by J A Cummings
“Good night, Merlin.”
“Good night, my king. May you have pleasant dreams.”
The sister queens stood in the middle of Morgana’s room, and a portal shimmered in the air before them. On the other side, they could see the royal seat of Norgalis. The queen of that Cambrian country stepped through the opening and joined them in Eburacum.
“Welcome, sister,” Morgause said, kissing her on the cheek. “Congratulations on the birth of your new son.”
Sybile smiled. “I hate my husband, but I love the children that he puts upon me. Lamorak and Aglovale are joys to me.”
Morgana dismissed the portal and turned to Ganile, who was sitting quietly nearby. “Can you open a door to Listenoise?”
“Of course.” The Saxon sat up, feeling much improved now that her soul was intact. She cast the spell, and the doorway to the distant kingdom shivered into life.
Eina, the newly widowed queen of Listenoise, came to join them, bearing a heavy black cauldron filled with herbs and bones and stones. She put the cauldron onto the floor and smiled at the other queens.
“Sisters,” she greeted. “Our common master sends his greetings and empowers us to cast these spells. We will be powerful on this full moon night.”
The four queens and their Saxon companion shed their clothes but for long cloaks and carried the cauldron, their books and their magical tools out of the castle and into the wood beyond. Along the way, Ganile liberated a cow from a peasant’s barn, leading the unprotesting animal through the field and into the trees. The winter air was biting, but they were not deterred. Morgause piled kindling and Morgana set it alight with a word of power, and they put the cauldron above the flame. Eina poured wine into the cauldron, and Sybile added water. Morgause produced a bronze dish, and while Ganile held the cow still, Morgana slit its throat, letting the blood fill the dish in her sister’s hands. The blood was added to the concoction in the pot, and the mess was set to boiling.
They gathered in a circle, chanting praise and supplications, invoking the power of Murduus and naming their chosen victim. More components were added to the potion - an egg, a strand of Morgana’s hair, a strand of Arthur’s hair that had been taken from his pillow, and the bones of a rabbit - and the whole monstrous concoction began to roll and steam. The stench from the pot was appalling, but they continued to cast their enchantment.
The cauldron began to rock on its three iron legs, first in tiny movements that were barely more than a shiver but building up until it looked like it was being shaken by an invisible hand. The smoke above the pot began to thicken, turning darker and denser until it was almost solid. It coiled upon itself until it took the shape of a snake, its head raised to strike. The creature, made of smoke and magic, hissed at the five witches, then struck at Morgana. Her skin split as if it had been raked by physical teeth, and instead of blood, the wound seeped a watery green ichor. She put her hand over the cut, and it closed as if it had never been. The smoke-snake returned to the cauldron, and the rocking ceased.
Morgause produced a ladle and a small glass vial, which she filled with the remnants remaining in the pot. Most of the mixture had vanished with the activation of the magic, but there was just enough of the evil-colored stuff to fill her potion bottle. She capped it with a glass stopper, then handed it to Morgana.
“Here,” she said. “Make him drink this, and you will have him as you want him.”
Ganile took a leather tie and soaked it in the drops left in the cauldron. The last of the enchanted fluid vanished into the tie, and she handed this to Morgana, as well.
“Tie this around his wrist, and he will be unable to move without your permission,” she told her. “It will hobble him as surely as a spancel on a horse.”
Morgana smiled and kissed each of her companions in turn. “How can I thank you?”
Sybile smiled back, but her eyes were cold. “We will all think of a way.”
In the Fey Lands, Lancelot’s sleep was interrupted when Ysmon poked him in the ribs with a stiff finger. “Wake up, boy,” the wood nymph told him. “It’s time.”
The youth sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. His body ached from the night before, and he was tired to the bone. He tried to speak but could only manage a slurred mumble. “Time for what?”
“Time to be judged. Get dressed.”
He did as he was told, rising from the mossy bed and pulling his clothing on over his bruises and scrapes. Ysmon handed him bracers and a sword, and he accepted them mutely.
