by Holly Black
Working quickly, he twisted four thin steel wires into place, fixing the trap closed. Then he hefted the cage in the air and ran down the hill, slipping in the ankle-deep snow, careful to take a different path from the one the faeries had come up. He stumbled to where he’d parked his car, the trunk still open, the spare tire within dusted with a fine layer of white.
Dropping the cage there, he slammed the trunk shut and hopped into the front of the car, turning the ignition. The heat came on full blast and he just sat there a moment, letting himself enjoy the warmth, letting himself feel the beat of his heart, letting himself glory in the fact that now, finally, he would be the one making the rules.
Kaye tipped back her goblet, drinking it to the dregs. The first sip of mushroom wine had been foul, but afterward she had found herself touching her tongue to her teeth, searching for more of the earthy, bitter flavor. Her cheeks were hot to the press of her own palms and she felt more than slightly dizzy.
“Don’t—that isn’t good to eat,” Lutie-loo said. The little faerie was perched on Kaye’s shoulder, one hand clutching a silver hoop earring and the other holding on to a lock of hair.
“Better than good,” Kaye said, drawing her fingers across the bottom of the goblet, sifting the sediment, then licking it from her hand. She took an experimental step, trying to spin, and catching herself moments before she crashed into a table. “Where’s my rat?”
“Hiding like we should be. Look,” Lutie said, but Kaye couldn’t see what she was gesturing at. It could have been anything. Trolls skulked among the tables next to selkies without their skins, while hollow-backed dopplers danced and whirled. There was at least one kelpie—the stench of brine was heavy in the air—but there were also nixies, sprites, brownies, bogies, phookas, a shagfoal in the corner, will-o’-the-wisps zipping among stalagmites, grinning spriggans, and more.
Not just the local denizens either. Folk had traveled from distant courts to witness the coronation. There were envoys from more courts than Kaye had known existed, some Seelie, some Unseelie, and others that claimed those distinctions were meaningless. Even the High Court, to which the Court of Termites was not pledged, sent their own representative, a prince who appeared delighted by the flowing wine. All of them here to watch the Night Court pledge fealty to its new master. They smiled at her, smiles full of thoughts Kaye could not decipher.
The tables were spread with dark blue cloths and set with platters of ice. Branches and holly berries rested beside sculptures composed of frozen blocks of greenish water. A black-tongued monster licked at a chunk containing a motionless minnow. Bitter acorn cakes frosted with a sugary blackberry paste were stacked near pinned and roasted pigeon feet. Slushy black punch floated in an enormous copper bowl, the metal sweating and cloudy with cold. Occasionally someone dipped a long-stemmed icicle cup into it and sipped at the contents.
Kaye looked up as the hall went silent.
Roiben had entered the room with his courtiers. Thistledown, the Unseelie herald, ran in front of the procession, long golden hair streaming from his wizened head. Then came the piper, Bluet, playing her lilting instrument. Next marched Roiben with his two knights, Ellebere and Dulcamara, following him at an exact three paces. Goblins held up the edges of Roiben’s cloak. Behind them were others—his chamberlain, Ruddles, a cupbearer holding a winding goblet of horn, and several pages clutching the harnesses of three black dogs.
Roiben mounted a moss-covered dais near a great throne of woven birch branches and turned toward the crowd, going to his knees. He leaned his head forward and his hair, silver as a knife, fell like a curtain over his face.
“Will you take the oath?” Thistledown asked.
“I will,” Roiben said.
“The endless night,” Thistledown intoned, “of darkness, ice, and death is ours. Let our new Lord be also made from ice. Let our new Lord be born from death. Let our new Lord commit himself to the night.” He lifted a crown woven of ash branches, small broken stubs of twigs forming the spires, and set it on Roiben’s head.
Roiben rose.
“By the blood of our Queen which I spilled,” he said. “By this circlet of ash placed upon my brow I bind myself to the Night Court on this, Midwinter’s Eve, the longest night of the year.”
Ellebere and Dulcamara knelt on either side of him. The court knelt with them. Kaye crouched awkwardly.
