“I was almost there!” I shout into the gale. “I was almost up that ladder, and you blew me off the rungs! You set this up!”
“For shame. The wind has a mind of its own. Perhaps it merely doesn’t like you.”
I ignore half of that answer, though he’d told me his powers of elemental persuasion only extend so far. Disorientated, I jolt from him. I should have died, and I don’t know what to think, much less what this means for the game. Why is he here?
My mouth opens. Exasperated, he presses a finger over my lips and uses the same digit of the opposite hand to point ahead. I swerve around and discover a canvas of enmeshed cliffs, ribbons of flame, swinging net bridges, and stairs glazed in a compass of moonlight. It’s the same panorama from The Parliament of Owls, but from this perspective and altitude, it becomes surreal. The gulf blurs, swimming beneath us in a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and golds.
My legs hang like bells, the air tracing the chimney scars carved into my knees. The atmosphere rushes through my hair, flares the slit in my skirt, and pounds against my heart. I’m soaring, suspended so high that as we pass through a cloud, mist sprinkles my skin.
I’m flying.
I take care to wiggle forward and lean over the owl’s shoulder. The flight offers a view forged from storybooks, where torches stubble the landscape, and a mobile of birds spiral toward that massive, circular building crowned in greenery. I close my eyes, savoring the rush of it.
This is what it’s like, wanting to holler in joy, cry in relief, and scream in terror. I’m thrilled, and I’m awed, and I’m scared. Nobody can hold me down, because I’m a shooting star, and I’m a cyclone, with nature wrapping itself around me. And this moment is a dream, and it’s real, and it’s temporary, and it’ll last forever.
Then I open my eyes, remembering I’m not alone. Cerulean’s chin hovers over my shoulder. His chest braces my back, his breath stirring my nape. I sense his eyes charting my profile, appraising my reaction.
“Glorious, isn’t it?” he blows against my ear. “How none can claim you up here? No one to harm or deprive you? No traps. No confinement. Only endless freedom and fortune, the rush of the unknown and the knowledge that if you indulge, you won’t crash.”
Yes. That’s it exactly.
His cheek rubs against mine as we gaze ahead. “How humbling, overwhelming, exciting to realize what an infinite plain the world is, to touch that infinity without boundaries or borders. You cannot help but explore the land from this impossible prospect and wonder…”
That if the land is this limitless, we could be, too. Our journeys never end, and that’s distressing as much as a comfort. But I don’t say this, and I doubt Cerulean expects or wants me to. That would mean acknowledging we understand each other, even in the smallest sense.
The avian tilts and veers down. My stomach hitches as we skim a few trees, and the animal lands fluidly on a grassy peak bordered by lanky spear trees. Atop this cliff, a tower rises into the constellations. The edifice balances precariously on an overhanging promontory blanketed in a compact flat of green, where a person might sit if they’re feeling adventurous.
I’ve spotted this tower several times already. We’ve landed adjacent to the promontory, on the structure’s opposite side, where the landscape broadens into a meadow of trees. “Where are we?”
“A ruler needs a place to rule from, does he not?” Cerulean breathes into my back. “Or you might call it The Fauna Tower.”
I saw that name on the last signpost. My eyes scroll up the cylindrical fortification. Based on what I’ve seen, the dwellings of this mountain seem to favor rounded edges and heights that reach for the hemisphere. This one vaults upward, wrought of smooth stone and topped with a spire covered in ropes of ivy. Rows of arched windows cut into the upper levels, and additional strands of ivy line the vaulted frames. Like in Moth’s cottage, tissue-like curtains rather than glass fill the gaps.
Animals roam the meadow. An antelope grazes in the foremost lawn, the bovid’s bright golden horns spearing the air. Dappling the bushes, emerald hummingbirds glint as if cut from the same jewel, their forms glassy yet fluffy. Nesting on the cliff nodules and tallest trees, several hawks brandish longer beaks than the ones in my world, and rails of teal vanes sprout along their crowns. A cardinal twitches into flight, its tail sprinkling gilded particles like pixie dust; the bird veers from the meadow toward a multilevel park of lush fronds and trellises that burrows into the rear summit.
