by Valerie Mars
To zero surprise, she has one ready. “Which courts were Oberon and Ophelia?”
“Autumn and Spring, respectively.” My mother claimed to be a distant relative of Ophelia’s. I’ll likely never know if that’s true. “The rest of societal hierarchy also differed from now. Fae were at their most powerful in the period leading to the war, but that didn’t include all fae. You know of the Techies, who forfeit their gifts for the pleasure of mortal creations. They haven’t changed. The lives of the royalty, courtesans, scholars, and city dwelling fae, however, were altered immensely following the treaty.”
“I recall Kai mentioning something about how your magic is more subdued than in ancient times.”
“Mmm. That is true for the fae born of those courtesans and city heritages. Before the cities were built and when Faerie was wild, there were whispers of a plant that, when steeped in hot water, would allow the imbiber to see magic. Somewhere along the way, it was discovered by a few that this tea could be used to create powerful matches among fae, ensuring the pair’s offspring would possess more robust gifts than their sires. You can imagine the gradual escalation that took place until only a fraction of society held control over the once common herb, limiting the growth of power to an exclusive few.” The mortal’s chest rises before heaving out a sigh. “This became the ruling class, and the clans that missed out became known as Underfae. While most rulers were just, a great cultural schism eventually formed, leading the Underfae and Techies to rebel.”
“That’s some pretty heavy stuff,” she interjects, choosing to cross her legs and sit up straight like a child during story time. It’s better than having to wrangle her in from a daydream. Twyla was incorrigible some days, and I often resorted to fifteen minutes of archery practice for every forty-five minutes sat. I didn’t mind the archery, however.
“There was heavy loss. The human weapons supplied by the Techies paired with the cunning guerrilla tactics of the Underfae entrenched in higher society proved effective in many regions. Still, they were losing ground. In an act of desperation, the rebels captured the ruling queen, Ophelia. Records state that the cry for ceasefire from King Oberon, the most powerful wind commander of their time, was heard throughout the entire realm. The treaty formed in the weeks following established three key principles: Fae of unprecedented power will submit to dampening such power until comparable to that of an Underfae. Officials elected by the population will replace the monarch system. Last, the clamp on greater inheritable powers may be lifted if the highest order of elected officials invoke Oberon’s Clause.”
She snaps up as I finish, returning to the desk and pulling her chair closer to where I sit. I resist the inclination to fling open the windows in an effort to escape the scent she’s dragged back with her. Her amber orbs dig into me. “That’s the second time I’ve heard of this clause.”
“When else did you hear it?” I haven’t heard it mentioned in her company.
“It was one of the first things Bash told Kai the night this all started.”
“I should have expected that.” I’m beginning to fear I’ll never live down the mistake of sending Ankerstrand alone. An attempt to avoid five minutes in the human realm has led to me spending days shackled to a human. “Oberon’s Clause is a set of conditions laid forth in the treaty which grant the restoration of higher powers to a group of warriors. It may only be invoked when necessary for the defense of greater Faerie and carries strict guidelines. Any fae who hope to discover their true ability are expected to join forces with another member of each season, forming a group of four that can only access their ancestral gifts when in proximity of each other. The high council will be aided by consuming the tea I mentioned, allowing them to organize the quads. The tea isn’t part of the treaty, but my thought is they want to create the strongest teams possible. All of this will take place during the series of events we’re calling th—”
“The matching,” she finishes. “I assume the quads will then ride off into the sunset together toward war?”
“Most likely. However, the final details about quads are written to be withheld until right before the final matching ceremony. The details of the ceremony itself are also unknown.”
She recoils with a massive look of disapproval. “That doesn’t seem wise.”
“It may or may not be. The intent of withholding the information was to deter rash decisions.”
“Do you believe that safety measure has worked for your realm?”
