Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  Cardinal Hervey sipped his tea. “Arson in your parish,” he said thoughtfully. “Not quite the result the Church was hoping for.”

  “I don’t know who was responsible. Or why, for that matter.”

  “Who can say, when dealing with faeries, eh?”

  “There were a lot of new arrivals to the city. Faeries of ill-repute of some sort, or so I understood from whatever tidings I could gather. I did nothing to provoke them.”

  “Rest easy, Father Desmos. The mission was doomed from the start. That’s what I think. I am most of all glad you are unharmed. I would hate to think I had sent you to your demise on such a foolish errand.”

  He stuffed an apricot tart into his wide mouth and chewed deliberately. “Of course you can not be expected to preach out of an army barracks. In fact, in light of the most recent events in that dreadful place, the King is considering an obliteration of Everbright in toto. We must reconsider your appointment. Now don’t worry, this failure shall not be a blot upon your record, I assure you. For my own part, I never thought the Everbright mission would come to anything. Bloody pagans. They dance with the Devil in the woods for all I know. Didn’t expect they would embrace the word of God. Did you?”

  “It’s not for me to question my appointment. I did whatsoever I could. I ministered to the soldiers and whatever few faeries happened to wander into the chapel. But there were also a group of men there, held captive underground. The Changed Men they call them, poor souls in torment. The faeries had transformed them into hideous freaks, for what purpose I could never ascertain. Their souls were in danger, and I went to them with the sacrament. They are good men, for the most part. I hate to leave them there.”

  “Tchh! That is unfortunate, isn’t it?” The Cardinal stroked his lower lip. “How many?”

  “Half a dozen. I don’t relish abandoning them.”

  Hervey took a long pull of his tea, his gaze drifting toward the southern window and its view of sadness and death. “Well,” he said at last. “It’s out of our hands for now. Let’s hope the regiment doesn’t mistake them for faeries when they sort the place out. Afterward, we’ll reach out to these poor unfortunates. Something for you to do perhaps while awaiting your new orders.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Father.” Desmos took a sip of his own orange blossom tea. He paused to savor the taste, swallowing it slowly. “There was something else…”

  “Let’s hear it. I do have another appointment in a short while, you know.”

  “You may want to delay that appointment,” Desmos said. “The faeries keep their secrets down below. I stumbled upon something on one of my visits to the Changed Men. The faeries have a weapon hidden there. And I believe it is Arondight.”

  “Arondight? I’m afraid I don’t know the reference.”

  “Grail lore is a hobby of mine,” said Desmos, “but I never dreamt I’d encounter the real thing. Arondight. The Unfading Light of the Lake. The holy sword wielded by Sir Lancelot du Lac in his defense of Britain.”

  “A sword of the Round Table? Now that would be a find, Desmos!” Cardinal Hervey’s eyes blazed with the thought of it. “You saw this sword?”

  “Not exactly. But I know it is there. It spoke to me.”

  “Are you talking now of a holy vision of some sort?”

  “The real thing. Some say Arondight is even more powerful than its twin, the fabled Excalibur.”

  “More powerful than Excalibur. That’s hard to believe.”

  “And impossible to test. Excalibur is gone. Reclaimed by the Lady of the Lake, so the question of relative strength may never find its answer. The Lady was a faery queene who raised Lancelot from a boy. Given the choice, might she not have given her adopted son the more powerful sword of the two? Excalibur determined the fate of a nation, perhaps even the world. Who knows what Arondight might be capable of?”

  Desmos took a slow sip, letting the question linger, then continued, “Legend has it, Lancelot used the blade to slay a dragon. Mind you, he didn’t cut the dragon with it. He burned the worm to a cinder, using Arondight as a flaming sword—just like the flaming sword of the archangel himself.”

  “A flaming sword. Can it really be so?”

  “If need be. You see, its powers rise to the occasion as needed. Meet it with steel and it is steel. Meet it with dragon’s breath and it is an inferno. Meet it with gunpowder… who knows its recourse? If valiant Lancelot could slay the dragon with it, he might as well slay an army with it. It is a holy sword. Arondight may be the most powerful weapon upon this earth.”