Grunts, chirrups, honks, snorts, and squeaks mingle together, the din familiar but also like nothing I’ve heard before, the fauna noises tinkling, rumbling, chasmal as horns, or fizzing around the edges. Some make the ground quaver, while others soar into the ether.
Otherworldly yet earthly. That’s what these dwellers are.
I squint, noticing a few hiccups that remind me of the animals back home. A canary hobbles across the ground instead of lurching into the branches, its left wing misshapen. A mountain goat hikes across a ridge engraved into the bluff, its horns whittled down to stumps, as though they’d been singed.
“They’re hurt!” I exclaim, but Cerulean snatches my waist before I can jump to the ground and examine them.
“Victims of your human uprising,” he explains, his tone acidic. “They’ve healed, though not without their scars and disabilities.”
He swings off the owl, accepts my whip from its beak, and tosses it to me. I catch it with one hand and hitch it to my hip buckle.
I dismount and stare at the animals. My gut cramps like it always does when I come across creatures who’ve been harmed for reasons other than food or clothing. Mystical or not, The Trapping caused the fauna pain. I want to offer my help, to make up for what happened. However, with this abundant environment of ponds and thickets, they seem to be well taken care of.
Cerulean kneels. A pika scurries in his direction, its fur matted in places, burned clear off in others. The creature hops onto his foot while the goat prances to his side. The Fae ruffles the pika’s little head and then scratches behind the goat’s ear, grinning at the animals’ pleasure while they nudge him back, giving him similar attention. It’s not a coddling display—more like a shared greeting, a kinship between equals who trust one another.
I gawk, watching him pet each dweller that flocks, canters, slinks, hops, and waddles over. His grin widens, affectionate, loving, happy to see them, like they’re a family.
Not…what I expected.
Once the fauna retreat, Cerulean rises and bows to the owl in a gesture of appreciation. Gratitude is another impression that comes to mind. Funny, since his kind usually doesn’t care for that sort of thing.
The avian vaults into the air, its body contorting back to its original form while flapping to the tower’s ivy spire, where it keeps vigil. That Fable about the Nightingale searching for its mate wasn’t exaggerating. The Book of Fables says Fae fauna have the ability to shift sizes, and so I marvel at the transformation.
Reluctantly, I wheel my gaze to Cerulean, who’s leaning haphazardly against a torch pole. “This is a refuge?” I ask.
“A haven,” he corrects. “We are residents of The Dark Fables, after all.”
I can’t believe what I’m about to verify. “So you built this for ’em?”
“Their former injuries mean they can’t navigate the mountain on their own any longer. As it happens, this tower and its acreage are more their right than mine. Mystical fauna roamed here for centuries before the dawn of Solitary Faeries. It’s the least I owe them for sharing their mountain.” Cerulean tilts his head, sneering, “What’s that look on your face? Why, it resembles admiration.”
Blow me over. Let it be known, this Fae has a selfless bone in his body.
I’d tell him about the Fable Dusk Sanctuary, but that would require bonding with him. In spite of my—yeah—admiration for what he’s done here, I’m not about to sing his praises.
I detour, moseying across the grass and inspecting the animals at closer ra
nge, but not so close that I unnerve them. “This where you live.”
“I live here when I need to rule the sky.” From the sideline, his voice dips into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “I live amongst the fauna when I’ve only to rule myself.”
“Got a preference?”
“I don’t lament my privileges, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I quite favor being in charge rather than in a cage. There are many corrupt perks to be had.”
“What a relief that you’ve made the best of it,” I gibe. “Otherwise, my heart would bleed for your sacrifice.”
“Is that a fact? Would you cry for me, too? Mortals are fond of crying.”
What an asshole. “You think you know everything about us, but you don’t.”
“Hmm. I might echo that sentiment.”
“By the way, I thought you said that nobody controls the sky except itself. You’re merely a symbol of The Trapping.”
“Dear me,” he goads. “You were listening.”
