Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  Let’s see if my heart’s desire comes true tonight, Theodora thought. A knife in the back for the Dark Queen.

  Chapter 49

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Nora asked, spinning around to take it all in. It was her first Midsummer’s Eve. And indeed, even in his many years Threadneedle had never seen a festival as extravagant as this one.

  He kissed her on the cheek when she came back around to face him again.

  “Oh, Lord!” said Nora, covering her eyes with the back of her hand. She’d had to dodge to the side as a threesome came levitating down the street, making love right in front of her.

  “Well,” said Threadneedle, “I thought you were eager to embrace your fae side?”

  “It’s not quite so easy to shake twenty years of strict English upbringing. I was raised right and proper, don’t you know. I guess I’m still a bit prudish, after all.”

  “Prudish? If what we’ve been doing is prudish, I’m curious to see your version of slatternly.”

  “Hey!” She flushed as if she’d just been crudely insulted and Threadneedle realized that he’d perhaps done just that.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Nora quickly recovered. “Only with you,” she said, “because I love you.”

  His turn to blush.

  “No, we’re not married,” she continued, “and probably never will be, but I’m thinking we might have a long life together just the same. I’m hoping.”

  Threadneedle smiled at her endearing half-pout. He entertained a stray thought that he might outlive her by a century or more. As only half-fae, no one knew whether Nora was going to enjoy the longevity of a full faery or age like a normal human. In a few short decades she might become a withered old woman to his dapper unchanging self.

  “Oh,” she said, covering half her face with an open hand. “Everywhere I look! What are those two doing?”

  “It’s Midsummer’s Eve. Things do tend to get a bit out of hand.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be honoring Mother Moon, communing with her, recharging their batteries or something?”

  “Each in his own way, my dear.”

  “Well, now it’s got me in the mood.” She took his hand, but when she tried to drag him away, he stood firm. “And why not, darling? Let’s find ourselves a place—you know, not right out in the open…”

  “Hold on a minute,” Threadneedle said. “I just want to see this.”

  Dresdemona had descended from on high, bringing her floating platform close to the ground.

  “Where’s my dog?” she asked. “Bring out my dog.”

  Dog?

  “What the devil is she playing at?” he whispered.

  She was looking straight at him. He wasn’t imagining it. Surely she doesn’t mean me?

  “There he is!” said Dresdemona, gathering the attention of the crowd in the park. “There’s my little doggie!”

  A group of people at the east end parted. Pox stepped into the clearing, dragging a naked faery at the end of a leash. Even with his head down, face obscured by his long black curls, Threadneedle recognized Meadowlark. Pox gave the leash a vicious yank and the ‘dog’ flopped forward on his hands and knees. The crowd thought this a merry jest and laughed heartily. Perhaps they were lost in the festive moment or, more likely, resentment for Meadowlark still colored their view of him.

  Dresdemona lowered her platform to the grass. “Come on, come on.”

  Pox released the leash and Meadowlark scampered forward, making the little jump up onto the platform. “Good boy!” Dresdemona said. She raised the platform up again so everyone could see. “What shall I have my little doggie do?”

  She bade him stand up and, taking him by his erect member as if it were a handle led him around in a little circle. His head was still lowered but Threadneedle could just make out the lines of his face. He wore a bizarre sort of a frown, his eyes bulging, his lips drawn back as if being forced to smile. He’s under her power, Threadneedle realized.

  “Ugh,” said Nora. “I’m not particularly interested in this. Let’s get away from here, Thread.”

  Theodora couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Perhaps they all thought it was some sort of a joke, but she knew otherwise. Sure, the Barrow Downes faeries didn’t much like Meadowlark these days because of his defection to the Winter Court. But Dresdemona had been the Queen of the Winter Court, the very person Meadowlark had broken ranks to join, and they didn’t mind her at all. They were basically celebrating her cruelty. The twisted irony made her feel ill.