“Until tonight, at the very least.” I wish I knew. I was slaving away in Kilthorne, so focused on preparing for the provincial election that all whispers of illness and escalations escaped my notice until the decision was already made. Living in a depopulated mountain zone makes for slow change and late tidings. Father summoned Twyla and me, and only four days later I was riding with Summer to fetch Winter. In the space of a week, I’ve fallen from rising politician to nanny for a mortal girl. It’s been an upset.
“You don’t sound super sure.” I’m not.
“The only sure thing in war is conflict.”
“Alright, Sun Tzu,” she replies. There may be hope for humans, after all. Even I have read the words of Sun Tzu.
I fail to school my amusement. “Careful, you’ll win over Varigarde’s father with remarks like that.”
“Maybe he’ll promote me to spy on humans and I can get the hell out of here,” she says with a rolling of her eyes.
Sass aside, this makes a great segue. “We should move on to preparing your back story.”
Cheek resting on her fist, she sighs again. “I told Ferra my parents liked books. Like, mountains of books.”
“That’s a common trait of Techies. You could have said worse.”
Relief floods her features. “I figured with Kai…yeah.” Her eyes trail off to the side, probably lost in the details of her morning.
“Was there anything else identifying you told her?”
Her gaze darts down to the table before she shakes her head. “I tried to be vague, but there was a moment where I almost told her we had a dishwasher, but then it occurred to me that I don’t even know how fae wash dishes, and I wondered if maybe your version of a dishwasher is magic-powered and superior to anything a human would make. Every time I offered up a fact, it was like pulling the trigger during Russian Roulette.” She meets my eyes. “I was just waiting to see if I had chosen the wrong fact.”
I’m not sure what she means about Russia, but her distress is evident by the way her fist balls up the hem of her skirt. I know she won’t feel 100% walking into the ceremony tonight, but I want to get her damned near. “We’ll start with the dishes.”
18
Mallory
After a surface level dive into Techie history and my own Separatist backstory, Ryland sent me to eat dinner and prepare for the opening ceremony. The dining hall was packed when I arrived, making my walk to the buffet a gauntlet. It wasn’t very spy-like of me, but I swooped in, grabbed some finger food, and got the heck out of there. I didn’t need much. Breakfast still sat in my gut like a boulder, a sensation that only worsened when Ryland informed me I would have to attend the assembly alone.
“What the fuck kind of Hogwarts shit is that?” I asked when he explained that everyone has to sit within their own seasons. He, of course, had no idea what I was talking about. If I had known I’d be stuck alone, I’d have sworn up and down to Roslyn that I was a true Summer. Ryland advised I bat my eyelashes at my neighbor and hope she pities me. He certainly doesn’t.
I get lost on my way back to my penthouse suite and end up in the Summer halls. Several males flock in from a side door, lacking shirts and covered in dirt. They’re built like Bash, which I’m beginning to suspect is a Summer thing. I scurry into the opposite direction and find myself back in the floral walls of Spring.
The study session with Satan wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, but that doesn’t stop my feet from dragging. I’m heavy. Heavy with the deluge of information Ryland dumpe
d onto me, and heavier by the fact that even the council doesn’t know what Oberon’s Clause will lead to. They’re practically in the dark as much as I am, and I intend to be nowhere near when they begin unpacking the shadows. I pray that my one week is as far removed from said shadows as possible.
My weary legs finally locate the stairwell leading to my floor. I pause over the threshold, immobilized by the rich tenor that fills the winding chamber. Whether the voice is from above or below, I cannot tell. Its owner works through a lilting, bawdy sort of tune, but I can scarcely make out the words being sung. The melody makes me want to grab a pint and dance barefooted, although I’ve never been the sort to dance—with or without shoes. Not wanting to impose, I listen in the entryway.
It’s an absurd inclination to have given his very public practice space.
The light-hearted song soon finishes, but the singer wastes no time launching into another. It’s apparent they aren’t shy. I’ve got a nightmare assembly to prepare for, so I bite the bullet and begin climbing the stairs. My footsteps don’t seem to deter him, for his voice carries on. I ascend without issue, sighing in relief when I round the last bend before the landing at the top. My sigh proves to be premature, however, because the singer sits right before me.