That deserves a scoff. Instead, I watch the creatures trot and flutter across the grounds, their presence animating the scenery with smatterings of color and foreign yet distinguishable sounds. Finding myself in a Fae haven for animals, a refuge both heartbreaking, comforting, and mesmerizing, restores my impulsive side.
“When I was a tyke, I’d stare out my window at this mountain, wondering what the animals were like,” I say. “Now here I am, getting my answer.”
“I’d advise you not to pursue them,” Cerulean replies. “As I said, these dwellers have healed physically, but they remained guarded. I’d imagine they’re especially aggressive toward humans.”
The protectiveness in his tone brings me up short. I hadn’t realized I’d been padding toward the rear park. Out of respect, I stall in my tracks and regard him.
Gotta hand it to this Fae, he cares about these wild dwellers. I like that.
“If you brand yourself as purely a symbol of history rather than a leader or savior, what does it mean to rule the sky then?” I ask.
“It means to honor the firmament,” he says. “It means to act as its emissary, its keeper, its voice.”
“In other words, to rule the sky is to serve the sky.”
“So to speak. I maintain harmony between the mountain Fae. I listen to and settle their squabbles and vendettas. I make sure they’re respecting this environment and interacting peacefully. I follow where the wind points me, toward whichever part of this landscape needs nourishment and nurturing, whichever landmarks require refurbishment, and I delegate the Solitaries to help preserve or guard those corners.
“And my last, but not least, reigning act? I serve the mountain’s fauna and—” Cerulean swings a hand toward the tower and its wildlife park—“provide a home to the ones who need it. What else would you like to know? I have a plethora of answers, and only a few of them are riddles.”
I’d been intrigued until he ruined it with that last remark. I tilt my head, giving it some thought. “Huh. You forgot something. Did the heavens tell you to beguile humans and force them to die reaching the mountaintop? Or was running this maze your brilliant idea?”
Annoyed, he slants his gaze toward mine. “Neither answer will make you giddy. But if you insist, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Bullshit. The word complicated doesn’t excuse you from being a prat.”
“The word bullshit doesn’t earn you a reason.”
“Nah, but I sure do like the sound of it on my tongue.”
“In that case.” He prowls toward me. “What other words can you balance on that tongue? What other sounds do you favor?”
I strut his way, meet him across the divide, and bat my eyelashes. “Baby, you wouldn’t recognize those sounds if they tickled your linens.”
Cerulean dips his head and whispers, “But where will the sounds tickle you?”
I know exactly where, because it’s happening right now, his question running down the back of my neck. I could kick myself for this. Better yet, I could cudgel him.
I thought as much at the throne summit: With every heinous act, the less enticing he’s become, his visage curdling my stomach. Evil isn’t attractive, it’s hideous.
Clincher is, that hasn’t changed his voice—or its effect.
“What am I doing here?” I demand.
“At the moment, you’re standing in my way,” he remarks. “Once you move, you’ll be shown to your room.”
“Say that again?”
“Did I not mention it, pet? You’re stuck here for a spell. Such a pity, and it’s all your doing,” he sighs. “Wind has a natural tendency to stress itself out at unfortunate altitudes, as was the case for The Mistral Ropes. To think if you hadn’t succumbed to the upheaval, we would be pleasantly separated. And here, I was hoping for some quiet time. How very inconvenient you’ve become.”
Agitation jumps off my lips. “You’ll have to be more specific because this isn’t part of the deal. I’ve got a mountain to conquer.”
“Such enthusiasm.” Without raising his voice, Cerulean says, “Moth.”
The runty Fae floats from the park, her wings smacking the air as though punishing the elements for no particular reason. The whippersnapper’s wearing a bumblebee-yellow silk dress, and although she isn’t overloaded with mortal baubles anymore, her indignant frown weighs a ton. “You, again.”
Cerulean tells her, “She needs a room.”
Moth’s angry face snaps toward him. “Didn’t they all burn down?”
“Enough, Moth. She requires a guest chamber.”
“The fuck, I do,” I retort.
“You can say that again,” the whippersnapper trills. “Just because she’s here doesn’t mean she needs to be comfortable.”
