The Daoine Sidhe carefully constructed their homes, shops, and temples to blend in with the trees and the flow of the topography, much as he had done with his home. To step into Tir-nam-beo was to fade into a mossy, ancient history. The Sluagh Sidhe, on the other hand, twisted their trees until the trunks groaned in their enslavement; they reshaped their hills as with whips and straightened streams the way they shackled goblins to a rack.
Still, he appreciated the proud individuality of every home, shop, and temple. A few structures were shaped like clover leaves, but most were erected as reminders of the old world: pyramids, columned temples, pagodas, and even Lord Månefè’s Sphinx. If anything symbolized the differences between the two factions of the Sidhe, it was their kings’ glens.
At the center rose Finaarva’s palace, a fat dome painted a blaring red and encrusted with large white jewels so that the structure resembled a massive toadstool. A broad cobblestone causeway led to the main gate, two immense oak doors inlaid with intricate brass spirals and knots. He dove down, wings tight against his body, alighting in shadows well away from the causeway. He did not want a grand entrance that would alert enemies of his arrival, and so shifted the air around him, a brief haze like heat rising off sand.
When he emerged, staggering like he’d enjoyed too many goblets of nectar, the guards at the gate saw only another pretentious aristocrat with glittering makeup and kitschy clothing. That was the real trick of changeling magic—to fool others as to what they saw. A form required understanding race and character: a goblin hunched and scurried, always subservient; an ogre stood tall and brash, bellowing, never noticing what was right beneath its nose unless smashing it with a club; a noble faery of Finaarva’s court strutted pompous and arrogant with chin held high.
Pasting a smile on his face, he stepped through the gates onto the marble floor of the round great hall with its mushroom-shaped ceiling and ribbed, curving walls. Glowing light motes floated, dust specks of purple, pink, and yellow as lurid as the lights outside. Faeries lounged on luxurious rugs woven of spring grass and great couches of twisted oak.
Pink hibiscus, white lilies, and blue jacarandas puffed tiny scented clouds, and he had to clench his stomach to avoid retching at the cloying smell, focusing on the flutes, ocarinas, and bells that tinkled melodiously throughout the great hall. Music, at least, had been untouched by Finaarva’s magic.
His nausea settled, he strutted casually through the hall towards the moon-shaped doors at the far end, inclining his head with feigned politeness at the painted faces who nodded with equal pretentiousness. His chest burned with hatred. They would shun him if they saw through his disguise. Their fear of those gifted with a different magic and dragonfly wings disgusted him. If only changelings were not so few, he would command them all.
A hibiscus squirted, dusting him with pink saccharine motes. His throat clenched as the sickly sweet stench assaulted his nose and he coughed. Tears rose. As he wiped them away, his mind tickled and he halted mid step. An aura of danger lingered in the perfumed air. Several nearby faeries laughed airily, but their mirth seemed out of place. He marched to the end of the great hall more quickly than he intended. As he pushed the doors open, he wondered what had transpired in his latest absence. He should have consulted with at least one of his spies before entering the palace, but now it was too late.
The ribbed walls continued in the king’s hallways, with rich wine-red rugs, brightly colored tapestries, and large vases of rare flowers. He immediately stepped into the first alcove, gently pressing the wall. It slid open silently and he stepped through before he was noticed, dropping his disguise as he did so.
He had no need for secret passages in his home, but Finaarva’s palace was rife with them, mainly for goblin servants to remain as unobtrusive as possible, but also for Finaarva to move quickly and unseen. Other faeries were not supposed to know of their existence, but Tigano knew most, if not all, of the passages, as did his senior changelings. He reveled in this secret knowledge as he swept swiftly, silently, and unseen to Finaarva’s solar. It added to the illusion that the changelings’ magic was greater and more deadly than all other faeries, although the envy only built another wall of separation.
The hidden passage meandered through the palace like a worm eating its way through a toadstool. It was dingy and hot, with none of the comforts of the king’s hallways. He passed only one servant, a goblin who squeaked at the sight of the Lord Changeling, hastily scurrying past on all fours, leaving him alone outside the hidden door that led to Finaarva’s solar.
