by S. K. Sayari
“And the way the horse fell on the dog,” continued Rupert, trying, despite her discomfort, to unravel the mystery surrounding his brother’s passing. Striving to make sense of it. “The way all three suffered broken necks, dying instantly. It was so very odd.”
Elayna nodded. Her eyes remained dry, but her nose prickled, and the bones of her face ached with unshed tears. “Oh, Rupert,” she whispered, “what am I going to do? I don’t know how to continue without him.”
He gathered her to him and hugged her, murmuring broken words of comfort, and for a moment she relaxed against him. But he sounded so much like Aubrey it hurt. Gods, he even smelled like Aubrey!
She took a deep breath and pushed away from him. “You should go and speak to your father. He needs you now more than ever.”
Rupert’s mother, the princess, had died a year ago from a fever, and now from a loving family of five they were reduced to two princes. Two lonely and bewildered men.
Rupert nodded, gave her shoulder a final pat, and moved away, murmuring under his breath, “So bizarre.”
Elayna watched him go while her family, friends, and neighbours sought to comfort her. All thought the circumstances of Prince Aubrey’s death were strange indeed, especially coming so soon after the disappearance and presumed death of Prince Byron.
For her own peace of mind, Elayna tried to believe at first that it had truly been an accident, but doubts kept creeping in. Peace of mind. The phrase reminded her of the rhyme she’d used to gain entrance to the palace under the hill and she went over those unbelievable events again in her mind—as she had done every day and every night since. Especially the promise Aubrey had made to her as he rode away, leaving her there.
And finally, she thought of young Byron, alone among alien strangers.
Nobody was greatly surprised when, shortly after the funeral, Lady Elayna also went missing. Rupert, scouring the countryside as part of the search party, kept repeating the word ‘bizarre’ to himself like a litany. Elayna had always been so level-headed—but then, so had Aubrey until almost a year ago. Over the past twelve moons Rupert had watched his outgoing, cheerful brother become progressively more reserved, morose, and prone to jumping at shadows.
Then Byron had disappeared, and Elayna had seemingly caught the infection as well. It had been, thought Rupert—moving carefully through the forest and scanning his surroundings for any sign of the vanished lady—like living with a pair of unhappy ghosts.
Even in the throes of his illness, whatever it was, Aubrey had still demonstrated his love for Elayna—until the forest had claimed his youngest brother, after which he’d seemed unable even to look at her. Or she at him. Then had come the accident that had killed Aubrey and made Rupert the reluctant heir. He shook his head again. The entire sequence of events was just absurd.
Like his father, Elayna’s parents, and the rest of the court, he fully expected to find a body, not a living woman. Watching her withdraw more and more over the past month, it had seemed obvious to him that she found it difficult to contemplate life without Aubrey. He’d be unsurprised if she’d opted to take her own life. Strange that he’d found no trace yet, though, after two days of searching. The island wasn’t that large. Even stranger, her horse had vanished as well, and so had Byron’s favourite steed. So many mysteries piled one upon the other made Rupert’s skin twitch.
Lost in his musings, he didn’t notice the clearing until the hill loomed in front of him. It seemed to spring up out of nowhere. Rupert drew the rein with a startled oath, making his mare rear beneath him. He leaned forward to pat her neck, uttering senseless, soothing endearments, and looked around in puzzlement. He knew every inch of Serrarn Isle, and neither the clearing nor the hill were a part of it. Mystified but not yet alarmed, he dismounted and approached.
“They won’t let you in, you know. Not after your brother reneged on his promise. A shame, because you’re even better-looking than he was. But there it is.” The voice was rich, warm, and honey-smooth, like the very finest mead.
He spun around. A woman stood draped against a nearby tree, her green silk gown and nut-brown hair blending so well with the surrounding woodland that she seemed to be part of it.
Anger made his voice sharp. “What do you know about my brother? Are you talking about Aubrey or Byron? And who are you?”
