by Ryan Graudin
The music feels different too. Maybe it’s because the technology is older, less abrasive. It doesn’t seem to sap my essence like the pub’s subwoofers.
Richard sees me standing still and sways over to my spot on the rug. “You have to dance!” he shouts above the music. “It’s no fun unless you do it too!”
His arm latches in mine and pulls me to the middle of the rug. Plush fibers swallow my bare feet, help me stay awkwardly rooted against the dance. The dancing I’ve seen at Elizabethan balls and the Faery circles was nothing like this. That music was softer, more suited to twirls and wide, billowing skirts. This song is made of grunge and edge. I frown and try to wiggle my hips, but only succeed in looking absurd.
“Just feel the music. Let it go through you.” Richard grabs my hands and pulls me into his own movements. It’s so easy for him to move as the music writes, to feel out the notes and let them pull him where they will.
“Follow me.” He guides my arm over my head, forcing me into a quick turn. The sudden movement breaks me out of my dancing stalemate. My feet glide across the rug on their own, my toes darting over patterns of peonies and paradise birds. Richard lets go with a smile, releasing me to dance to my own beat. I don’t stop swaying, afraid that if I do, the dancing might not start again.
We dance through all of the songs on the album. Richard puts on another record. Its music is slower, the edgy hum of the guitar closer to beats I know well.
“Do you have any favorite dances?” He takes my hand and brings me close. His touch is so easy to feel against the sheerness of my dress. I can’t help but stay rigid under his fingers, on guard against any more passionate magic. “Something slower maybe?”
“None you would know,” I tell him.
“Try me.”
“The galliard, the canary, the saraband, the volt.” I couldn’t forget if I tried the fine array of rainbow silks and corseted waists weaving in and out of men’s doublets and ruffs in such elaborate patterns. For years it was all I did, watching the rich and privileged dance and dance to the pulse of harpsichords. The hum of lutes.
“You got me there. Will a waltz do?” Richard starts swaying to the three-step beat. We spin slow circles, the room becoming a blur around us. “Can’t let all those years of dance lessons go to waste.”
“A waltz is just fine.” We weave a delicate path between mounds of books and laundry. Any faster and I would be dizzy.
“Were they any fun? Those balls?”
“For the people who were there, yes. I got bored after a few of them. You would’ve hated it.”
“Oh?” He draws me around in a twirl so I can only see snippets of how his eyebrows quirk.
“It was all duty and tradition and masked feelings. A world of rules.” As I say this, I realize how much of what I described could apply to Mab’s court as well.
“How well you know me.” Richard smirks.
“I’m getting there.”
“Right, so now I know your favorite dances. How about your favorite food? Let me guess. . . .” His head cocks to the side, birdlike. “Strawberries.”
“Delicious but a bit too simple.” The same balls where they danced the volt also had tables and tables of food. Fresh fruit, roast beasts, caviar, and smoked fish . . . the combination of ingredients was deliciously endless. “Baked mushrooms stuffed with herbs.”
“That was my next guess,” he says with a wink.
“What’s yours? Steak?” I venture.
“Close. Beef Wellington. Favorite color?”
“I—I don’t know. . . .”
“You don’t know your favorite color? Who are you?” Richard’s arms grow stiff around me, his features a portrait of mock horror.
“Well, it’s not like we Fae flit around asking one another these questions all day. We have very important work to do, you know.” I feel the impish expression come to life on my face. “I suppose I’ve just never thought too hard about it.”
The sparrow tilt of his head returns and his lids narrow as he studies me. “Hm . . . I’m going to say green.”
“What?”
“Green.” Richard nods at my dress. My eyes. “It’s your favorite color.”
I can’t help but smile, because as soon as he says this, I know he’s right. Green. It’s the shade of envy and predators, but it’s also the color of grass and leaves and life. It reminds me of the rolling hills of the high country.
As the steps go on, becoming looser and less formal, Richard hugs me closer. My head rests against the steady width of his shoulder.