  Lieutenant Simms looked down at his hand, trembling on the knob. He hardly dared turn the latchkey. He didn’t want to go out!

  The rest of his men, the three who had been posted on the gate the night of the massacre, were all snugly abed. His turn to stand the watch. By rights, Simms should be standing at the front of the barracks not lingering here at the back door. He had no choice. He must go. He must.

  He twisted the knob and peeked outside. It was dark as pitch, the middle of the night. A waning full moon rode high in the sky but so overshadowed by dark clouds it gave little light. He stood silently listening. There were too many sounds at night in Everbright. An owl hooted, various insects chirped. As ordinary and bucolic as these sounds might be, Simms refused to be lulled by them. There were things out there, terrible things. He knew.

  The Lieutenant patted the hilt of his rapier as it rested on his hip then checked the firing chamber of his Sea Service pistol. He cocked it halfway, poured in a full measure of powder and tamped the muzzle. The patch and ball next, and tamped firmly again. Primed and ready, he held the little flintlock pistol upright. The rain had stopped but the damp weather risked a strong chance of a misfire. No help for it, he thought, I’m not going out there unarmed.

  With a deep breath, he slipped out the door.

  And another deep breath. And another. Damn, his heart was already pounding fit to burst. He couldn’t help it. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing the hideous faces of their attackers, the monstrous Wild Hunt. The way they’d bust into the barracks, the bloodlust, the slaughter. Simms had seen action before. He’d stood with the Duke of Cumberland at the Battle of Fontenoy. Three men in his detail had been blown to bits right next to him as his column smashed through the center of the field. He had shot three men and stabbed two more. But that was civilized warfare. These faeries were devils, half animal half man, rending and tearing with monstrous claws and teeth. He’d had no choice but to flee to safety. That wasn’t desertion—that was survival.

  Thinking these dark thoughts, he could barely take another step. Give me a French brigade to stand against any day, he thought. Not these damn shape-changing –Lord, what was that sound?

  A hideous screech coming from the center of the park. Somehow the noise galvanized him and he took a few jogging steps in the opposite direction. His appointment was in the orchard to the south of the park. He needn’t go straight through. His hand shaking, he held the barrel of the pistol high so the ball should not dislodge. If he so much as saw the glint in a faery’s eye he was going to fire and be done with it.

  He and his men had spent the last few days hunkered down in the barracks awaiting reinforcements. He had forbidden them from going outside, except in need of water and kindling. The lunatics were in charge of the asylum now, the King’s men prisoners in their own barracks. Just the same, he wished he could be with them now in the relative safety of brick and mortar. Instead, he must trudge on. He must.

  He traversed a dark pathway between looming willow trees. He’d been instructed to carry no lantern. Why? Why? What harm could a little light do?

  There were noises about, a rustle in the branches above. He crouched. Anything could be up there. He heard heavy breathing. He should turn around and go back. The rustling intensified, a branch snapped and he heard another sound above. Moans of pleasure. He distinctly heard a woman’s moans of pleasure. The sound, which might otherwise have intrigued or enticed him, had the
opposite effect. He was terrified of it. Simms dashed forward and away.

  He had almost reached the orchard.

  And then he screamed. The noise sounded alien to him—his own voice laden with terror. A face had appeared before him, looming out of the foliage like some dark specter in the night. Dark green skin, mottled and rotten, those merciless eyes. It was Pox—the very devil who had led the charge to murder his men.

  “Arrhhhhh!” he screamed again. His legs went numb and buckled beneath him. He sprawled forward, the pistol still clenched in one hand, the fingers of the other rushing to hold back the cock lest it fire uselessly along the path. Now he was prone on the ground, tasting fresh dirt with the demon-faery looming above him. A heavy foot thumped down on the middle of his back, knocking the wind out of his sails.

  What was that prayer? What was that prayer? “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy—owwfff!”

