Rise of the Fey

by Alessa Ellefson

  “Like getting the Board’s carte blanche regarding a little voyage of ours,” Gauvain says.

  “No matter what proof we show them of this necessity, they’re more than likely going to balk at the idea,” Hadrian says.

  Keva sucks in her breath. “You guys are planning on going to Avalon, aren’t you?” she says, her eyes gleaming.

  “Only if those old farts give us the green light,” Percy says. “But that’s why we’ve got Artie here”—he catches Arthur in a chokehold and knuckle-rubs his head—“ain’t that right, Mr. I’m-getting-hitched-to-the-Board-President’s-daughter?”

  Arthur punches Percy in the ribs to get free, completely oblivious to Lance’s stiffer countenance at the mention of his sweetheart.

  Despite Jennifer’s more than questionable personality traits, it’s clear that Lance really loves her. So why can’t they be together openly, instead of being torn apart by this stupid engagement of hers? Unless, I realize, she didn’t get a say in the matter, which would explain her constant pissed-off attitude.

  And for the first time since knowing Jennifer, I catch myself feeling sorry for her.

  “Get to class,” Arthur barks, startling me out of my reverie. “You know what will happen if your manners fall short when we’re at Camaaloth.”

  “Stop moping,” Keva says as we make our way to etiquette class after a dreadfully long lesson on Elemental Manipulation with Sir Boris. “It’s really not that bad, and I’ve heard Sir Nigel’s quite fun.”

  “I just don’t see why we need to learn which fork to use with what when there are more important things at stake,” I say, dragging my feet.

  “Etiquette class is much more than that,” Keva says. “It’s about learning the basics that will allow you to enter that thrilling and oh-so-dangerous game that is politics. It’ll teach you to analyze people and their interactions, what ticks them off and what’s likely to please them, without making a faux pas yourself. From there, you’ll be able to figure out what their strategies are, bargain with them, and manipulate their emotions without their knowing…all with the aim of getting what you want.”

  “It sounds tiring,” I say, finding myself wishing for Sir Lincoln’s lore class instead.

  “If you don’t fit in, you’ll be ostracized,” Keva says. “And if you’re ostracized, you’ll never get to have a say in anything of importance. See? It’s all very simple.”

  We enter a spacious, well-lit room with a long line of tables set in its center, white tablecloths brushing the gleaming parquet floor. Students are already there, huddled by the French doors that look out onto the inner courtyard like a flock of honking geese.

  I take one look at their apprehensive faces then head straight for the opposite end of the ballroom. A decision I immediately regret for the back walls are lined with tall, silver-framed mirrors, and everywhere I turn I can see the eerie glow of my golden eyes reflected back at me.

  “I don’t want to play games,” I tell Keva, turning my back on the mirrors only to find my new classmates pointing at me while speaking behind their hands.

  “If I were in your position,” Keva says, “I’d try not to offend anyone anymore, your life is complicated enough as it is. Besides, I need a break.”

  The incessant giggling from across the room suddenly stops as a tall, spindly man struts in, an elaborate cane marking the beat of his footsteps. He halts beside the line of tables and snaps his fingers.

  “Gather around, children,” Sir Nigel says as a long queue of servants trails in, carrying steaming dishes, and jugs of water and apple cider. “Our lesson today—”

  “What is she doing here?” a nasally voice says from the entrance door.

  Sir Nigel’s eyes bulge out at the rude interruption and he’s about to express his displeasure, when the sight of Jennifer and her squire Sophie deflates him entirely.

  “I apologize for our tardiness,” Jennifer says, pushing past her squire. “We were detained longer than expected by our guests.”

  “Of course,” Sir Nigel says, with much genuflection. “Please, we were just starting.”

  The spindly man clears his throat before continuing, “As I was saying, our lesson today will be entirely dedicated to the art of eating in public.”

  I give Keva a significant look—didn’t I say this was going to be a dumb lesson in table manners? And there she was, getting all fiery about games and politics and other such nonsense.