  “Leave him alone!” she shouted, but her plea was lost in the noisy jeers and laughter echoing up from the park.

  “Let’s see what my little doggie can do,” Dresdemona said. She bent forward on the platform and swept her skirts aside behind her. Somehow she still managed to keep an air of dignity despite the crude stance. She had perfect poise as she positioned Meadowlark behind her.

  “No,” Theodora shouted. “No. He doesn’t want to. Don’t make him.”

  Their eyes met across the distance and Dresdemona threw a wicked smile down at her.

  “What’s wrong?” said Moonshadow. She had been sitting cross-legged on the sward in deep contemplation of Mother Moon.

  “It’s Meadowlark—” Theodora began. She was interrupted by a young faery who came up on her from behind and wetly kissed her ear. Theodora turned round to see Bluebell smiling back at her, licking her indigo lips.

  “Dance with me,” Bluebell said seductively. “Never mind them. Dance with me!”

  Theodora pushed her away.

  Up on the platform, Dresdemona was still bent over, driving Meadowlark’s attentions with a slender willow branch. She laughed, reaching backward to lash the switch against Meadowlark’s backside, all the while instructing him as to what to do, or what he dare not do, until she commanded it.

  Threadneedle could not look away from the spectacle on the platform. What the hell is she doing? Trying to make me jealous? Trying to show me that she can have anyone she wants, anytime she wants. She can manipulate them, but her magic, whatever it is, doesn’t work on me.

  He felt it tear at him just the same.

  She wants to manipulate me a different way. Make me jealous. She wants a reaction. But what do I care? It’s just sex. A little midnight snack for faeries. Faeries aren’t meant to be possessive. And it’s Midsummer Eve after all. Meaningless.

  But it wasn’t meaningless. She wants me to rush up there and stop it. That’s what she wants to make me do. What if I did go up there? Right in front of everyone? What then?

  That’s what she wants. And what I want, too.

  “Come on, Thread,” Nora said again. “Let’s go.”

  He let her drag him away, heading for some secluded spot where they could be alone.

  “Look at his face!” said Theodora. “Can’t you see she’s forcing him to do this? We’ve got to stop it. Get away!”

  That last was directed at Bluebell who had thrown herself forward and kissed Theodora full on the lips.

  “Get away!”

  This time Bluebell acquiesced and finally gave up, spinning away with a rueful smile.

  Theodora felt suddenly weak at the knees. She stumbled and Moonshadow took her by the elbow and held her up.

  “I don’t… I don’t feel well,” said Theodora. She felt as if her face had burst into flame. A wave of dizziness took the strength from her legs and Moonshadow struggled to support all her weight.

  “What’s wrong, Theodora?”

  “Clarimonde. My name…”

  She could hardly breathe. She felt her eyes closing.

  Moonshadow lifted Theodora in her arms. In all the confusion of the festival atmosphere no one had noticed a thing. What had happened? Busy communing with the spirit of the Moon, she hadn’t seen anything either. Had someone attacked Theodora? She had to get her out of the park right away. She had to take her someplace safe.

  Chapter 50

  Fornication on public display! Not
entirely unexpected, but still shocking to witness firsthand.

  Doakes circled the park, keeping toward the shadows in hopes his dark coat might render him temporarily inconspicuous. That idea was thwarted every so often as a spate of faery lights erupted overhead revealing his presence to any who wasn’t too busy copulating to notice. So far nobody had noticed.

  He studied the levitating platform and its vulgar display. Who was that woman up there? Sitting above them like some sort of a goddess. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, coppery skin. Doakes had seen various sketches of the faery who had impersonated Queen Charlotte. At the costume ball she’d been revealed only briefly and then flew away. Dresdemona. What had this one been calling herself? Dryxlla. She could well be one and the same.

  He dare not get any closer to the platform. But watching this levitation bothered him greatly. How did she manage it? And that stone platform—it must weigh hundreds of pounds. Faery lights and illusions were one thing, but this was a display of power such as he had never seen before. The military applications were staggering.