Richard takes his hand off my hip and strokes my hair. “Anabelle has her heart set on spending some family time at Windsor Castle. I tried to make some excuse, since we’re not supposed to leave the city, but I don’t think she’ll let it sit. I told her we’d have to wait until—until after my birthday.”
There’s tension in his words, and I remember that the dreaded date is only a week away. A week. Seven days until Richard becomes king.
“You’re going to be a great king,” I whisper, and lift my head to look at him. “Honestly Windsor’s the one place outside of London you would be safe. That’s Herne’s territory. I don’t think any soul feeders would try to reach you there.”
“Who’s Herne?”
“Herne the Hunter. He’s a very old spirit that guards the woods of Windsor. His magic is very wild and powerful, and he doesn’t answer to anything. Not even Mab.” My fingers press tighter into Richard’s back as I remember my last encounter with the spirit. “But he won’t harm the crown. He only cares about his woods, and since you technically own them, he doesn’t forbid you to step foot in them. If you can make it to Windsor without being attacked, you should be safe.”
“So he’s not a soul feeder or a Fae?”
“No. He’s free magic. There’s a good deal more supernatural creatures than Fae and soul feeders. Kelpies, Will-O’-the-Wisps, Ad-hene, Brownies, Redcaps, Sprites, Dryads . . . far more than even I can keep track of. And then there are spirits like Herne, who have no category. Generally they stay out of the cities. They almost never bother humans.”
“Good to know.” The prince squeezes me closer. “Any more spirits who like to run around on my property? Perhaps there’s a vampire in the loft? A ghoul in the kitchen?”
I laugh. “If I find one, I’ll let you know.”
A smile warms his lips and he pulls me into another, skirt-swirling turn. “Good. I’m glad I have you to count on for such things.”
“Always.” I freeze even as the word leaves my lips.
But if Richard hears it, if he wonders what the word might mean, he gives no sign. He wraps his arms back around me and continues swaying. We move together as one being, in sweet unison to the lingering guitar solo. We dance even after the last notes die, moving about in each other’s arms to some unheard song. We dance until nothing is left.
Nineteen
Mab’s sparrow soon arrives, a mess of mud-flecked feathers and parchment summoning me west, to the center of England.
After I tell Richard farewell, I ride high on the winds, taking hold of my new energy. The land passes flat beneath me, yellowed with long, waving grass. The plains of Albion. The heart of Britain, the place where many of my younger memories were formed.
Today the Faery queen’s court presides at Stonehenge, one of the few wells of deeper magic left to the south. A long time ago, it was a place where spirits flew up from the ground, an overflow of magic. More than a few Fae came to life here. But, like all of the other sites, Stonehenge’s womb now lies barren. There are no new spirits. Only us.
Mab and her attendants are planted in the middle of the aging circle, soaking in all the strength this jumble of stones offers. Their magic rattles through me as I land, careful to avoid the human’s fragile security system.
“Look at them gawking,” Mab says, pointing to the crowd of camera-toting mortals beyond the fence. “Nothing is sacred anymore.”
“They forgot what this p
lace was for, Your Majesty.” I bow my greeting, hands folded in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse mercury hair, unbearably bright under so much daylight. It’s Titania, leaning against one of the upright stones, staring and staring.
The queen’s face stays solemn. “It’s almost not worth the trip down here with all of their contraptions clouding the air. Sooner or later they’re going to kill these stones. Then where will we be?”
“There’s always the crown, Your Highness,” I remind her gently. I focus my vision solely on Mab, as if blocking out the duchess’s glare will make her disappear. Under the open, seamless blue sky, the queen I’ve followed for so long almost looks small. Swallowed in the icy iridescence of her gowns and hair.
“For now.” Her mutter is so grim and quiet that at first I’m unsure of what I heard. I stand still. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Mab in such a horrible mood.
It takes the queen a minute to break free of her foul thoughts and remember my presence. Her clear opal eyes refocus on me, startled. “Oh, Lady Emrys. Sit.” She waves at one of the nearby collapsed rocks.