  Sir Nigel raps his cane against the floor and the servants withdraw, leaving behind large dishes of smoking salmon, braised chicken, wild rice, roasted sweet potatoes, and vegetables of all kinds.

  The rich, savory scents make my stomach grumble, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and I grab the first chair I see. But before I can pounce on the food, Sir Nigel whacks my head with the butt of his cane.

  “A squire will not sit until told to do so,” he says. “I suppose you’re that Morgan everyone keeps talking about. I have been forewarned of your attendance, but I was also under the impression you’d be accompanied by a guardian.”

  I bridle at his words, but Keva steps forward before I can speak my mind and earn myself a big fat zero in my first etiquette class.

  “I take it that would be me,” she says with a small curtsy.

  Sir Nigel examines her closely but doesn’t seem to be all that impressed, and I distinctly hear Keva curse in Hindustani, Hadrian’s name added to the mix.

  “Everyone pair up,” Sir Nigel finally calls out, striding around the tables to open one of the French doors. “One squire per knight.”

  I stand off to the side with Keva, wishing I could just skip this stupid session, when I catch Jennifer smiling at me.

  “Why don’t you practice with me?” she asks, and I feel my shackles raise. “Sophie, dear,” she adds to the offended girl, “you can team up with her friend. It’ll be good practice for when you’re a knight.”

  Sophie seems to thaw a little at this suggestion but she doesn’t spare a moment to glare at me.

  “Squires, pull out a chair for your knight,” Sir Nigel says. He eyes me disapprovingly as I help Jennifer sit. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, Squire Morgan. What did you do to your hands? Kill an octopus?”

  I hide my hands behind my back self-consciously. “An accident, sir, and the stains won’t come off.”

  The professor tuts. “You’ll have to wear gloves then, and make sure they reach your elbows.” He harrumphs before resuming his pacing. “Squires, you may serve the beverages. Gently now. That’s right…”—I lift a jugful of cider, my arm shaking with the effort to hold it one-handed—“And not to the top of the glass either”—Jennifer’s elbow smacks into mine and I miss her cup—“without slopping it all over the table, Squire Morgan!”

  I jump at the sharpness of Sir Nigel’s voice and accidentally slam the heavy jug back onto the table, sloshing cider all over the white tablecloth.

  “Service should be performed in utter silence,” Sir Nigel growls. “Squires shouldn’t have their presence felt and need to anticipate their knight’s needs at every moment so as not to distract the latter from his, or her”—he curtsies before Jennifer—“important conversations. As I’m sure you all know by now, many a critical decision has been struck over dinner in this manner.”

  “This is so antiquated,” I mutter to myself, as I select a very bony, fatty chicken leg to serve Jennifer.

  She frowns as I drop the meat onto her plate, and I smile innocently back at her, knowing it’s going to take her ages to finish her meal if she wants to remain the epitome of elegance.

  Savoring my momentary reprieve, I withdraw by the open French doors, eyeing the courtyard with longing. A soft breeze ripples the heavy brocade drapes that frame the doors, bringing with it the heady scent of night jasmine.

  I edge closer to the glass door, my eyes drawn towards a group of people standing restlessly by the giant apple tree. Don’t those people know the makeout hedge is off limits? But I
quickly realize that the group consists of the four visiting Board members and Irene, and all of them seem to be waiting for something.

  That something, I find out a minute later, is Lady Vivian.

  “Well met,” the principal says, her soft voice carrying easily over to my ears.

  “Well met, indeed,” Lady Parcenet sniffs disdainfully. “You know very well why we’re here and you’re deliberately stalling us.”

  “I simply wish to caution against the removal of the Sangraal,” Lady Vivian says, echoing my earlier talk with Keva.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” Sir Eric says. “Tempting, isn’t it, to have that much power at your fingertips?”

  “You know that is not the reason for my reservations,” Lady Vivian says.

  “We wouldn’t have come if we didn’t feel the Sangraal’s security had been compromised,” Sir Pelles says in a conciliatory tone, and the chinless woman next to him nods in agreement.

  “By taking the Sangraal to your headquarters you’re bound to draw the Dark Sidhe to you,” Lady Vivian says.