“No other armor. No helmet. Take off your boots - you’re fighting barefooted.”
Lancelot bent to comply. Ysmon crossed his arms and nodded his shaggy head in approval. When the youth straightened, the nymph’s fist lashed out and flew at his unprotected face. Reflexively, Lancelot blocked the blow with his bracer and followed that motion with a swing of his sword. Ysmon barely managed to block the blow with a bracer of his own. He nodded in grim satisfaction.
“Good. You’re ready.”
He found his voice again. “Who is testing me?”
Ysmon smiled broadly, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness of the early morning light. “The queen.”
“What queen?”
“Only the queen of the fey, stupid boy.” He winked. “If Urania likes what she sees, you may be in for a wild time.”
Lancelot looked away, dismayed. “I don’t want that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. You will serve the queen, or service the queen, whichever she demands of you. Do you understand me? Don’t shame me.”
“I could shame you no worse than you have shamed yourself,” he responded quietly.
Ysmon frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He considered listing the sins he was thinking of, chapter and verse, but he swallowed the words before they could come. It would have made no difference. Instead of responding, he only shook his head blandly.
“Idiot.” The wood nymph grasped him by the bicep. “Come along, man-child. We don’t want to keep Urania waiting.”
They traveled through fey circles, stepping from one to the other and covering miles of landscape in the process. Lancelot was still breathless from this way of moving, even though he had done it with Ysmon’s help dozens of times. It never failed to shock and amaze him to find himself miles away from where he’d started, and all after only taking five steps forward.
When they emerged from the last circle, they were standing on thick, pillowy grass that stretched in vivid greens and yellows down a gentle hill. The downward slope led toward a many-spired castle made of pink stone that seemed to glow softly in the sunlight. In front of the gate to the castle, a huge wooden platform had been erected and surrounded by a rope fence. The hillside facing the platform was covered with faeries of every description, some sitting, some standing, all of them focused on the castle and the stage before its doors.
A balcony hung over the platform, heavily hung with iridescent white banners and streaming red ribbons. A single golden throne sat on the balcony beneath an awning made of the same white fabric as the banners.
Ysmon prodded Lancelot in the back. “Look there.”
He pointed near the stage, to a place where a dozen young males stood, most of them various kinds of fey, some of them human like Lancelot himself. They were all barefoot and lightly armored, and they all wore mystified expressions, much like the one he was sure he was wearing.
“Should I join them?”
“Yes.” Lancelot began to walk away, but Ysmon grabbed his arm and held him back so he could hiss into his ear. “If you don’t conquer those other boys, I will give you to the centaurs, and then we’ll see who rides whom. You won’t walk for a month.”
He had been given to the centaurs as punishment once before, and the thought of repeating the experience made his throat constrict in disgust and fear. He nodded to show that he had heard and understood, and Ysmon pushed him toward the stage.
Lancelot went to where the othe
r young males were standing. A dark figure in a cloak made of shadows turned toward him when he approached, headless but for the moldy skull it wore on a chain around its neck. The monstrous thing stared at him owlishly, and pinpoints of red light appeared in the eyes. It smelled of bad cheese and the urine of a dozen animals, and in its hand it had a whip made from the bones of a human spine. Lancelot shuddered and looked away from it.
“It’s a Dullahan,” one of the human boys told him. “He’s the Unseelie Champion this year.”
Lancelot looked around in utter confusion. “What is happening?”
“We’re here to contend for the title of Seelie Champion,” explained a young male satyr who was fidgeting with the laces on his leather bracers. “Whoever is selected as the Champion has to fight their Champion, and the winner of that contest becomes the Queen’s companion for a year and a day.”
“Queen Urania?” Lancelot asked.
The satyr looked at him askance. “Of course Urania. Who did you think I meant? Mab?” He snorted at his own jest, then bounced briefly upon his little hooves, limbering up his legs. “I mean to be in Urania’s bed tonight, so you might as well just step aside now while you have the chance.”