“I present to you,” called the herald, “our undoubted Lord, Roiben, King of the Unseelie Court. Will you humble yourselves and call him sovereign?”
A great joyful shrieking and screaming. The hair stood up along Kaye’s arms.
“You are my people,” Roiben said, his hands extended. “And as I am bound, you are lashed to my bidding. I am naught if not your King.”
With those words, he sank into the chair of birch, his face blank. Folk began to stand again, moving to make their obeisance to the throne.
A spriggan chased a tiny winged faerie under the table, making it tremble. The ice bowl sloshed and the tower of cubes collapsed, tumbling into disarray.
“Kaye,” Lutie squeaked. “You’re not looking.”
Kaye turned to the dais. A scribe sat cross-legged next to Roiben, recording each supplicant. Leaning forward from his throne, the Lord addressed a wild-haired woman dressed in scarlet. As she moved to kneel, Kaye glimpsed a cat’s tail twitching from a slit in her dress.
“What am I not looking at?” Kaye asked.
“Have you never seen a declaration, pixie?” sneered a woman with a necklace of silver scarabs. “You are the Ironside girl, aren’t you?”
Kaye nodded. “I guess so.” She wondered if she stank of it, if iron leaked from her pores from long exposure.
A lissome girl in a dress of petals came up behind the woman, resting slim fingers on her arm and making a face at Kaye. “He’s not yours, you know.”
Kaye’s head felt as though it were filled with cotton. “What?”
“A declaration,” the woman said. “You haven’t declared yourself.” It seemed to Kaye that the beetles paced a circle around the woman’s throat. Kaye shook her head.
“She doesn’t know.” The girl snickered, snatching an apple off the table and biting into it.
“To be his consort,” the woman spoke slowly, as though to an idiot. An iridescent green beetle dropped from her mouth. “One makes a declaration of love and asks for a quest to prove one’s worth.”
Kaye shuddered, watching the shimmering beetle scuttle up the woman’s dress to take its place at her neck. “A quest?”
“But if the declarer is not favored, the monarch will hand down an impossible expedition.”
“Or a deadly one,” the grinning petal girl supplied.
“Not that we think he would send you on a quest like that.”
“Not that we think he meant to hide anything from you.”
“Leave me alone,” Kaye said thickly, her heart twisting. Lurching forward through the crowd, she knew that she’d gotten far drunker than she had intended. Lutie squeaked as Kaye shoved her way past winged ladies and fiddle-playing men, nearly tripping on a long tail that swept the floor.
“Kaye!” Lutie wailed. “Where are we going?”
A woman bit pearl-gray grubs off a stick, smacking her lips in delight as Kaye passed. A faerie with white hair cropped close enough to her head that it stuck up like the clock of a dandelion looked oddly familiar, but Kaye couldn’t place her. Nearby, a blue-skinned man cracked chestnuts with his massive fists as small faeries darted to snatch up what he dropped. The colors seemed to blur together.
Kaye felt the impact of the dirt floor before she even realized that she had fallen. For a moment she just lay there, gazing across at the hems of dresses, cloven feet, and pointed-toed shoes. The shapes danced and merged.
Lutie landed close enough to Kaye’s face that she could barely focus on the tiny form.
“Stay awake,” Lutie said. Her wings were vibrating with anxiety. She tugged on one of Kaye’s fingers. “The
y’ll get me if you go to sleep.”
Kaye rolled onto her side and got up, carefully, wary of her own legs.
“I’m okay,” Kaye said. “I’m not asleep.”
Lutie alighted on Kaye’s head and began to nervously knot locks of hair.
“I’m perfectly okay,” Kaye repeated. With careful steps she approached the side of the dais where Lord Roiben, newly anointed King of the Unseelie Court, sat. She watched his fingers, each one encircled in a metal band, as they tapped the rhythms of an unfamiliar tune on the edge of his throne. He was clad in a stiff black fabric that swallowed him in shadow. As familiar as he should have been, she found herself unable to speak.