I sit on the lichen-laced stone, my smile weak and watery. A spell, one of Mab’s, envelops us. Our conversation, the words between us, is now secret.
“It’s my understanding that there have been no further incidents. Is this correct?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I nod. “Everything has been quiet.”
“And the prince? How’s he?”
I concentrate on keeping my response normal and deliberate. “He’s doing better than before. There’s still sadness. But I think he’ll be all right.”
“The other Fae tell me he’s been spending a good amount of time alone.” I wait for Mab to say more, but she lets the sentence fade. Her eyes never leave me. They hardly even blink.
I clear my throat to dismiss what hangs unsaid in the air between us. It could be that Mab knows nothing. That she’s just fishing for signs of guilt. I mustn’t give her any. “It seems his grief is a very private thing. I’m sure a few more weeks will see him back to normal.”
Mab flattens her palm against the rock she’s sitting on, drinking in its ancient magic. It’s strength she’s saving. Strength for later. “And your investigations . . . have you found anything significant?”
“None of the Fae have shown any abnormal activity. If one of them is a traitor, they hide it well,” I say.
“Then you aren’t looking hard enough.”
“My queen, with all due respect.” My voice dips and breaks like a dolphin plunging for air. No matter how slowly I breathe, I can’t keep it steady. “There might not even be a traitor in the Guard. I think it would be best if we simply continue to guard the royals like we always have. Keep the scouts searching. We’ll find something eventually.”
“You’re too young, Emrys. Too trusting.” A slight, wry smile plays at Mab’s lips. “There’s a traitor. I know it. If you used your magic more than your head, perhaps you’d feel it too.”
My jaw clenches at the queen’s little dig. “It’s dangerous to waste magic in the city, milady. It’s not so easy to recharge in London’s streets.”
“What’s important is that you stay on task,” she shoots back. “You haven’t done everything you can to seek out our Judas. I expect you to use any means possible—magical or otherwise—to uncover the identity of the collaborator. Report back next month.”
I blink, trying not to let my frustration breach any more than it already has. Emotions have no place in Mab’s court—they’re almost as despised as technology. “Yes, my queen.”
“Perhaps there will be no need . . .” the queen muses. “We’ve caught a trail. It’s faint, but a trail nonetheless. We’ve followed it here, down south.”
“She was here?” Goose bumps prickle my skin. “This close to the cities? I thought an Old One couldn’t be this far south.”
“Her movements are a bit freer than we expected.” Mab’s tiny shoulders slope up in a shrug. “But we’re closing in.”
The tingle grows; my muscles burn with a cool, eerie premonition. The Old One isn’t giving up without a fight.
“It would be a relief for this threat to be over,” I admit.
“All the more reason to root out any traitors in our midst.” Mab starts to stand. “If they find out their mistress has been defeated, they’ll grow rash. It would be best to prevent such tragedies.”
I nod, partly to camouflage my frown. The longer I’ve spied on my fellow Fae, the more I’ve come to realize I won’t find a traitor among them. There’s a better way to find answers, one that doesn’t require so much sitting and waiting.
It’s time to go hunting.
“Still, it would be prudent for us to have a backup plan if London doesn’t offer the protection Richard needs. Herne has agreed to let us use Windsor as a gathering point, in case a retreat is necessary. If the need arises, don’t hesitate to—influence the prince to take a holiday.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I fight back a shiver at the memory of Herne. Part of me is surprised that the jealous spirit granted Mab permission to gather on his land. Usually only a few brave Frithemaeg dare to accompany the royals on their holidays there.
“And tomorrow is Richard’s birthday, is it not?” the queen asks.
I nod. This week passed with Richard anxiously eyeing the calendar. Slash by red slash we’ve arrived at the eve of his accession. Tomorrow, whether he wants to or not, Richard will officially become Britain’s king.
“I expect then, that you’ll be extra vigilant.” The Faery queen is right. The moment Richard becomes king, he’ll be made even more desirable in the Old One’s eyes.