  The foot bore down, cutting off his attempt to speak.

  “Let him up, Poxy. He’s here to talk to me.”

  Her voice was like butter and spiced honey. All fear drained away. She was here. He tried to spit out the remainder of the loamy soil from his mouth but his mouth had already gone bone-dry. She was here.

  “He has a gun,” the green demon-faery growled.

  A sudden peal of laughter rang out in the wood. She was laughing. It felt like a knife cutting through him, tearing through his chest. She was laughing at him.

  “Let him up, you fool.”

  The pressure left his back.

  “Turn around,” she said.

  Simms tried to twist his body but found it hard to maneuver. The smell of honey and rust was thick in his nostrils. The best he could do was turn his head round to gaze up at her. Oh Lord, she was so beautiful in the hazy moonlight. He could just make out the outlines of her face, the perfect cheekbones, the long raven hair. Her eyes were dark splotches, her mouth an inviting shadow. He felt his loins stirring.

  “Turn!” she commanded.

  He slithered around as best he could, a turtle stuck on its back, the pistol still held above his head in a shaky hand. She stepped closer and planted the sole of her boot on his bulging groin.

  “I—I came—” he sputtered.

  “Did you? Already?” She ground her foot down. The pain was incredible.

  “No. No,” he said. “I came as you asked. I—I…”

  “Shut up,” she whispered. “Just shut up.”

  Her tone was so cruel.

  More than anything else, he wanted to kill her.

  He had the pistol still in his hand. All he had to do was level it around, all he had to do was cock it back all the way and squeeze the trigger. He tried to swing the barrel around, his hand shaking. He couldn’t do it.

  She stomped down on his balls. “Tell me about the troops.”

  The pain surged up into his belly. Simms let the pistol fall away, both hands rushing to soothe the throbbing ache as best they could. The pain had struck him dumb. He could not even answer.

  “The troops. Which way will they come? Tell!”

  She kicked him in the ribs.

  “Oooff!”

  “The route. I need to know the exact route.”

  “Tell her what she wants to know!” growled Pox.

  His words meant nothing to Simms. He wasn’t even afraid of the devil any more.

  “Tell,” she said.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Up the south Brixton Road, from Coxhoe straight through Bowburn.”

  “When?”

  “They should reach Durham by tomorrow night.”

  Pox picked up the pistol and discharged it into the ground an inch from Simms’ face. He flung the weapon back down at him.

  Dresdemona turned away. “You may go.”

  Chapter 55

  James had still not gotten used to walking the streets of Everbright looking all horned and purple. His body felt different too. Somehow more lithe, more agile. His arms and legs were more slender than before but still strong and powerful. He wondered if he’d ever return to his normal self.

  The other faeries viewed him with suspicious glances. Purple was a rare skin color after all, and usually only the elder and well-known faeries had horns. He imagined they were wondering why they’d never seen nor heard of him before. Several asked him his name and he fought the mischievous impulse to adopt a new and intriguing alias such as ‘The Eternal Stag’ or ‘Henry James Elkworth.’ But he just replied with his honest name, good old James Grayson at your service, and was met with a pleasant shrug or, from the skeptics among them, an expression of mild indignation at the notion that a mere half-breed would take on a glamour that assumed such a reputation. His current appearance was no glamour, he reassured them. He had a perpetual sore neck just from the unaccustomed weight of the horns to prove it.

  There were no humans around to see his new look. All the remaining soldiers had holed up in the barracks, afraid to come out after the Midsummer’s Eve massacre. They now left the magnificent front gate unguarded and were no doubt waiting on reinforcements to come up from the south. James did not relish the thought.

  What would the British troops do when they arrived, he wondered? And who would stand and face them? The question of leadership was foremost on everybody’s mind ever since Dresdemona had offered her challenge. No one could deny her growing popularity. But James could hardly understand the widespread lack of consideration as to where she might lead them. The naturally frivolous nature of the faeries could not quite explain it. What Dresdemona had begun with her Avalonian tree dance and the Midsummer feast had become something quite ugly with the attack on the British troops. She was fanning resentment to a dangerous flame. A few weeks ago he would have thought it impossible for an outsider to come along and take power from Moonshadow but now…

  Dresdemona was a force to be reckoned with.