  Doakes turned away from the crowded park, opting instead for one of the side streets of Everbright. But the streets here were so odd and twisty. It was quite easy to become disoriented. The revels had begun to spread throughout the city, but he felt safer among the less-frequented route. There were still several faeries about, singing and dancing drunkenly, parading around in various shameful stages of undress. The festival provided a rare opportunity. He trusted he was seeing them now as they really existed. No tricks, no disguising glamours. He must remember as many of their faces as he could, create some way of identifying them, some type of catalogue for future use…

  “Ooh, here’s a good place,” Nora said. “Such a lovely spot.” She grabbed Threadneedle by his lapels and dragged him to the ground. They had arrived at the northwest corner of the park. A private rotunda ringed by a circle of tall rosewood trees that surrounded a fountain. The fountain had running water, somehow pressurized from below, that spouted in an arch to a basin a few feet away. As the water traversed the arc it shone with faery lights of changing colors.

  Threadneedle’s frock coat flew into the air. Giggling, Nora went to work popping open the buttons on the frilly shirt he wore. She paused to kiss him and he saw the problem immediately.

  If they made love now, with his feelings for Dresdemona so fresh in his mind, Nora would certainly catch wind of them during the merging. He broke off the kiss.

  Nora dragged him to the ground. Threadneedle found it hard to resist. Emotions were running so high all around them, fueled by the wild music and the power of the full Moon. There was so much sexual energy in the air it was nearly impossible not to be drawn into the craze. But he must not give in. She would know. Everything would surely be ruined, if it wasn’t already.

  Nora rolled on top of him, kissing him again, rubbing her thigh against his groin.

  “Just… wait a moment… please,” he said.

  She let up, thinking from the pained tone of his voice that perhaps he needed to adjust some too-tight fold of his trousers or underclothes. But Threadneedle sat up and moved a few inches away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t feel at all well,” he lied. “Too much thistlewine.”

  Willowvine had a feast of choices. She had her pick of any number of willing dance partners. Several very unsubtle sexual advances had already been thrown her way. It was a wonderful night. The wild music spoke to her soul, demanding that she join in and sing. Or instead, she could set herself down somewhere and join a group of serious-minded faeries in deep meditation, basking in the holy light of Mother Moon. She had so many ways to celebrate tonight. But she didn’t have the one thing she really wanted.

  And then, she did.

  She saw James coming straight towards her, cutting his way through the gyrating, tumbling, thrusting crowd of merrymakers. Willowvine’s heart leapt. Whatever the outcome, she would have her answer soon. And realistically speaking there could be only one answer. On a night like this she could not imagine he was approaching her just to give her the brush off. Still, she must not jump to conclusions.

  But what should she say? Perhaps best just to hold back, act mature and reserved, not like some wild, impatient love-crazed older woman.

  “Hello James.”

  He smiled at her. Oh thank the Lord of the Forest, he was smiling at her.

  “Willowvine.” It was perhaps the first time James had ever called her by her real name. For so long she had been Arabelle to him, a false name, always shrouded in pretense and illusion. But to hear him utter her real name, and with a hint of longing in his voice…

  She took both his hands and they stood like that for a long moment. She was afraid to say anything. She refused to say anything. Let him do the talking. She still wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “All the times we shared.”

  “Yes?”

  He gave her a shy half-smile. “You hurt me.”

  “I know. But I told you… all I want is for you to forgive me. Please say that you do.”

  He pulled her close, guiding her hands around behind his back, and then hugged her warmly for a moment.

  She could hold off no longer. “I love you, James.”

  He held her close and kissed her. But…

  Something was wrong. Their lips touched, Willowvine’s heart open wide. A spark flew between them, but not in the way she wanted. An intense wave of hate struck her full in the face. Willowvine’s eyes flew open. The faery that held her was not James. It was a creature consumed by bitter vengeance. The pale, withered skin, the fierce obsidian eyes, the sneering lips. A banshee!