“You want me to yield before we try our might against each other?”
Again the satyr shot him with a look like a dagger. “Yes. Of course. I know I’ll defeat you and all the rest of the human beings here. You might as well accept it and go sit down. I don’t want to waste the time it will take to throw you aside.”
Lancelot disliked the boastful creature, and he shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword. “You cannot defeat me.”
“Oh, really? And why is that, little boy?”
“Because I’m the best fighter the world has ever seen.”
He said it simply and without boasting because he believed it to be true. The satyr and the other fey who surrounded them laughed heartily at his words, and he ignored them. The Dullahan drifted closer to him, its fetid stench nearly making him gag.
“I know you,” it said in a deep and echoing voice. The mouth of the suspended head did not move, but Lancelot could hear the voice loud and clear.
He made himself look the creature in the eye. “I doubt that.”
“You are the boy who was stolen by Nyneve. The one who was the son of the king of Benoic.”
“If you say so.” He looked away. He could no longer bear to look upon the monster.
The Dullahan laughed. “Oh, I know exactly who and what you are. I also know that your fate is a dark one, and full of sorrow.”
Lancelot turned back. “Of course it is. So is my present.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” the Unseelie Champion asked. “Don’t you want to know what I see in the years ahead, what challenges and heartbreaks are destined for you?”
“No. I’m not afraid. And as for wanting to know, I doubt that you know anything of what you say you do. My future will be revealed to me in its own time and not before.”
“I could help you to prepare, though,” the Dullahan pressed. “I could.”
“Leave him alone,” sighed another fey male. He was stunningly beautiful, and his flashing eyes were full of mischief and seduction. He exuded a sense of sexuality, and as he looked at Lancelot, a surge of unexpected and unwelcome warmth coursed through the human youth’s blood.
“What do you care, Gean-cánach?” the Dullahan chided. “Don’t you want to see him eliminated before he can challenge you for the affections of your milkmaids?”
The fey male rolled his eyes. “He won’t challenge me on anything of the sort.”
“Are you sure? This one is destined to be a great seducer.”
Gean-cánach looked at Lancelot, then smirked, his sparkling eyes narrowing. “Oh, yes. A great seducer… of men. I have no fear of him. His back is probably weak from all of the bending over he’s been doing.”
Lancelot’s face flushed scarlet red with anger and shame. He began to growl a retort at Gean-cánach when he was interrupted by the blasting of golden trumpets from the balcony. Queen Urania materialized, already seated on her throne and glittering with gold dust. Her blonde hair curled in ringlets around her heart-shaped face, and her shapely woman’s body was augmented by the colorful wings of a dragonfly. She wore a simple crown made of gold and pearls, and her gown was made of flower petals and fluffy white feathers. She was greeted by cheers and applause from the onlookers, and she enjoyed the accolade for several minutes before she finally held up a hand for silence.
The queen looked down at the assembled combatants and smiled. “We have quite a number of candidates this season,” she said. “Our breeding pairs have contributed many fine sons to my kingdom. What a shame that only one of them will live to see the morning.”
A murmur flowed through the crowd like ice water, and Lancelot could follow the path of the frisson as it passed from onlooker to onlooker. He shifted his grip on his sword and settled his body into a calm and balanced stance, ready for whatever happened next. The queen was looking down at him, a secret smile on her perfectly-shaped pink lips, and he inclined his head to her. She looked away, but her smile broadened.
A troll with matted brown fur stepped into the ring and began barking numbers at the assembled males, assigning them in pairs. Lancelot’s number was six, and he looked across the stage at the other male who had received the same number. He was a creature like none Lancelot had ever seen. He stood on two legs and had two arms, like a man, but that was where the similarities ended. He had black fur and long, twisting horns that pointed down his back toward the ground, skimming his pronounced and muscular haunches. The creature saw Lancelot looking, and it grinned, revealing a set of very sharp, very pointed teeth.