I don’t think either of us were expecting to meet someone at the top of the stairs. I yelp, jerking back mid-stride. He reaches forward to keep me from toppling over like a domino, his song ceasing with a cracking of his voice. He catches one of my wrists, disrupting my backward momentum with a hard yank. It’s effective, but maybe too effective in that I’m now careening forward with nowhere in the narrow chamber to land but his lap.
I fly awkwardly, one arm entangling between us while the other catches on his thigh. My nose slams into his chest so hard the impact brings tears. I hang out there for a moment, allowing the first few waves of pain to wash over me before digging my arm out from between our bodies. It’s then, even through the stinging nose, that I smell him. He’s sun-dried laundry and cotton, and I could bury my face right back into him. Instead, I pull away to a concerned grimace framed by kind brown eyes. He’s one of the first fae I’ve seen that doesn’t make me feel plain. This guy looks like I could stick him on someone’s front porch and he’d fit right in.
We speak over each other, my voice frenetic and his calm. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were—”
“Are you alright?” His free arm supports my shoulder to make sure I don’t fall as I straighten. I imagine fae have better balance than this and pray that he dismisses it as the baby deer legs of a fresh Separatist.
“I’m fine. You? I thought you’d be at the bottom—”
“Same, this stairwell’s been empty for days.”
“Ah, well. I just got in last night.”
He ruffles his shaggy hair while looking me over. “Are you a Separatist, then?”
I press my lips together, nodding. “Fresh off the boat.” His dark blond brows furrow in confusion. “Well, fresh off the road.”
“Which settlement were you?”
“I’m not quite sure, to be honest. My family was secluded. I left in the night and wandered for days before being found outside Appelton.”
“That sounds like Eisenbury or Florida.”
I choked on my spit when Ryland told me about Florida. Some Techie settlements have taken on human place names. I can only imagine what the fae who chose freaking Florida for a place name live like.
“Those two seem to be the consensus.” But we don’t need to pry too deep into this subject. “I enjoyed your singing, by the way. You should perform professionally.”
He mocks a playful bow before extending his hand with a lopsided smile. “The stage name is Crescenzo. But early fans may call me ‘Enzo.’”
I accept his hand. “Mallory Meadowbrook. When’s your next performance, then?”
He blows an exasperated raspberry. “Your guess is as good as mine with all this matching nonsense. I’d be lucky to escape to a nearby tavern for an hour.”
“Right? I can’t decide if I picked the best or worst time to leave home.”
His expression darkens as he stands from his seat on the stairs. “You wouldn’t want to get caught in Techie territory if our magic returns to the strength it once was. It’s good you came.” He steps to the side. “You were on your way to get ready, no?”
Oh, right. That. “Guess I got sidetracked along the way.” I giggle louder than intended. “I’ll see you at the ceremony?”
“Who could resist that compost pyre?” He flashes me the okay sign with his hands. “Go get ready, newbie.”
Was that the fae version of dumpster fire?
He turns to leave, and I don’t know if it’s his down-to-earth appearance or the fact he’s the second fae I’ve spoken to in this mass of unknown, but I call out to him even though it makes my stomach flip.
“Hey, Enzo. Come back and teach me some songs I may have missed out on while growing up in Techie town, alright?”
Crinkled eyes appear over his shoulder. “Only if you teach me a Techie song in exchange.”
I return the okay sign. “Just remember you asked for it.”
His chuckle echoes throughout the stairwell as he descends. I’m inserting the key into my door when I remember the s’mores date I made with Bash and sort of Kai. Who knows if that’ll ever happen. It feels so long ago already. The song session was probably a dumb idea, too.
Cupid Clara would be proud, though.