A trill of laughter answered him. “Names. Your kind put so much stock in names. You can call me Esmerelda, if you like. As for your brothers, I knew both of them, very well indeed.” A smile played about her cherry-red lips but failed to reach her eyes.
A half-dozen furious strides and he’d pinned her arms behind her with one hand, holding his knife to her throat with the other. “Talk, Witch. I want answers! Who won’t let me in where, and what’s this talk of a broken promise?”
She tried to lean away from the iron blade, peeling her lips back from her teeth to reveal pointed canines. “Put that thing away, unless you want the boy to suffer.”
Shock made him lower and almost drop the knife. “What boy? Do you mean Byron’s alive?”
The woman’s emerald robes parted to reveal other shades of green as she swayed away from the tree; celadon, pale mint, and apple. “He is. In there.” She jerked her head toward the mossy hill. “If you put away the blood metal and dance with me, I’ll answer all your questions.”
Rupert knew the stories. He understood what kind of mounds could swallow people whole, and what kind of sylph-like women would shy away from the touch of cold iron. He rammed his knife into its sheath and glared at her. “I don’t dance, except with a sword. How about you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll sheath the iron in your throat. Where’s my little brother? And what do you know about Aubrey’s death?”
Casting a disdainful glance at the covered knife, she settled herself in a flurry of green silk on the grass and patted the ground beside her. “At least let’s be comfortable. It’s a long tale.”
He did as she asked and listened in stunned disbelief to her account of Prince Aubrey’s enchantment, Elayna’s intrusion into the hollow hill, and the faery band’s subsequent abduction of Byron.
“Your brother chose his woman, as we thought he would. But he didn’t adhere to the agreement. Three times during the next two moons he came back to the hill, seeking entrance. Seeking to reclaim his brother. Thrice he recited the rhyme, and thrice the door remained closed to him. So he tried to force entry—and you know the result. We snapped his fool neck for him, and his horse and his hound as well.”
Rupert shook his head. “How could you believe that he wouldn’t try? How could anybody accept such a…a deceitful bargain? No wonder he and Elayna drifted about looking heartbroken.” He looked up. “I’ll offer you a trade. Take me and let my brother go.”
Esmerelda shook her head and rose to her feet in a billow of graduated green silk, rowanberry lips curved in a mocking smile. “It’s too late for that. The boy is lost. So, too, will the woman, if you don’t find her soon. I can help you search, pretty man, if you’ll only dance with me.” She glanced at the scabbard at his hip, barely concealing a shudder. “There’s a saying among your people, I believe. ‘Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance.’ Let’s see if there’s any truth to it. Join me in a pavane; there’s really nothing to it.”
She reached down and drew a long, red nail along his cheek. Blood welled in its wake, and she sucked it from her fingertip, slow and sensuous, then licked her lips for emphasis.
Grasping his hands and pulling him up beside her, she started to hum a slow, haunting melody evocative of harps and violins. Her cold, calm beauty made Rupert think of another aphorism: ‘Never trust your heart to a man who cannot cry.’ Or woman either, he supposed. The only emotion she’d shown, other than contempt, was fear of his knife and his sword. He tried to snatch his hand away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. So was her perfume, a combination of musk, floral, and spice that drowned his senses and weakened his resolve.
Almost against his wi
ll, she led him through the dance steps, measured and deliberate to begin with, then adding dips and little hops. Leading him in a circle around the fairy hill.
Could a woman ravish a man? Perhaps a faery could. The indignity of the thought gave him the strength to pull away from her embrace and grope for his sword.
“Stupid man,” she spat as the raised blade gathered sunlight, and gestured behind them toward the faery hill. “You might deny me my desire, but yours was already forfeit. Your brother broke his oath to us—and we collect on our debts. Always.”
The green mound shivered and became transparent to reveal the faery host parading through the complicated forms of a lively galliard, his younger brother among them. Rupert screamed Byron’s name and threw himself at the hill, but the barrier, although translucent, remained solid. In a desperate attempt to lever it open he thrust forward with his sword; the barrier gripped the blade and held it fast.