  “We can handle the rabble,” Lady Parcenet says haughtily, “unlike your lot.”

  “But we believe we’ve found a solution,” someone else says.

  I hide further behind the drapes as Arthur appears from around the makeout hedge, Lance and Hadrian still at his sides.

  Lady Parcenet looks annoyed at the unwelcome interruption. Her grimace turns into a scowl when Arthur hands Sir Pelles an opened book, and I recognize it as the thin volume Bri found in the library.

  “If we rework the wards according to this diagram,” he says, “we believe we could put Carman back where she belongs.”

  He hangs back in anticipation as the High Judge scrutinizes the page. Finally, Sir Pelles hands him back the volume.

  “It appears to be a containment ward,” the man says carefully. “But it seems to me you’re missing two crucial things: Carman’s true name, and a power source strong enough to contain her.” The judge strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps if the best of our Order were to use their strongest oghams together…”

  Lady Vivian shakes her head. “I’m afraid that even if you were to put all of your oghams together it wouldn’t be enough,” she says. “Carman will be able to sense your spell as soon as you start it, and she will lash out before you have a chance to finish, killing everyone involved.”

  “Then what would…” Sir Eric starts.

  Lady Parcenet hiccups in shock. “No!” she exclaims.

  “We thought this might be an issue,” Arthur says, “which is why we sought you out first. But we fear this may be our only choice, and that is why I hereby formally request the authorization to send a delegation to the Fey.”

  Lady Parcenet lets out a sharp squeak.

  “I can see your point,” Sir Pelles says after a moment’s reflection. “However, finding a Fey of such power will be a very dangerous enterprise. Not to mention the fact that our relations with them are rather…strained.”

  “But such an alliance has been formed before,” Arthur says. “That’s how Carman was imprisoned in the first place.”

  “That may be so,” Sir Eric says dismissively, “but I doubt our ancestors had been waging an ongoing war with them at the time.”

  “What if I could prove to you that our relations with them might not be as bad as they seem?” Arthur asks.

  “Your proposal has its merits, however tenuous it may seem,” Sir Pelles says, “but it is a decision I cannot make alone.”

  Arthur bows respectfully. “I thank you for your consideration,” he says. “I will bring it up again with the Council then.”

  “Good luck with that,” Lady Parcenet says. “Nobody would be fool enough to allow anyone to get friendly with the enemy, especially with the perpetrator behind the fall of the school wards still on the loose.”

  “But you do have a great bargaining tool at your disposition that might be able to tip the scales in your favor,” the chinless woman says, speaking for the first time. “Perhaps an exchange of sorts could be negotiated.”

  Arthur tenses up. “No,” he says.

  “You may have no choice in the matter,” Sir Eric says, resuming his birdlike head-bobbing.

  I lean forward, my breath fogging the glass before me. What are they talking ab—

  My hair gets yanked back and I let out a cry of surprise.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jennifer asks. “I’ve called you ten times already, but instead of doing your duty I find you spying?”

  Her icy blue eyes sweep over the courtyard and I see her pupils contract when they alight upon the Board delegation. Her grip tightens until it feels like my hair’s going to be ripped out of my skull.

  “Eyeing things that don’t belong to you again?” she whispers harshly in my ear.

  “Which one are you talking about?” I ask back through gritted teeth. “The official one or the secret one?”

  Jennifer pushes me into the glass door with a snarl, and one of the windows shatters as I ram headfirst into it.

  “Lady Jennifer!” I hear the teacher exclaim in shock.

  I wince as I straighten up, blinking at the blood slowly dripping down my face.

  “Jealousy is not a good trait to have, you know,” I say, turning to face Jennifer, “as you’ve just demonstrated.”

  “You, changeling, need to be taught a lesson in manners,” Sophie says, advancing upon me as the rest of the class crowds in around us.

  “This is most outrageous!” I hear Sir Nigel whimper somewhere beyond the wall of students circling me.

  “You are a stain on the Squires’ honor,” Jennifer’s pimply-faced squire continues. “Nothing you do can hide the fact that you’re a demon: Ever since you got here, we’ve been hit by one disaster after another. I think that makes it abundantly clear what needs to be done, don’t you?”

