chase you through these woods I will break one of your legs.”

  “Right after I put a ball shot through your back,” added Bates.

  Trask took a few steps in a nonthreatening circle. He was struck by the expanse of clear night sky above and the fullness of the moon. His hands still bound, he wiped some of the blood from his brow. Was this some trick of the light or did his blood shine purple in the moonlight?

  “What day is it?” he asked in a parched rasp.

  “June the third,” answered Bates.

  “Midsummer’s Eve?”

  “How should I know?” Bates smacked him on the back of the head. “I’m not here to answer your questions. Now shut your yap.”

  Trask couldn’t make a snarky reply even if he wanted to. His throat was raw and burning from what he’d already said. Every breath was fire. More than that, his skin was burning, itching, crawling with maggots, magpies, spiders. The whispers from the woods grew louder, twisting and turning as they filled his head with nonsense.

  He thrust out his arms and watched his hands stretch and elongate, fingers writhing like worms, snakes, roots. His bonds fell away from slender wrists and long, stick-like fingers. He rubbed the itching skin of his forearms and pockets of skin tore away and fireflies burst forth into the night.

  He stumbled backward, his mind on fire.

  Someone was shouting. It was Swiveller pushing him, digging fingers into his shoulder, turning him around. Trask stuck his fingers into the man’s face. The sharpened tips gouged his flesh like barbed branches. Swiveller screamed.

  Trask’s blood sang. His entire body felt enervated, completely fluid, capable of anything.

  The Moon called his name. “Trasssssk!”

  Bates’ pistol cracked. The ball struck Trask’s shoulder and ricocheted away, sending chips flying. Below
his white prison shirt, his skin had the consistency of weathered wood.

  The Lance Corporal charged. Trask was slow to turn, beset by so many weird new impressions. The Corporal’s sword struck him in the flank. The blade cut an inch deep then stuck embedded in the wood. Bates couldn’t withdraw it.

  Trask stretched out his hand, the woodsy fingers extending until they struck Bates full in the chest, knocking him backward. The sword fell away.

  Trask had no more time for these men. He turned and ran into the woods. They did not follow.

  He ran and ran until his breath grew short. He stopped right in front of a particularly ancient oak tree with a trunk five feet wide. His head began to clear, his mind settled. The Moon, the trees, shoots and branches, fireflies, the maggots and magpies—they all had their place. It all made sense. Trask threw himself at the wide oak tree, wrapping his arms around his long-lost brother of the wood.

  How old are you? he wondered. Three hundred. Four hundred years?

  Trask laughed and spun round. He felt like dancing.

  “I’m going to live forever!”

  Chapter 48

  “I want you to keep the men close tonight,” Oliver Doakes said. “It’s some faery holiday—Midsummer’s Eve.”

  Lieutenant Simms had seen no credentials from him except for a letter from the War Minister, George Grenville himself, describing Doakes as a ‘Prime and Special Agent of His Majesty’s Army’, whatever that meant. In any case, the way the man gave orders left little doubt he thought he was meant to be in charge.

  Simms cleared his throat. “But Captain Abercrombie said… I mean with the Captain gone, I think—”

  “What do you know about faery dance rings?” Doakes glanced at the half dozen soldiers scattered about the barracks’ mess room.

  Simms rubbed his neck. “I don’t really—”

  “Then for the sake of your sanity and the safety of your men, Lieutenant, you had better listen and listen well.” Doakes urged the men, most of whom were listening surreptitiously anyway, to gather round.

  “Tales are told of those who foolishly join the fae devils in their moonlight revels. Their faery fiddles drive men to their own destruction, their women suck the very life out of their victims even whilst pleasuring them. They play tricks of time. I heard of a young man from Brixton who danced with the faeries for a single night, yet when he stepped out of their circle he found a hundred years had passed—his back bent, his skin shriveled and his whole life flown away.” He shot the men a warning scowl.

  “Tonight is Midsummer’s Eve,” the grim-faced Doakes explained. “I know that doesn’t mean anything to you or I, being good God-fearing Christian men, but to the pagans it’s an excuse for lewd behavior and debauchery on a grand scale. This is important: Do not be tempted into sinful behavior by anything you might see or hear in the next few hours. Any breach of duty will be censurable with the utmost seriousness. Disciplinary sentences will be carried out with strokes of the lash doubled.”

  He turned to address Simms again. “Put a double guard on the gate. I expect some strange visitors may come knocking this night. Pray let them pass but allow no weapons inside our walls. Accept no gifts from them. The rest of the men should stay inside the barracks. Let the faery folk carry on their dirty business. Do not be lured by their music nor any other faery nonsense.

  “Some say the Lord’s Prayer is proof against them if repeated three times. Do you all know it?”

  His question was primarily met by blank stares and shuffling feet.

  “Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...” he prompted. Several of the soldiers grunted and nodded, but it was doubtful they could recite the entire prayer nor learn it in the time allotted.

  “Where is the Vicar?” asked Doakes.

  “On his way to Westminster for a meeting with the Cardinal.”

  “Very well,” said Doakes. “For now, we shall have to do without him.”

  “And… well, what just to be clear sir, what do you intend to be doing tonight?”