The troll waved all of the young males away from the stage, then barked, “Number one!”
In answer to his call, two combatants jumped up onto the platform. One was a minotaur, the bulging muscles on his human-like torso oiled and shining in the sunlight as he marched proudly around the ring. The other, looking much less confident, was a meadow nymph with the wings of a bumblebee, his green hair flopping onto his forehead and shadowing his wide blue eyes. Lancelot could see where this combat was going, and so could the rest of the crowd. The fey gathered on the hillside began to laugh. He turned his back and looked away.
Gean-cánach sidled up to him, his body heat warming Lancelot’s skin. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice insinuating itself into his ear as if it wanted to crawl inside his mind. “Can’t watch? Weak stomach?”
“I have no need to watch a creature die for no good reason,” he responded. The nearness of the fey creature made his heart beat harder, and his palms grew slick with sweat. He rubbed them on his trousers, and Gean-cánach laughed.
“Oh, you’re delicious,” he said. His beautiful face was lit by a broad but mocking smile. “You want me so badly that you can hardly think of anything else.”
“You flatter yourself,” he replied as flatly as he could.
“Should I not?” He put his lips against Lancelot’s ear, and the youth shivered in spite of his efforts to hold himself impassive. “Even if you win, you’ll lose, won’t you? Have you ever been with a woman before? Have you ever even wanted to be?”
“Go away,” he whispered in response. He heard a wet thud on the platform behind him, and the fey on the hillside roared and applauded, stomping their feet on the ground. Lancelot didn’t have to look to know that the pretty little meadow nymph had been destroyed. He could smell the blood.
The troll raised its voice again. “Number two!”
Gean-cánach sniffed at the skin behind Lancelot’s ear. “You are hardly untouched. You’re no virgin, so you have no reason to be so squeamish. Don’t you understand that death and violence are part of life? A part of sex?” His long, pointed tongue flickered out and danced into the hollow of the human youth’s ear, and Lancelot shuddered. “You could almost be taken for one of my brothers, you’re so beautiful.”
&
nbsp; He leaned slightly away. “Is that meant to be a compliment? Because I’m feeling a bit insulted.”
Gean-cánach laughed again. “Turn around and watch the combat, or you’ll completely shame the wood nymph who fucks you in the night and takes credit for your training. The wood nymphs will lose all of their credibility, and all of the queen’s favor will be taken away from them if you don’t perform well. They’ll lose standing.”
Lancelot narrowed his eyes and pushed Gean-cánach slightly away. “Let them.”
The fey male laughed. Behind them, they could hear the dark, sharp sounds of wounds being delivered, flesh to flesh. Someone grunted, and the crack of another fist impacting bone filled the air. A body fell to the platform.
The troll shouted, “Number three!”
Gean-cánach grinned. “I’m up at number four.”
He kissed Lancelot’s lips, forcing his tongue into his mouth and flickering against the back of his throat, trying to make him gag. He failed. Lancelot had learned too much for that. The fey being looked disappointed as he pulled away.
“Fine,” he said. “Be that way. I could have made you enjoy your last few minutes of life.”
Lancelot crossed his arms and turned away. “I doubt that.”
Again, the troll shouted. “Number four!”
Gean-cánach leaped up onto the stage with his long, slender sword in hand, and the fey on the hillside shouted and clapped, raucous in their appreciation of the blood sport being played out before them. This time, Lancelot turned around to watch. Gean-cánach smiled at him triumphantly as a heavily-muscled youth who appeared to be fully human took the stage, dangling a small axe from his meaty fingertips.
The Dullahan appeared at Lancelot’s side. “Too bad about the Love-Talker,” he said.
Lancelot watched as the two fighters squared their stances and faced off against each other. “He’s going to die,” he said.
“Are you asking, or are you telling?” the Unseelie creature asked.