  “Why don’t you just shut up,” I say, my mouth gone dry, “or this Fey’ll make sure those pustules never leave your face.”

  “Squire Morgan!” Sir Nigel’s falsetto says over the din. “Threatening your classmate is inexcusable. You’ve forgotten all about the five knightly virtues: courtesy, piety, chastity, genero—”

  “I always knew there was something nasty about you,” Jennifer says, cutting the professor off. “I sensed it the moment Arthur decided to bring you down here.”

  “Whatever,” I say with a shrug. “There’s no point talking to a pathetic smellfungus30 like you.”

  I hear someone choke back a laugh, and the pink drains from Jennifer’s cheeks.

  “What did you call me?” she asks.

  “A smell—fung—us,” I repeat, enunciating every syllable. “An overly critical, ignorant fool. Hasn’t anybody told you only the dumbest of the dumb think they know everything already?”

  Jennifer’s hand whips around and connects with my jaw in a thunderous clap.

  “Guess that hit close to the truth,” I snarl, cupping my burning cheek.

  “I know what rankles you,” Jennifer says. “You have the hots for my boyfriend and you hate that he’d never go for you.”

  I grin. “I think you have our roles exchanged,” I say. “What is it that bothers you most? That your title’s your only appeal or that he’s been more inclined to spend time with me lately instead of you?”

  Jennifer’s eyes blaze with fury. “Hagalaz!” she intones, flinging her hand towards me.

  I instinctively recoil, expecting a blast of hail to hit me straight on, but nothing happens. Blinking, I lower my arms to find Jennifer’s surprised face staring at me, and burst out in a relieved laughter.

  “Did you not charge my ogham back properly?” Jennifer asks her squire through clenched teeth.

  “I swear I did,” Sophie whispers back to her. “But a lot of oghams haven’t been functioning lately.”

  She looks positively alarmed, and there’s no denying she should be: Jennifer’s bound to have her skinned alive for this, even if th
e incident isn’t her fault.

  “I had heard your title as a knight was only honorary,” I say, redirecting Jennifer’s fury onto me against my better judgment. “I guess I’ve got proof now. That’s the trouble with people who brag without having the skills to back it up, it always ends up biting them back in the ass.”

  Maybe it’s because I’m still somewhat disoriented from cutting my head on the door, compounded with Jennifer’s slap, or maybe it’s because I’ve gotten too cocky myself, but I don’t see Jennifer spring towards me. Her knee suddenly digs sharply into my stomach, and air whooshes out of my lungs.

  Gasping, I slowly sink to the floor as a tingling sensation starts deep in my guts and quickly travels through my veins, eager to be let out.

  No, I tell myself, willing my energy back into its hole. Not now…not here….

  “That’s right, cower at her feet, you disgusting piece of trash!” Sophie yells, spittle flying out of her mouth.

  I curl up as she kicks me, her booted foot breaking my nose upon contact and splitting my lip, before she stomps hard on my chest. I scream in pain as I feel one of my ribs crack, the sound drowned out by the cheering crowd.

  “Stop,” I breathe, tears flowing down my cheeks. “Please!”

  “They should’ve cut out your tongue,” Jennifer says, as her squire kicks me in the stomach, redoubling the jubilant cries of the excited classroom.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying desperately to hold onto my power before it can pulverize the ballroom. My ears start to buzz, or is that a hiss?

  There’s a sudden scream and the kicking stops abruptly.

  “It bit me!” Sophie shrieks.

  Someone shakes me. “Morgan!” Keva shouts in my ear. “Morgan, are you OK?”

  I slowly uncurl from my fetal position and gasp in pain.

  “I’ve called for help,” Keva says, as I blink back tears, my powers still whirling within me, demanding to be released.

  I lick my cracked lips, tasting blood. “Wh-what happened?”

  “A snake bit Sophie,” Keva says, helping me up. “She’s on the floor and—”

  “Move away from her!” Jennifer snarls, stepping towards us.