  “The King’s business,” Doakes replied with solemnity. “Tonight, I go into the viper’s nest. On King’s business.”

  “Bogarts, bogles, brownies, and nippers! Nickers, puckles and thrumpins! Good evening to all faeries of the twilight realm!”

  Dresdemona addressed the crowd from atop a flat stone platform, levitating high above the revelers gathered at Seelie Park. She sat on a high-backed chair made of elder wood with a red velvet seat cushion. The top of the seat-back extended upward in a series of woody shoots, thin black branches devoid of leaves as they might appear in the depths of winter. The overall effect was spectacular, with the skeletal branches rising behind her head in a gigantic sort of woodsy crown.

  Mother Moon’s power seemed almost tangible this night. She smiled down on them with moonlight so bright it flooded the entire park till it was almost as light as day, with not a single black cloud to mar the sky. Tiny glowing balls circled Dresdemona’s platform in yellow and gold. Theodora couldn’t tell if they were swarms of summer fireflies or little faery lights people had cast to add a touch of magic to the festivities. Faery banners hung from windows all across town, steamers of pure light illuminating the streets in yellow, green and gold. The trees were all decorated with colored lamps, and wreaths of golden flowers blazed between the buildings.

  “At last we have a place of our own. The City of Everlasting Change. Everbright.” Dresdemona spread her arms wide to encompass the entire city.

  “Oh, Mother Moon,” hissed Theodora. “She’s acting like she founded the whole damn place. Carpet-bagger! She was the one who bolloxed up our plan, with that stupid assassination of George the Second.”

  “Shhh!” said Moonshadow, “I want to hear what she’s saying.”

  Well, I don’t, thought Theodora. She was worried about Meadowlark. No one had seen him since he’d missed their appointment earlier in the day. Not that anyone took much notice of his whereabouts anyway. He was still a sort of pariah among them. Much as she had been. The Lady Changeling and the traitor. They made a perfect pair. But she knew he wouldn’t have so casually opted out of their meeting. Unpredictable as he might be, it just didn’t sit right with her. She glanced casually around but didn’t see him anywhere. Well, of course not. This place, with Dresdemona riding on high, was the last place Meadowlark would show up. He must be off alone somewhere, kicking himself for missing out on all the fun.

  “Tonight,” exclaimed Dresdemona, “Tonight is a time to be who we truly are. Why else are we here in Everbright? Not to bow. Not to cower. To be free! So drink, my friends, and feast. Enjoy each other. Soon we shall all taste the wonders of Avalon!”

  Pompous ass, thought Theodora. While the others cheered, she ran her hand down to the hilt of the dagger she’d hidden in the back of her waistband beneath her shift dress. A Grayson family heirloom, it had a six-inch blade and a gold-embossed handle with a square emerald inset. A fitting weapon to take down a self-professed queen. She hoped Dresdemona wasn’t intending to stay up on that platform all night.

  Someone ran up and threw his arms around Theodora, and kissed her. She pushed him away, perhaps a little too roughly. He was only having fun, after all.

  Fun, said a nagging little voice inside her head. You do remember what fun is, right?

  There was no use pretending Dresdemona’s little speech hadn’t touched a nerve, even moved her a little. Theodora had denied her faery nature for two decades, playing the role of stuffy Lady Grayson. If not for the children she might well mark that time as a total waste. Only on brief forays back to Barrow Downes on nights like this had she been able to cut loose, to sing and dance with her people, and even then not really, not completely. Everbright had changed her outlook more than a little. She was free at last; she was Clarimonde again. Now was the time to be herself, to frolic and enjoy life’s many wonders. If only Meadowlark could be here…

  Theodora noticed how intently Moonshadow was listening to Dresdemona’s
corny little speech. The message was apropos, if nothing else. A feast and dance above ground, unabashed and unashamed. This truly felt like the inauguration of a new phase in the history of the faeries and their capital city. If only it hadn’t been coming from her. But Moonshadow could never have made that type of a sweeping speech, hovering above them like some god-damned Queen. She was too earnest, too humble. She just wasn’t the type. Perhaps that was a mistake.

  “We are belowground no more!” roared Dresdemona. “So let us begin. Before us lies a night of never-ceasing pleasure. What are we waiting for?”

  To cap it all off she raised one hand to the night sky. A shimmer of moonlight seemed to buzz straight down from the Moon above, landing square in the palm of her hand. It was probably just an illusion, but a damn good one.

  The revels commenced.

  Those faeries inclined toward the art of music began a fabulous concert. Their instruments sang together in such sweet concordance it was surely the most divine bit of music ever conceived—and yet also the most chaotic. The song kept twisting, turning, changing melodies midstream. The dancers were not constrained to any particular chorus or drumbeat. They danced to their own inclinations as clothes were thrown in the air and thistlewine flowed like water. The celebration poured out along the thoroughfares of the city. All inhibitions were thrown to the wind. Fireworks exploded in the sky where groups of faeries hovered, lovers coupling right out in the open. Shouts of exhilaration mingled with cries of pain. The lusty were ravished, all thirsts evenly slaked. Nothing was out of bounds tonight. It truly was a revel of exquisite delight and divine misery.