by M. C. Aquila
“Seelie faery fruit?” Deirdre licked her lips at the memory of the first and only time she’d had it. “Thank you!”
But when she reached out to take the plate from him, the faery stepped out of her reach, giving her a small glare like an upset cat, feathers ruffling.
Cardea laughed as she strode over and sat down on the other side of the fire. “Do not try to take his job, Deirdre! Just take the fruit.”
Still Deirdre reached for the plate again. “No, I don’t feel so bad that I need someone to serve me— Ow!”
The faery had pecked at her hand with its sharp beak and glared at her underneath its feathered brow.
Cardea was laughing, which made Deirdre scowl as she nursed her injured hand. “It’s not funny! That hurt!”
“You hurt him by insulting his good gesture.” Cardea took a slice of fruit from another faery who was waiting on her. “Do not insult him any further. And if you truly believe he went too far, correct him.”
“I—” Deirdre looked from her to the owl faery and then back again. “Correct him?”
“You are deprived of your magic now, somehow. However”—Cardea straightened, her sky-blue eyes lighting—“we are Noble faeries of the Seelie Court. The other Seelies all follow our guidance, our direction, and our good judgment. It is our place to reward them for what is good and punish them for what is bad so they do not break any of the rules of the Fae.”
Deirdre nodded. “Faeries have lots of rules, don’t they?”
“And we must all abide by them. Which includes accepting gestures of hospitality.”
Deirdre looked at the owl faery, who had sidled to the side of her couch again, glaring at her.
“Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile and taking a piece of fruit. The faery relaxed its ruffled feathers.
“Now.” Cardea shifted to the edge of her seat, eyes bright. “How did you come here? Tell me where on this island you have been.”
So as she ate, each piece of the fruit warming and reviving her, Deirdre described first the orphanage, then Neo-London, and then the different stops they’d made on the way to the Court. Cardea only asked questions. She mentioned the Wayfaring Festival and the wedding that occurred and eventually explained one of her relatives had been present at the wedding to bring the couple good fortune.
“It is so strange for them to marry at an age when children must be impossible.” Cardea shook her head, now sipping on the drink the owl faeries brought after the fruit was finished.
“Lots of people get married without planning to have kids,” Deirdre replied, sniffing her drink. The scent was warm and strong, like alcohol was present, but the flavor was so smooth she wondered if her nose was playing tricks on her.
“Humans are terribly peculiar.” Cardea tilted her head. “I suppose they must take for granted there will be another generation of humans after them.” She met Deirdre’s gaze. “Is that not strange? You do not seem to think so. Your mind is quite molded by humans.”
“I…” Deirdre shifted in her seat. “I never thought about it. I guess it is?”
The other faery rose without warning and strode about the room, her movements deliberate and smooth as a breeze.
“You are one of us for certain, but your sense of reason must be terribly different.” She looked at Deirdre keenly as she moved about.
“I can’t really help that, can I?” Deirdre muttered, suddenly feeling a bit defensive.
Cardea continued, “I do believe you can overcome it. But we truly cannot treat you like one of us—not yet.”
“Because I’m different?”
“Aye. You are almost humanlike. And with your magic gone, it is even starker.” She sighed, halting behind where she had first risen from. “I was right to treat you as a human. It is safest for you.”
“Well…” Deirdre gestured to the room and the fire. “I really appreciate this. I mean, to be honest, I was kind of nervous about being away from everyone. But the fruit is helping, and my ankle doesn’t hurt anymore either.” She looked at the owl faeries, grinning even wider. “You’ve been really kind, so thank you all again.”
The owl faery attending to her puffed up like a smug but happy cat.
Cardea smiled faintly at this exchange but waved her hand, making the faeries retreat to the upper rooms of the house. “You are very gracious to them.” She sat beside Deirdre, continuing, “I believe you could adapt to the social structure of the Court. However, I believe the rest of the Nobles will see you as one who is to be treated as a human… and humans cannot stay in the Summer Court.”
“You mean, they’ll make me leave?” Deirdre slowly lowered her cup onto her lap. “Immediately?”
“Nay. You shall at least have audience with the Court on the morrow. But afterward”—her blue eyes were clouded—“I cannot say.”
Suddenly she sat up straight, a smile on her face again. “Fie, I have broken my own rule of not speaking of serious matters. In return, do you have one serious question? Just one.”
“I…” Deirdre bit her lip, hesitating. “Do you think my parents will mind that my magic is gone? Alvey said they might not, but do you think they’ll hate it or think something is wrong with me, or…?”
“Your father will not give one whit about it. However…” Her expression sobered, and she looked at the fire. “Your mother is a generous and honorable faery. But I cannot predict how she will behave. That is beyond me.”
Deirdre gulped, suddenly feeling a bit sick. Despite trying hard to focus on what Cardea said about her father, she couldn’t help but imagine and feel rejection from her mother, before she even met her.
But it could be fine. If she really is generous—she let out a long breath—she should give me a chance, right?
“Do you wish to sleep by the fire here?” Cardea asked. “There are many rooms and hammocks and beds here, but none is more comfortable than the other.”