My room looks like an expensive flea market, the great volume of clothing overwhelming the small space. New racks someone delivered miraculously bear the weight of several dresses, the wardrobe is overflowing with separates, and the bogeyman would have to be pint-sized to squeeze below my bed with all the shoes lined up underneath.
It’s kind of funny to me. They’ve painstakingly provided all the clothes in the world, but not a single sign of what’s appropriate to wear for the gathering tonight. I need Ferra.
I knock on her door, and thank cheese that she’s there to answer. She’s halfway through an apple, looking not an ounce ruffled about the evening. “I saw them delivering your new wardrobe earlier. Looks like you’ve hauled up half the market.”
“Someone else hauled up the market, actually. Did the shopping while we ate breakfast. I still haven’t looked it over.” I take in her appearance, the only thing different from this morning being her damp hair. Please tell me that’s wet from a wash and not hours of sweat. “Are you wearing anything special? I don’t know where to start.”
She looks down at her knit dress while chewing. “Nah, this’ll work. No one’s opinion of me will change from what I wear tonight, anyway.” Her gaze returns to mine. “You, however. You must be aching to get into those new threads. Let’s take a look.” She finishes the apple with two enormous bites and discards the core.
We head over, and Ferra combs through my room before fixing her fists onto either hip. “They’ve prepared you for everything, you know. Training clothes, banquet clothes, clothes for rolling in a field of flowers. The question is what you want your first impression to be.”
I imagine there will be many first impressions, least of all being tonight as a single head among thousands. I’m sure to disappear in the thick of it. Would that help or hurt my spy efforts, though? I can’t exactly slink around in the shadows like Kai. My social game is the only game I have. I’m loathe to admit it, but it’s probably better I’m outright seen than not. Sweaty hands club, here we come.
“I want them to wonder who I am,” I reply as my gut attempts to cave in on itself.
“You realize it’s a warrior matching and not a mate matching event, right?”
“Hey, I need all the help I can get before my magic sets in,” I protest.
She sprawls onto my bed. “That’s a fair point. Hmm.” I thumb through the dress rack, everything looking too delicate for an outdoor arena. Ferra raises her index finger. “No Spring colors, then.”
&nbs
p; I frown. “Aren’t I Spring, though?”
She jumps off the bed. “Exactly! How can you stick out in a sea of Spring if you wear our colors?” Her eyes land on my filthy periwinkle riding cloak, and my heart drops when she jabs in its direction. “We need something like that. Something on the opposite end of the cycle.”
“Autumn?” That would satisfy a certain someone way too much, but there are numerous options in the wardrobe that are suitable. Whether by design or happy accident, I’m yet to discover.
“Autumn! And isn’t it fitting to meet the death of peace while wearing the colors of death?”
Welcome to Faerie, where periwinkle means death.
“Sounds dramatic for the simple act of sitting in an amphitheater when you put it that way,” I mutter. And dystopian as fuck.
“Those without words must speak with silence,” she says from underneath my bed as she searches for shoes.
I examine everything again, picking through it with the fall palette in mind. Well, the fae fall palette. Silvers and pale purples, burnt orange and deep crimsons like dried blood. It’s all very somber. My hand brushes against dark gray wool on the dress rack. While the color screams winter, it’s the incredible accents on it that lend itself to Autumn. Either way, it definitely isn’t Spring. I dig the dress out from the stack with considerable effort and hang it on the front.
Ferra ambles over. “That looks like something an evil queen would wear.” She isn’t wrong. The dress is cut to hang on the collarbone, with a deep v cutout held to shape by a silver chain stretching across either side. The shoulders lower into tiny cap sleeves with long lengths of fabric that drape from the backs of them. Instead of a hanging sleeve, it’ll probably wear like a cape. While these features alone are unique, it’s the amethysts jutting from the shoulders like glamorous epaulets that everyone will notice. Beautiful, but potentially dangerous. With any luck, I’ll trip and impale any would-be attackers. And let’s be honest: I’m more likely to do that than I am to land a blow with intention. I need all the help I can get.