It was the worst kind of stupid to be pining after someone who cared for you. Still, it was like watching her mother onstage. Kaye felt proud, but was half afraid that if she went up, it wouldn’t turn out to be Roiben at all.
Lutie-loo abandoned her perch and flew to the throne. Roiben looked up, laughed, and cupped his hands to receive her.
“She drank all the mushroom wine,” Lutie accused, pointing to Kaye.
“Indeed?” Roiben raised one silver brow. “Will she come and sit beside me?”
“Sure,” Kaye said, levering herself up onto the dais, unaccountably shy. “How has it been?”
“Endless.” His long fingers threaded through her hair, making her shiver.
Only months ago she’d thought of herself as weird, but human. Now the weight of gauzy wings on her back and the green of her skin were enough to remind her that she wasn’t. But she was still just Kaye Fierch and no matter how magical or clever, it was hard to understand why she was allowed to sit beside a King.
Even if she had saved that King’s life. Even if he loved her.
She couldn’t help but recall the beetle-woman’s words. Did the dreadlocked girl with the drum intend to make a declaration? Ask for a quest? Had the girl with the cat tail already done so? Were the fey laughing at her, thinking that because she had grown up with humans, she was ignorant of faerie customs?
She wanted to make things right. She wanted to make a grand gesture. Give him something finer than a ragged bracelet. Swaying forward, Kaye went down on both her knees in front of the new King of the Unseelie Court.
Roiben’s eyes widened with something like panic and he opened his mouth to speak, but she was faster.
“I, Kaye Fierch, do declare myself to you. I . . .” Kaye froze, realizing she didn’t know what she was supposed to say, but the heady liquor in her veins spurred her tongue on. “I love you. I want you to give me a quest. I want to prove that I love you.”
Roiben gripped the arm of his throne, fingers tightening on the wood. His voice sank to a whisper. “To allow this, I would have to have a heart of stone. You will not become a subject of this court.”
She knew that something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. Shaking her head, she stumbled on. “I want to make a declaration. I don’t know the formal words, but that’s what I want.”
“No,” he said. “I will not allow it.”
There was a moment’s hush around her and then some scattered laughter and whispering.
“I have recorded it. It has been spoken,” said Ruddles. “You must not dishonor her request.”
Roiben nodded. He stared off into the brugh for a long moment, then stood and walked to the edge of the platform. “Kaye Fierch, this is the quest that I grant. Bring me a faerie that can tell an untruth and you shall sit beside me as my consort.”
Shrieking laughter rose from the throng. She heard the words: Impossible. An impossible quest.
Her face heated, and suddenly she felt worse than dizzy. She felt sick. She must have gone white or her expression must have turned alarming, because Roiben jumped off the platform and caught her arm as she fell.
Voices were all around her but none of them made sense.
“I promise that if I find who put this idea in your head, they will pay for it with their own.”
Her eyes blinked heavily. She let them close for a moment and slipped down into sleep, passing out cold in Faerieland.
3
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
—SARA TEASDALE, “I SHALL NOT CARE”
The little hob shivered in the corner of the cage as Corny heaved it out of the trunk. Dumping the wire box into the backseat, he got in next to it and slammed the door. Dry heat pumped from vents as the engine idled.
“I’m a powerful being . . . a wizard,” Corny said. “So don’t try anything.”
“Yes,” said the little faerie, blinking black eyes rapidly. “No. Try nothing.”
Corny turned those words over in his head, but the possible interpretations seemed too varied and his mind kept getting tangled. He shook the thoughts out of his head. The creature was caged. He was in control. “I want to keep myself from being charmed, and you’re going to tell me how to do it.”
“I weave spells. I don’t lift spells,” it chirped.
“But,” Corny said, “there has to be a way. A way to keep from being happily led off the side of a pier or craving the honor of being some faerie’s footstool. Not just some herb. Something permanent.”
“There is no leaf. No rock. No chant to keep you completely safe from our charms.”
“Bullshit. There must be something. Is there any human who is resistant to being enchanted?”
The little faerie hopped to the edge of its cage, and when it spoke, its voice was low. “Someone with True Sight. Someone who can see through glamours. Perhaps a geas.”