Feeling the soft fur beneath her, Deirdre said, “This is fine. I, um…” She trailed off, looking for a place to put her goblet, and immediately Cardea took it.
“Do you require help in falling asleep?” Cardea asked, striding back over to the window and putting both her and Deirdre’s glasses on a wooden counter there.
“What do you mean?” Deirdre asked, beginning to roll one of the smaller pelts into a pillow.
“Faeries of all sorts associate music and sleep,” Cardea said. “Songs are designed to help sleep come easily and last as long as necessary.” Suddenly she tapped a finger in the air at her. “I will sing for you. Settle down to sleep.”
“I— Thanks,” Deirdre said, unable to not grin as she reclined and curled up in a throw blanket.
A real faery song? James would be jealous. At the thought of her friend and how they’d barely spoken the past few days, Deirdre’s smile vanished, and she felt sick again.
“I will sing a human verse.” Cardea did not return to the fire but instead perched in the window like a bird. The breeze trickled in, bringing the damp, earthy scents of the autumn woods.
One of the owl faeries swept down from above, a large wooden harp in its claws, and passed it to Cardea. The faery then perched nearby, the other three also swooping to sit in the windows.
Cardea plucked at the harp, beginning to play. At the same time, the sound of soft flutes, playing long, neutral notes, floated through the air; the owls had wooden flutes in small clawed digits on their wings.
For a while they played without a clear melody. Then when Cardea settled on some notes, the flutes complied and stayed on beat with her. They were improvising but with the skill and coordination of a group of musicians who knew each others’ art intimately from decades of playing together frequently.
And throughout it all, from the very beginning, there was a haunting bittersweetness to it that made Deirdre want to cry.
Then Cardea sang, and Deirdre immediately recognized the verses: it was “The Lady of Shalott” by Lord Alfred Tennyson:
On either sid
e the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
Although no spell was cast and no images were conjured by magic, Deirdre could see the water lilies around the isle of Shalott blooming. She could feel the frustration of the Lady of Shalott in her tower as she looked at the world through her magic mirror. And when the Lady saw Lancelot, Deirdre felt a strange yearning that, for some reason, made her think of Iain. And tears were the last thing she felt as she drifted to sleep with the song’s lyrics echoing in her mind:
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Chapter Four
The floor of their tree prison was solid, with patches of springy moss here and there that sank comfortably under Cai’s feet as he inspected the area. James was already buzzing around, talking about how magic was probably used to make the thin but strong hammocks, how the clear, pure well in the center was probably safe to drink from, and then finally how and why the berries growing on the vines on the walls were ripe despite being out of season.
He wasn’t wrong about any of his claims, so Cai stayed silent, focused on looking for any signs of traps or that they were being watched, and thankfully found nothing.
That’s good. At least we’re not seen as a threat. But—he glanced at Iain, thinking of all the information the lad was intent on them sharing with the Court—it also means these faeries may not take us seriously.
James’s excitement devolved into frantic pacing, and the boy looked up at the lattice-like wooden bars above, then at the solid tree roots where they’d come in.
“How long, um, do you think we’ll be here?” he finally asked. He slid up onto one of the hammocks and added with a forced shrug, “Not that it’s horrible here, but…” He gripped hard onto the woven hammock, twisting the tasseled sides fiercely with his fingers.
“They’ll have to let us out to talk to the Court tomorrow.” Iain was putting his things underneath one of the hammocks. “Then we’ll have the chance to explain everything, and Deirdre will get the help she needs too.”
“I guess.” James swung the hammock slightly, looking up again.
“At least this place isn’t so bad.” Kallista tested one of the hammocks, slowly settling down in it. Then she propped up a piece of scrap paper she’d gotten from James on one of his books, doodling with a charcoal pencil.
“Though Deirdre’s who knows where,” James mumbled.
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Kallista smiled at her son. “That… Cardea, she seemed nice enough. And Deirdre’s one of them.”
“Is she though?” James met all their gazes. “Don’t these faeries feel… different?”
Iain and Kallista exchanged glances, the former replying, “They are different than Deirdre, that’s for sure. But I’m sure she’s handling it all right.” Even as he said that, he glanced toward the closed entrance where they’d last seen her, his brow furrowed.
“They’re Nobles who grew up in the faery realm,” Cai said, walking over and also placing his things underneath one of the hammocks, the one farthest from Kallista. He spotted and pulled out a peach-hued crystal and bounced it absently in his hand. “Of course they’ll be different. She grew up among humans, and they didn’t.”
“It’s more than that though, isn’t it?” James shifted in his seat. “It’s like they’re bigger than they really are. Or like they know things, more than they can. Or…” He trailed off, shrugging, words failing him for once.
In the silence, Cai glanced at Kallista’s paper, pocketing the crystal. She had sketched mostly animals like foxes, birds, and raccoons. Spotting a cartoonish sketch of a scowling Nikias, Cai chuckled.
Kallista heard and turned, saying with a grin, “Someone needs to teach you not to spy on people’s art, Cai.”
He waved her words away, and said, looking at James, “What you said earlier is normal, lad.”
“What? What, um, are you referring to?”