“I don’t plan on getting comfortable because I’m not staying,” I protest.
“Very well, she needs an oubliette,” Cerulean says mildly. “Either will suffice.”
“What I need is a map pointing the way out of here. Or I’ll find an outlet myself.”
His malignant laugh rents the air. “Without wings, I should love to see you try. Though if you fall this time, I won’t be there to catch you.”
His owl caught me, not him. Nonetheless, I blurt out, “Why did you save me?”
“Why are you complaining?” he evades.
Moth’s papery frown deepens, ravines digging into her face as her tumbleweed head volleys between us.
Forget it. I know why he saved me. I made a vow not to abuse his true name, and he paid me back in excess by sparing my life. Yeah, the owl did the catching, but Cerulean orchestrated the whole thing. I haven’t forgotten the loophole he’d spelled out in the cottage, how winning on my own doesn’t mean favors are off-limits, especially for the mountain’s ruler.
It’s a win-win. I still have a shot at reaching the peak fairly, and he can continue to torment me without feeling beholden.
As far as I can tell, there’s no visible route off this zenith. I steal another glance at the animals frolicking across the green, a spellbinding yet wholesome sight that loosens the kinks. All the same, why is Cerulean stranding me here?
“I need a reason,” I tell him.
“And I’m sure you’ll get it,” he responds.
“Lemme guess: For a price?”
“We’ll see.”
“Then at least tell me how long.”
While I figure out how to escape.
A tiled walkway cleaves through the lawn, grass fringing between the slabs. Torch poles line the path, which leads to the tower’s vaulted entrance. Again, the archway bears a tissue-thin curtain rather than a door.
Cerulean spins and saunters toward the looming structure. “One full day.”
Guess the Fae changed his mind about Moth ushering me to my room on her own. The runt trails her sovereign, and I trudge after them.
The entrance curtain boasts an emblem of a horse with wings. Pegasi are ancient figures, long extinct in both human and Fae realms. During an
antiquated period when living harmoniously was arduous for ethereal beings, a scrimmage against the southern dragons eviscerated the flying horses. Whereas in my world, Pegasi were wiped out when their wings became valuable, and the trade poachers of old got greedy.
We cross into the tower. The first level is grand and wide, taking a deep, spacious breath around us. An arrangement of chairs surrounds a firepit basin, bolts of blue and white fabric loop from the lofty ceilings, and ivy scales the curved walls.
Still no doors. Although the draperies shiver with the breeze, they manage to block out the tinkering tweets and whistling wind. Regardless, the tower lacks guards, and since Solitaries don’t bother with politics like the Seelie and Unseelie Courts do, Cerulean’s kind evidently don’t see the need for security.
“Guess you’re not worried about invasions or storms,” I say.
Cerulean ignores that, but Moth gives a superior sniff. “Every structure on this mountain welcomes the climate, while also protecting the interiors from interferences. It’s a balance. My mother and father tailored the draperies of our land, with piles to spare. The curtains admit light and air but not flames, nor predators, nor weather surges.”
In the corridors, rope-spun planters hover, leaves tumbling over the rims. Two pixies flit toward us, their stained-glass butterfly wings plaited into their sides. Must be the servants. I gawk at the wee creatures and the baskets they carry, each laden with moonflower petals. They dip their heads to Cerulean, then pelt me with scathing looks once they’ve passed him and Moth.
Up a winding staircase, the second level drops us into a round mezzanine of sleeping quarters. I’m sure there are other details inside the chamber where he leads me, but only one object claims my attention. The fireplace bursts to life the moment we enter. Flames writhe inside the fire box, ash sprinkling across the hearth and likely building inside the pit. Soon, the blaze will become a pyramid of charred flecks.
This rarely bothers me at home, and it hadn’t bothered me in Moth’s cottage, so it shouldn’t now. Except I don’t sleep near the blaze at home, I wasn’t destined to spend the night at the runt’s cottage, and the fire Cerulean lit in that living room hadn’t burned out or started coughing up piles of soot yet.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 15