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Gryfflet said. “All the times we shared.”

  “No!” said Willowvine. “You don’t understand.”

  “You hurt me.”

  Willowvine tried to pull free but it was no use. The banshee held her fast.

  Very softly, so as not to disturb the party, the banshee leaned close to her ear. And screamed.

  Willowvine felt a sharp, tearing deep inside, and then her head burst into flame.

  Chapter 51

  For Pox, the feast of Midsummer’s Eve was the breaking point. He’d had enough of the way things were done in Everbright. Don’t cause trouble. Don’t carry your weapon in public, don’t look the soldiers in the eye. When he walked its streets, he did not feel the respect he deserved. ‘Don’t kill Meadowlark,’ Dresdemona had said, ‘I want him for my pet.’ Ridiculous! If anyone should be the consort of the Dark Queen it should be him. He didn’t care so much for her company as the prestige. He should be standing atop that platform beside her, not that sniveling, simpering dog. Why was he stuck here on the ground, pounding dirt, looking up at her while she bent over for Meadowlark? He didn’t care about the sex. Sex had never motivated him very well. To each his own distraction. The wild energies erupting here tonight drove him in another direction entirely.

  He could feel his blood beginning to boil. The horn was always at his hip, the Hunt never far from his mind. He took it now, raised it to his lips and blew two long clear blasts.

  Pox screamed out his frustration. A celebration of Mother Moon did not concern him. The image of Herne flooded his mind, the Horned Man, the Lord of the Hunt. He turned to a tall, thin faery standing close by and punched him in the face with bone-crushing force. His blood on fire, Pox felt the transformation coming over him. His vision sharpened, his nostrils flared. His upper jaw elongated to allow sharp, pointed fangs to burst forth. A red haze settled over his thoughts, blocking out everything but the one singular urge to kill.

  He raised Herne’s horn again and blew a long, fateful blast signaling to all his brethren who might hear. Come to me, it said. Come to me and kill!

  He could not wait for them. His muscles tensed and enlarged, his bestial features sharpened. He knew where he must go. Only one place for the
killing to be done tonight.

  Lieutenant Simms gazed across the table at his partner, a common foot soldier named Grimes. He had no idea what suits the man still held in the three cards in his hand. Grimes had led spades on the previous trick and Simms had scooped them up but now he must lead to Grimes’ strength or they would certainly lose the hand.

  Frommer coughed softly. “Come on, lay one down.”

  “Shut up,” Simms replied. “I can think.”

  “Can you?” mumbled Frommer.

  Simms hated the game of whist with a passion. He much preferred to play ruff and honours. But the men refused to play the simpler, older game these days. Only simpletons played ruff and honours, they said. Whist was the thing now. All the rage. Alright, he thought, I’ve only got hearts and diamonds left. It must be a heart or a diamond. But which one?

  “What’s that noise?” asked Grimes.

  At first Simms thought this might be some type of a secret clue as to what he must do. ‘Noise’ perhaps meant he should lead with a club but he had no clubs in his hand to play. But then he heard it, too. Strange sounds coming from outside the front of the barracks. All turned their ears to listen.

  It was music. One lone violin.

  The rest of the men drifted into the sitting room, drawn to the sound from their bunks in the lounge. The fiddler’s song was an intense series of notes. His strings hummed almost violently as they produced a spritely melody of both passion and sorrow. With a skill far beyond that of mortal ability, the song compelled hands to clap and feet to tap. Simms began to see various odd visions pass before his eyes in a meaningless jumble. He saw a beehive, dripping honey. He saw a flock of wild geese gliding across the summer sky. He saw a group of children of an early school age, dancing naked in a field of wheat. “It’s a trick,” he said. “Some sort of a trick.”

  He shook his head as if trying to cast off a night of strong drink. “Take a look from the window!”