“About the faeries feeling completely different. That’s normal. After all, they’re often more like wild animals than humans.” When Kallista frowned and Iain looked like he’d protest, Cai continued loudly, “I’ve had dealings with them all my life, here and there. I’ll admit, they’re not all bad—take Deirdre, for example. But they’re unpredictable. Wild. I’ve seen them torment humans with no provocation. And like animals, they don’t understand what they’re doing wrong.
“These Noble faeries are no different.” Cai gestured to the sealed entrance. “That Nikias fellow did not care a whit about those thralls being chased out there or if you were one of them. I knew a Noble, long ago, and when we discussed how faeries use and trick humans, she saw no harm in it.”
“And you’re sure that was a Seelie faery?” Kallista asked.
“The Summer Prince saved us from those hounds,” Iain pointed out, then looked at James. “Who’s to say he wouldn’t let other thralls in if they came?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t make up for them not even caring about the consequences humans suffer, does it?” Cai finally glanced at James, and his stomach sank to see the boy staring ahead wide-eyed, brow creased.
…Maybe I should shut up.
Coughing loudly, Cai flopped down onto his hammock, saying with forced carelessness, “Anyway, we did help out some of their own—Alvey and Deirdre. Things might not be too bad because of that. Deirdre’s fine, and we’ll be fine.” He rolled over, shutting his eyes. “We’ll probably be out of here this time tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
The next morning, the sky was clear, and the sunlight streamed freely through the trees. Deirdre slept in like she had the day before, and when she woke, Cardea was still sleeping on a hammock in a nearby loft.
Rising from the couch and stretching happily, Deirdre realized her ankle no longer hurt, apparently completely healed from her night of recovery. Wanting to explore the house, she drifted through the rooms, running her fingers along the smooth and detailed knotwork on the walls. Gradually she made out a story in the carvings of a group of faeries following and traveling with a herd of caribou during their migration to the Arctic and encountering other animals and Fae there.
In the top loft, the carvings came to the end of their story: the traveling faeries collected the northern lights and used them to create several objects, like clothes, mirrors, and even weapons.
“This is one origin of the objects within the realm,” Cardea said, making Deirdre start in surprise as she entered the room.
Pointing up at the carvings, Deirdre asked, “Why use the northern lights? Does it have to do with the lights we saw the other night? We saw lights Alvey’s mother makes when she makes the barrier stronger or something like that.”
In response, Cardea pointed at one part of the overhead picture, where one faery was crafting a large round mirror out of the lights. “Alvey’s adoptive mother, Sybil, possesses one of the mirrors made of these lights. That mirror helps her with her magic, but it does not necessarily influence its appearance, unless Sybil wills it. I believe, however, she is fond of the appearance the northern lights and thus uses their magic often.”
Deirdre was about to ask more when Cardea held out her arm, saying, “The king and queen are awake, and the Court shall convene soon. It is time to go.”
The realm was full of departing mists that cloaked the verdant forest floor in a light, pale veil. As they walked down the path they’d come up last night, Deirdre could hear the sound of fast flowing water in the distance.
The forest around them was alive. Not only were there birds and bird faeries of all sizes and colors flying overhead, Deirdre had to look twice at every rock, bush, and animal to be sure if it was normal or another faery. Onc
e she saw what looked like a line of running saplings in the distance, but when she squinted at them, it was clear they were slight people with rustling green hair and clothes.
While Deirdre gawked, giggling when they passed a group of stout, gray, rocklike faeries squabbling around a small fire where they were roasting fish, Cardea paid the other faeries as much heed as the flowers around them. She answered any question Deirdre asked, but she kept her eyes forward, sometimes frowning and lifting up her head as a strong breeze passed, like a hunting dog on the lookout for prey.
“Is something wrong?” Deirdre finally asked after they’d been walking in silence for twenty minutes.
“I do not know.” Cardea tilted her chin down. “The wind is telling me of the news in the realm. It seems the Nobles are divided when it comes to you and your human companions. This means little on its own, but…” She looked at Deirdre. “If the Nobles are divided, it often means the king and queen will be, as well.”
“And that’s bad, I guess?”
“That rests on the severity of their disagreement.”
Deirdre pursed her lips, looking ahead. Her mind flickered back to Titania and Oberon’s well-known disagreement in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and how absurd it was, involving Oberon using a love potion on his own wife.
But that’s just a play. There’s no way it’s accurate. Right?
The Court was in no set location, so there was no throne room, no palace, no grand halls. Cardea explained it was wherever the king and queen decided it would be because the entire faery realm belonged to them.
Today it was at the foot of an enormous waterfall, which was split in several places by magic, making the water stream in and out in spiral designs. But it still rushed downward with the same violent speed, roaring like a dragon.
Hundreds of Noble faeries were waiting, seated on the wide bridge many yards downstream from the waterfall and each side of the wide, flat river. Some were perched on stones sprouting from the water, others on the water itself frozen into solid ice. The river was surrounded by large trees with widely spaced limbs, like oaks but with vivid red leaves like maples. Several faeries were in the limbs, as at home as birds, chatting and laughing.