“Fear of the unknown is such a useful tool,” he whispered to himself. “What else can drive logic from a being’s mind more simply?”
A scent from the solar slithered through the nearly invisible door crack and the aura of danger returned. He hesitated, immediately shifting the air to appear invisible, and listened. He could hear the soft plodding of a distant servant, but the only nearby sounds were on the other side. It was more difficult to appear invisible and move at the same time, but he only needed to fool Finaarva for a few seconds.
The segment glided open and he slithered through. The room was dark save for a single candle above a nearby desk to his left. The king sat still and alone in his chair, one hand cradling his forehead as he studied a sheaf of papers before him, and his wings pulled tight against his bare back.
“There’s no need to linger, Lord Changeling,” Finaarva said calmly without looking up. “Come, grab a chair, and join me for a drink.”
A wisp of smoke, and the changeling was kneeling beside the chair, his lips brushing the back of the king’s long, slender hand.
“It is done, your majesty,” his deep, dark voice rasped in a low whisper. “Exactly as I foretold.”
Finaarva’s large, round, cobalt eyes sparked, a tempest about to burst into flame, and Tigano unwittingly took a step back. It would not do to ignite the king’s mercurial temper. He had to keep his own pride in check.
The king smiled at his discomfort. “Of course, Lord Changeling. I expected no less. You are late, however. I hope there were no—unexpected complications—along the way. I would hate to worry unnecessarily.”
Before he could respond, the king rose, looming above him. He felt trivial next to Finaarva. A head taller, the king could have been a small ogre. Every muscle of his bare chest bulged and his thick arms hardened to perfection. The startlingly handsome, black-tipped orange wings snapped open, their white and yellow pattern of dots catching his eyes. It was a struggle to force his gaze to focus on Finaarva’s face.
As he often did in the king’s presence, he wondered how many spells had been cast to create the perfectly chiseled features and flowing blond hair. The faery needed little of the exotic makeup currently in vogue to highlight his eyes; when he genuinely smiled, few women resisted.
The king often strutted through his castle dressed this way, as if he was a Greek demigod risen from antiquity. Tigano wisely did not snigger at the sight; Finaarva’s unpredictable nature made groveling the safest behavior to assume at almost all times. Not that Finaarva had any worries about his Lord Changeling; they both knew he could never supplant the king. Not that he desired the throne; he had no need, for the changelings followed him and only him. No matter how great an enchanter and warrior Finaarva might be, his rule lasted only so long as the changelings—and Tigano in particular—remained loyal.
“You asked me to report to you upon completion of my task,” he replied innocently.
“When it was done! Not three days later!” roared Finaarva and Tigano cringed. The king leaped to his feet, blue eyes blazing. “I could have struck then, at their lowest moment! Now you’ve forced me to delay. We should be feasting in Tir-nam-beo this night!” He waved his hands wildly, purple lightning crackling on his fingertips.
“No, we wouldn’t have, your majesty,” he calmly contradicted, forcing his face to remain serene. “The dragons are enraged, not broken. We can still destroy the Daoine Sidhe, but I urge caution s
o the dragons do not decimate us at the same time. What good would our victory be if we’re reduced to numbers so small even the goblins could enslave us?”
Finaarva growled, a lion-like snarl warning the changeling of danger. He stiffened, glancing about, wondering if there was any way he could escape before rage overtook the king.
However, Finaarva made a slight mystical pass with one hand and several lights set in elaborate gold sconces around the room flared, casting an eerie bloody glow. Tigano frowned. Normally, these lights cast a rosy hue.
The room heated up quickly. His skin prickled and his vision blurred. Something was amiss. The king stretched and flexed as if the heat were luxurious rather than oppressive. He began to sweat, knowing he must endure the hellish atmosphere.
The king gestured again and a gong clanged loudly. The steward arrived a minute or so later, black hair disheveled and clothes in disarray as if thrown on hastily. Finaarva smirked, looking rather pleased with himself and a jolt of anxiety raced through the changeling. Was the king hatching some long-laid plan against him? What had his palace spies missed?