“Of course, milady. We’ll be on our highest alert,” I promise.
“Then may the Greater Spirit go with you, Lady Emrys.”
“And with you, my queen.” My many skirts rustle with my sudden curtsy. “I’ll resume the surveillance straightaway.”
“Good.” Mab nods. “I’m counting on it.”
I don’t go back to the palace. Instead I fly to the heart of the city, on the edge of the churning, muddy river just across from Parliament. Darkness is falling just as my feet land against the paving stones. The moon is already high, casting its blush into the Thames.
The evening is pleasantly warm and the sidewalks swarm with people. Some are hooked together at the elbow, the girls resting their heads on their partners’ shoulders as they saunter down the path. I stay still by the river’s edge, watching them pass. It’s too early. I must wait a while before I have a chance of snaring what I’m looking for.
Despite the bustle and life of the city—the street musician’s cheery steel drums and the gold-brown scent of sautéed onions over hot dogs accenting the roar of red double-decker buses—all I feel is the shadow of what will come. There’s no stopping it. The Old One has moved south—her fingers of assassins stretching into every corner of the city. Reaching always for Richard.
The possibility of losing him is thick, swallowing me whole with its terror. I can’t let it happen. Not because of failing Mab or doing my duty. Not because it would put a black mark on my career as a Frithemaeg. I can’t lose Richard for a single, undeniable reason.
I love him.
The truth is clear now. As clear as the evening sun spreading across the river waters. I love Richard. I always have. It’s only now that the thought has been so sure, so utterly cemented in my mind.
“Love.” I make myself say the word. Test it on the tip of my tongue. It tastes strange, but good. It makes the hole inside me shrink, the emptiness lessen.
But with it comes a fear that has nothing to do with the Old One or her minions. I’ve watched so many versions of the fairy tale. So much is uncertain, unmapped. Richard likes me . . . yes . . . but that means nothing when the stakes are this large. When immortality and death are tossed about like poker chips to the highest hand.
Is Richard willing to pay the price? Even if he does love me, if he says so, he
’s still so young. Seventeen years. The blink of an eye. How can he know, truly know, if he wants to spend the rest of his days with me?
And me—could I die for him?
In dusk’s illuminating glow, the surface of the Thames looks less full of sewage and debris and more like the mighty brown god it once was. I stare down into the water, tracing all of its swirls and eddies as the current rips past. I let these thoughts drift off with it. I need all of my concentration set on the hunt.
The sky fades rapidly, its flashy neons diving into the melancholy blues of night. The city becomes an island of electric light; the rays of the streetlamps create a world of bone-white shapes and shadows. The places soul feeders, especially Black Dogs, love to skulk. It’s in these dark nooks and crannies that I must start searching if I want to find any answers.
I don’t expect to find anything so early, but when I approach the bridge I feel it. My fists curl into themselves as I edge closer to the beginnings of a tunnel under the bridge. Mortals avoid the dark underpass, choosing to hike up the steps and cross the street instead. That’s wise, considering what’s waiting there for them.
I duck into the walkway’s shadows and pause, glancing up nervously as the roof rattles and shakes beneath every passing vehicle. Something in the far corner springs to life. The sharp tap tap of animal nails fills the tunnel.
“Cyspe!” My binding spell shoots out, wraps around the beast’s char-black, barrel chest.
The Black Dog howls as the spell seizes its limbs, collapses it to the floor. Under the light of my magic I see just how large this scavenger has become. It’s almost the size of a small pony, engorged on all of the innocent lives it sucked away.
I bend down and grab the beast by its haunches. It snarls and thrashes as I drag it closer to the white-tiled walls.
I look around to the dim entrances of the underpass and whisper a blocking spell. Any mortal with courage enough to enter the poorly lit tunnel won’t be able to resist my repelling magic.
I kneel back down in front of the dog, far from its snapping teeth. I can’t bind its mouth. To answer my questions, the Black Dog needs to be able to speak.