“How do you get True Sight?”
“Some mortals are born with it. Very few. Not you.”
Corny kicked the back of the passenger-side seat. “Tell me something else then, something I’d want to know.”
“But such a powerful wizard as yourself—”
Corny shook the crab trap, sending the little faerie sprawling, its pinecone hat falling out through one of the holes in the aluminum cage to land on the floor mat. It yowled, a moan rising to a shriek.
“That’s me,” Corny said. “Very freaking powerful. Now, if you want out of here, I suggest that you start talking.”
“There is a boy with the True Sight. In the great city of exiles and iron to the north. He’s been breaking curses on mortals.”
“Interesting,” Corny said, holding up the poker. “Good. Now tell me something else.”
That morning, while the slumbering bodies of faeries still littered the great hall of the Unseelie Court, Roiben met with his councillors in a cavern so cold his breath clouded. Tallow candles burned atop rock formations, the melting fat stinking of clove. Let our King be made from ice. He wished it too, wished for the ice that encased the branches out on the hill to freeze his heart.
Dulcamara drummed her fingers against the polished and petrified wood of the table, its surface as hard as stone. Her small wings, the membranes torn so that only the veins remained, hung from her shoulders. She regarded him with pale pink eyes.
Roiben looked at her and he thought of Kaye. Already he could feel the lack of her, like a thirst that is bearable until one thinks of water.
Ruddles paced the chamber. “We are overmatched.” His wide, toothy mouth made him look as though he might suddenly take a bite out of any of them. “Many of the fey who were bound to Nicnevin fled when the Tithe no longer tied them to the Unseelie Court. Our troops are thinned.”
Roiben watched a flame gutter, flaring brightly before going out. Take this from me, he thought. I do not want to be your King.
Ruddles looked pointedly at Roiben, closed his eyes, and rubbed just above the bridge of his nose. “We are further weakened as several of our best knights died by your own hand, my Lord. You do recall?”
Roiben nodded.
“It vexes me that you do not seem to expect an imminent attack from Silaria
l,” said Ellebere. A tuft of his hair fell over one eye, and he brushed it back. “Why should she hesitate now that Midwinter’s Eve is past?”
“Perhaps she is bored and lazy and sick of fighting,” said Roiben. “I am.”
“You are too young.” Ruddles gnashed those sharp teeth. “And you take the fate of this court too lightly. I wonder if you would have us win at all.”
Once, after the Lady Nicnevin had whipped Roiben—he could no longer recall why—she had turned away, distracted by some new amusement, leaving Ruddles—her chamberlain, then—free to indulge in a moment’s mercy. He had dribbled a stream of water into Roiben’s mouth. He still remembered the sweet taste of it and the way it had hurt his throat to swallow.
“You think that I don’t have the stomach to be Lord of the Night Court.” Roiben leaned across the petrified wood table, bringing his face so close to Ruddles’s that he could have kissed him.
Dulcamara laughed, clapping her hands together as if anticipating a treat.
“You are correct,” said Ruddles, shaking his head. “I don’t think you have the stomach for it. Nor the head. Nor do I think you even truly want the title.”
“I have a belly that craves blood,” said Dulcamara, tossing her sleek black hair and stepping so that she was behind the chamberlain. Her hands went to his shoulders, her fingers resting lightly at his throat. “He need not hurt anyone himself. She never did.”
Ruddles went stiff and still, perhaps realizing how far he had overstepped himself.
Ellebere looked between the three of them as if judging where his best alliance might be made. Roiben had no illusions that any one of them was in the least part loyal beyond the oath that bound them. With one lethal word Roiben could prove he had both the stomach and the head. That might cultivate something like loyalty.
“Perhaps I am no fit King,” Roiben said instead, sinking back into the chair and relaxing his clenched hands. “But Silarial was once my Queen, and while there is breath in my body, I will never let her rule over me or mine again.”
Dulcamara pouted exaggeratedly. “Your mercy,” she said, “is my mischance, my King.”