“Bring Lady Àibell,” Finaarva crowed, glancing over his shoulder at Tigano, “and get a priest and Lord Månefè as well. We must adhere to the traditions.”
The steward bowed and hastily departed. Finaarva smirked, swiveling towards him. “Now we shall see, Lord Tigano.”
“What are you doing, Finaarva?” A dash of fear entered his voice, a trace he was unable to avert.
“A simple moment of pleasure for me, a witnessing of a new beginning of pleasure for you. A lifetime of pleasure, in fact.”
What had he not foreseen? Worry creased his normally placid forehead but, in his confusion, he could not prevent it. Cold fog swirled in his mind while the room’s red heat pressed his limbs and wings tight until sweat drenched his body.
A knock dissipated the oppression, but the fog and heat remained. The door opened and Lord Månefè marched in. His enemy’s handsome features—Månefè was tall and robust with black hair that spiked nearly as high as his lilac wingtips—twisted into a scornful smirk as the violet eyes locked onto the changeling’s own. He defiantly returned the stare as the faery, decadently resplendent in a robe of purple-dyed fur, prowled around him, circling just out of reach. Nausea swirled in his gut. The wearing of animal skin was anathema to faeries, but Lord Månefè reveled in offenses.
His enemy raised a delicate hand, pointing it haughtily at him. Each long finger sported a large golden ring set with emeralds and rubies. Tigano snarled, wanting to pounce and rip the fur and rings off the faery’s body, and Månefè took a step back.
“What is he doing here?” Månefè’s voice was effeminate, yet a cold hardness writhed at its core. Ruthlessness was the only thing Tigano respected in his rival; in that, they were brothers. In all else, bitter enemies. How many assassins had he slain over the centuries? Or traps laid bare? And still the fool persisted in seeking new ways to vanquish him. Even in a crisis, Månefè’s highest priority seemed to be a game of elimination.
“Patience, Lord Månefè,” said Finaarva soothingly. “There will be a redemption tonight, and I need you here as a witness.”
Tigano cocked his head, giving the king a quizzical look, which Finaarva ignored. More confusion set in. He had no need for redemption and would have sought to refuse it at all costs. Yet he was clearly not here to be a superfluous second witness.
“Your majesty…” he began, but the king waved off his question with a little chuckle.
“You wonder, do you not, about your role in this ceremony? You shall see soon enough.” Tigano tried to ask again, but the king raised his hand to silence him. There was another knock at the door.
“Enter,” said the king, his voice eager and greedy. The steward tiptoed in, accompanied by a priest. They separated as they stepped into the king’s chamber, revealing a young faery behind them, her head bowed. She was slender and diminutive, with long, unadorned raven hair that hung limply to her waist. His eyebrows rose. At first glance, everything about her was plain: simple clothes, no jewels on her fingers or ears, and a face free of any exotic makeup.
It dawned on him she was beautiful without any of the usual adornments of the Sluagh Sidhe women. Her pale skin was clear and soft. Her sad brown eyes were downcast, yet large and gentle. Black veins ran through her delicate blue butterfly wings.
He stared in wonder at her. Companionship he had never desired, nor had he fallen prey to the lusts that occupied way too much of the court’s energy and time, even with the war. This solitary vision before him, however, thickened the fog in his mind. A warning bell clanged somewhere in the mist, alerting him to a trap, yet he couldn’t move or react or do anything except stare at this vision before him.
Finaarva’s sudden shrill laughter dissipated much of the fog, but he still reacted sluggishly.
“He’s smitten!” bellowed the king. “This will be easier than we thought. Priest, read the bands now.”
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something was very wrong here. The priest spoke as the young woman’s cold, tiny hand was shoved forcibly in his. A hot jolt sprang up his arms. He staggered, his vision blurring and his ears roaring. Slowly his eyesight cleared and he steadied. Self-control returned. With it, he finally understood the words the priest was speaking. It was the marriage ceremony.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the priest’s final words were spoken.