Esmerelda spun away, laughing, and as she disappeared inside the Faery Hall, Rupert saw a fair-haired, blank-faced female dancer, shorter than the others, twirl and leap across the floor. No! It couldn’t be! He abandoned his effort to retrieve the sword and threw himself at the mound, beating at it with his fists and raining curses on it, to no avail. The Hall and the dancers vanished, and the hill became once more just a mossy green mound, a sword hilt now protruding from its sod.
Rupert’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He didn’t know the charm, and force would not avail. At last, with his knuckles scraped and bleeding and his throat so raw he could barely manage a whisper, he rose and turned to go. As he did so, something stabbed through the sole of his stout leather boot.
Looking down, he saw what it was. A thorn from a wilting posy of red and white roses.
Neverending Summer
Ine Gausel
Warm, autumn-brown eyes met Mirdoll’s. The elf in front of him let his robe fall to his elbows, showing off more of his pale and slender body. A small blush always appeared on his face when he undressed, even though they’d done this twice a week for three months. Phoebus—that name fit him so well—bit his lip and tucked a few strands of fire-red hair behind his ear. An obvious attempt at seduction, the elf still too young to have learned subtlety.
Mirdoll saw Phoebus’s lips move, but it took a moment of silence for him to realize he’d been spoken to. He straightened his back, suddenly aware of his own posture. Taking the paintbrush out of his mouth, he answered, “What?”
“You’re staring,” Phoebus repeated. The robe slid off his arms and down to the floor, leaving the young elf completely naked.
“Can’t help myself. You look absolutely ravishing.”
Phoebus giggled but said nothing more before he began to recreate the pose he’d held the last time they’d met. He used his hands to frame his face as if in the middle of caressing his own cheek. Those beautiful brown eyes went to the ceiling, staring longingly at nothing. Then he lifted his left foot just a little, which Mirdoll had told him to do, to give the painting some dynamism.
Mirdoll looked to his painting. Phoebus had posed correctly—unfortunately leaving Mirdoll with no valid reason to approach and correct the stance, to touch the elf’s warm skin and inhale the smell of lavender. Phoebus always smelled of lavender.
He dipped the brush into the paint, and the evening’s first brushstroke landed on the canvas. Mirdoll’s gaze went back and forth between his model and the picture. He wanted to—needed to—paint every scar, beauty mark, and freckle.
“Mirdoll?” Phoebus asked after a ten-minute silence. “What do you think about when you look at me?”
When Mirdoll lifted his head to look at the gorgeous man once again, his muse was no longer holding the pose. Phoebus tilted his head to the side.
“I think about how beautiful you are,” Mirdoll answered. It was the truth, but he also thought about long, warm summer days. He thought about beating hearts and heavy breathing. About empty words and broken promises. “You remind me of someone I knew when I was younger.”
“Younger? Aren’t you still young?” Phoebus pointed out.
Mirdoll caught himself. He did appear young, though he was more than twice the age of the man before him.
“A lover?” Phoebus toed the distance between them, sitting down beside him.
“I’m not done painting,” Mirdoll stated, hoping Phoebus would return to his pose. Instead, his muse leaned over him to peek at the canvas.
“So that’s what I look like from the front.” Phoebus grabbed a lock of his own hair to compare the color to the one in the painting—Mirdoll had worked hard to make it completely indistinguishable.
“Yes, Phoebus, that is what”—he quickly grabbed the elf’s hand, inches from touching the wet paint—“you look like.” He let out a deep sigh. “It’s not dry yet. Please, pose for five more minutes. I’m only missing a few details.”
“Answer my question first,” Phoebus said, softly pushing his nose against Mirdoll’s. “Was he your lover? The man I remind you of.”
“Yes. He was.”
“What was his name?” The way Phoebus smiled told Mirdoll that he was only teasing him. The playfulness was another reminder of the love he’d once known. The love he had lost.
“His name was Get-back-up-there-and-pose.” Mirdoll forced a chuckle as he gently tried to push the elf away so he would do as he was told.