  Moonshadow had refused to fight and, at last, the parties had agreed to a traditional vote over the incandenza. The votes would be cast in a few days and he wanted Moonshadow to win. His vision of Everbright was as a peaceful blend of faery and human civilization. In a way, that’s what he had always been. He felt sure that optimistic future could be achieved, but not by Dresdemona. That ideal was more consistent with Moonshadow’s ideas of moderation and virtue than Dresdemona’s wrath and conflict, and that’s where he wanted it to go.

  But Dresdemona would take them to a different endpoint, a place of total faery. Wild abandon. Chaos. Lawlessness, whimsy and anarchy.

  A sudden flash caused him to stumble on his walk across the park. He sometimes saw visions of all he’d seen the night of his transformation. Of the Wild Hunt slaughtering the soldiers, or wanton sex in the streets, of the death of Willowvine. The murder of Willowvine. The images were sudden and painful and came unbidden. All reminded him of the dangerous path they might take under Dresdemona.

  He had not witnessed Dresdemona and Meadowlark’s little performance on Midsummer’s Eve. From what he’d heard, nobody had thought much of it. Wanton sex in the sky. Par for the course on Midsummer’s Eve. The pairing was not so unexpected. A mix of pain and pleasure—that was classic Meadowlark. The two had a history together and rumor had it he’d fathered her child. James was not blind to his mother’s reaction, however. It was clear that she had developed strong feelings for Meadowlark. As she lay in Barrow Downes recuperating from the poison, she asked about him often. Her continuous fretting over his welfare had not aided her recovery.

  James spotted a grim figure standing near the burned-out ruin of the old chapel. Tall and remarkably thin, wearing a long black robe, her face was obscured beneath a gabled hood.

  He walked over to her. “Gryfflet!”

  She turned her head slowly as if every little movement caused her some type of physical pain. The overhanging hood created a dark shadow over most of her face. All he could see was the pale chin, the withered, joyless lips.

  “I know what you did,” he said. “I saw it in a vision.�
�

  “I hated her,” said Gryfflet, her voice a ruinous rasp.

  “I loved her.”

  “I couldn’t forgive her.”

  “Me either. But surely she didn’t deserve—”

  “Don’t tell me what she deserved!” The wrath in her voice frightened him. After all, she had murdered Willowvine with just a whisper.

  Dresdemona had taken Willowvine’s body away to a secret burial place. A grove of elderwood somewhere to the south. She’d said nothing else about it. There was no law in Everbright against killing someone, no law against anything. Do whatever you want—that was the motto of faeries. But to him it didn’t feel right.

  “Gryfflet, I—”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s not my name. Not anymore. Call me Willowbane.”

  “Not yet. We can try again. I want to—”

  “Gryfflet is gone.”

  “She’s not gone. She’s you. She’s still inside you.”

  “The little girl I was is dead. That’s how it happens. It’s like a seed, a seed that dies inside and doesn’t go away. Not every seed comes to bloom. Some just dry and harden.”

  James could not dispute it. She spoke with such certainty, such gravitas.

  “We’ve both changed,” she continued. “Look at you. You used to be a man, now you are a true faery. Perhaps a good change, perhaps not. I used to be a faery too, but no longer. Now I am something else.”

  “A banshee,” James whispered.

  And he recalled, with sudden horror, that banshees sometimes had the gift of prophesy. “That vision you had, Willowbane. Everbright in ruins, everyone dead. Is that sure to come to pass?”

  “I only know this: if I stay here, it will happen.”

  “Stay a while yet. I’ll try and help you.”

  “There is no help for me.”

  She’s too far gone, James thought. I can’t help her. He could feel the darkness of her soul, a dried-out husk surrounding a hard, bitter seed that could never grow.