“There, that’s done,” said Finaarva with a great deal of satisfaction, clapping him on the back as the dark red hellish lights transformed into the rosy hue of a summer sunset, and the heat dissipated. “It’s about time you were married.”
Tigano glanced down at the girl. She still had not looked up, but her hand gripped his tightly, a chain keeping her upright. He frowned. She also had been tricked or forced into this farce and his head snapped up. The king was gloating, Lord Månefè was angry, and the steward and priest both appeared embarrassed.
“What have you done?” he shouted, his eyes widening. “Those lights! They were not just for atmosphere. You enchanted me!”
Finaarva ignored him, turning instead to the tall black-haired faery. “I’m sorry, Lord Månefè, but this marriage has redeemed Lord Oren. Now that his daughter’s hand has been given to our Lord Changeling, his debt to the throne is paid and he will be able to keep his glen. It will not be yours this day, it seems.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Månefè uttered through gritted teeth. “I will obey your decree.” Yet, the changeling noted, the violet eyes were focused on the woman with bitter fury. An urge to protect her overwhelmed him and he pushed her behind. For the first time in his life, he found himself no longer a bystander casually observing someone else’s misfortunes.
The king chuckled and wrapped an arm about the shoulders of both faeries, forcing them close. “Now, now, we’re all friends here. This is an occasion of joy. Come, Månefè, we must send the newlyweds off.” The king’s gaze turned to him.
“Take your wife home, Lord Tigano. It is high time you produce an heir.” All false joviality had fled from the king’s voice, and the changeling recognized his defeat.
He still held Àibell’s hand, her grip tight. Unexpectedly, there was no revulsion in the touch. He glanced at Lord Månefè, whose face was a brew of hatred and disgust. To take this woman as his wife was clearly a huge blow to his foe’s latest twisted plan. Even if he lost this battle to Finaarva, he stood to gain an expansion to his spy network in the palace, maybe even beyond. His new wife’s family, especially Lord Oren, would be tolerated in the court once again and Månefè would be too besotted with revenge towards him to notice the shift in balance.
He could still defy Finaarva, but the king’s eyes gleamed like a raving prophet. If their alliance failed, Oberon would win and the dragons would hunt down the faery who had wrecked ruin upon their entire older generation. He forced his shoulders back, refusing to allow his resignation to show.
“Come,
Àibell, I will take you to your new home.” Her grip relaxed and tension melted into another broad smile on the king’s face. Månefè snarled, but Tigano ignored him, striding out of the chambers without a further glance. Despite his own fragile mental state, he kept a steady pace that allowed his bride to stride alongside him rather than trail behind.
By the time he pushed open the moon-shaped doors of the great hall, the members of the court stood silently gawking. He stared straight ahead, feeling every gaze, knowing that, for all appearances, Lord Tigano had not only married, but had accepted his bride as a willing equal. Her status would be greatly raised, thus enhancing her family’s position in court. Guilt brushed his heart, however, knowing his real purpose was to improve their use in his spy network.
Eyes followed their exit through the main gates. Whispers chased after them, astonishment that the Lord Changeling had taken a consort, and Lord Oren’s daughter at that. Tigano sensed that Àibell focused her gaze on their path rather than meet any eyes. Not until they passed the guards stationed outside the wall of trees surrounding the palace did he speak to her.
Throughout their recessional, he thought long and hard about what to say. He had little sense of who she was, except for a durable spirit. He guessed she might be as fragile inside as he, but had accepted her fate stoically, even knowing his reputation. She had drawn strength from him in their march, relied on him. He could break her with his next words or turn her into his fiercest ally. Now that the anger of the dragons had been roused, he would need such allegiance if he was to survive.
Leading her to the shadows of a nearby tree, he released her hand. She still looked down and he realized with a start that she was trembling. He reached for her chin. For the first time since he was a child, he touched another being with tenderness, gently forcing her face up until their eyes finally met.
Blood of the Dragon Page 6