Tender lips met Mirdoll’s for a chaste kiss before Phoebus stood up and went back to looking like an angelic statue. Mirdoll felt guilty for wanting more than that single kiss, for the lust he felt at the pit of his stomach. Phoebus confused him. Made him doubt. He pushed the feeling to the back of his mind as he continued to paint.
He remembered the first time he’d met Phoebus, how he’d had to look at him twice—how he’d hoped that red hair and freckled face had belonged to someone else. He was the mirror image of his past love, and the young elf had made Mirdoll’s heart beat anew. That was why he’d had to paint him: to not lose sight of such perfection once again. To keep him close. For a second chance.
Just as Phoebus started to become impatient, and perhaps a bit tired, Mirdoll finished the piece by adding the beauty mark that enhanced Phoebus’s cheekbones, right beneath his left eye. Mirdoll smiled, happy to finally be done.
“Phoebus, come here. Tell me what you think.”
The young man put his robe on before he came running. He smiled brightly as he laid eyes upon the artwork.
“You made me look absolutely stunning. Thank you, Mirdoll.” He folded his hands, admiring his own beauty. “I look a little bit like my father,” he added with a chuckle. A small pause, and his demeanor suddenly turned serious. “On that note.… Would you like to come over for dinner one day? I’d love for you to meet my parents.”
Mirdoll’s body stiffened as he realized it was over. It had gone too far. His heart hammered beneath his ribs as he understood what he had to do. This desire would be nothing but a distraction from his real goal. There was too much at stake. He couldn’t let Phoebus infect his life—the boy was an imposter, nothing more.
“I’d love to see Darion again,” he said quietly.
“What?” Phoebus said, about to turn around.
Mirdoll glimpsed a smile on the naive elf’s lips. It swiftly disappeared as the bullet pierced his head. The pistol deafened Mirdoll for a second, leaving a ringing sound in his ears.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he lowered the gun.
He noticed the wounded man struggle for his breath, even though he lay still, his blood pooling on the floor. Mirdoll fell to his knees. Phoebus’s eyes didn’t follow his movement—he was still alive, but not present.
“I can’t fall in love with you. You’re not him,” Mirdoll said, a twinge of guilt tugging at his heart. Turning the pistol in his hand, getting ready to strike with the butt, he spoke to the dying man one last time. “I’d give anything to be as beautiful as you, Phoebus. Beauty means happiness; only ugly people suffer. Leave this world knowing that
I have shared with you the only lesson life has taught me.”
Those autumn-brown eyes met his one last time, right before he slammed the cold metal into Phoebus’s head.
Mirdoll sat in silence for a moment. He could barely breathe as he listened for someone outside the tenement. Voices. Screaming. Running. The door being knocked down. But there was no sound. Had no one heard the gunshot?
As he realized that no one would barge in and arrest him, his heart started hammering for a completely different reason. Phoebus was dead. What was he supposed to do now? Another chance at love lost—the last bridge set ablaze.
He cursed under his breath at his own stupidity. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he mumbled to himself, “Think, Doll. Think….”
An idea.
His mourning ended as he got to his feet. Grabbing the canvas by the edges as to not smear any of the paint, he headed over to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. After putting the painting against the wall, he looked into his own pale-sapphire eyes—the only authentic part of his body right now.
A glance at the painting was all he needed. When he looked again into the mirror, Phoebus stared back. Not all hope was lost; rather, it seemed like his impulsivity could lead him down a similar path to the one he had been frantically searching for. Darion would hold him again. Not as a lover this time, but as a son.
Twenty years earlier
Two huge hands covered his eyes. A shadow had approached from behind, then blinded him. The lavender scent filled his nostrils, and he smiled. A nibble on his earlobe made his knees crumble as desire consumed his thoughts.
Darion breathed into his ear, “I love you, Doll.”
“Forever?” Mirdoll asked, his heart beating so hard he thought maybe Darion could hear the drumming sound.
“Forever and always. To the ends of the Eternal Chaos itself, and back. No one will ever come between us.” Gently, Darion removed his hands.
