by Ken Altabef
Moonshadow was hard pressed to remain calm in the face of his mounting anger. “If you’ve a better idea, we’d love to hear it. We are the people of ideas, the shining ones. We see through deception like a clear sky. Truth is our friend.”
“The truth is a little bird that perches dutifully in the palm of your hand,” said Meadowlark, “until it decides to fly away. Here is the truth. We are stronger than them, more cunning. Use their weapons against them. Turn their minds against each other. Make them kneel.”
Arabelle shouted, “Our land! Our choice! Independence!”
It surprised Theodora to hear the delicate faery speak out so forcefully but looks were, as ever, deceiving. She was also surprised by the torrent of support Arabelle’s words evoked from the crowd.
“War?” asked Moonshadow.
Streaks of lightning flashed in Meadowlark’s sky blue eyes. “If it comes to that. Why not? Better to fight than to follow, or be led to the slaughter, to wither and die.”
Moonshadow shook her head. “Such a thing might have been feasible once. Not anymore. We are too few and they are too many.”
“We could seek help,” suggested Meadowlark, “from the Winter Court.”
“No!” she replied, adamant. “We will not do that.”
The uproar was intense, with many in support and many opposed. The situation was getting out of hand.
“It is time for Revolution!” said Meadowlark. His face held an odd mischief that Theodora knew too well. He was enjoying this.
“A war will get us nowhere,” Moonshadow counseled. “Such a plan has no hope of success.”
“No hope? Talk like that from a faery? Moonshadow is no fit leader for us.” Meadowlark turned to the crowd. “Follow this relic of a different age, or throw yourselves with me? Take what we want.”
Theodora noticed he glanced her way as he said that. Take what we want?
Meadowlark faced Moonshadow again. “Let me light the incandenza.”
“Is that what you think?” Moonshadow asked. She raised her hand elegantly, a little white light between thumb and forefinger
This called for the final vote, by which all challenges were decided.
Many held up silver lights in support of Moonshadow’s position. Others held the crimson fire that supported Meadowlark
“Moonshadow leads us because she is wise and gentle,” said Gryfflet. The little faery held up her hand and a ball of silver light flared in support.
Meadowlark snickered. “Reasonable? Gentle? Sorry dear, but that’s not what we are.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Moonshadow. “We are tricksters, born and bred. Why deny it? She lulls us to sleep; she lulls us to death.”
Arabelle put up the crimson light, and Meadowlark acknowledged her vote. He turned to Theodora, “Are you with us or against Clarimonde?”
Theodora was surprised how many agreed with Meadowlark. The crowd showed a sea of crimson battling with streaks of silver like breakers on a red tide. The situation looked grim. Theodora put up a silver light.
Not surprisingly, Meadowlark was the first to see it.
“You don’t get a vote, Lady Changeling,” he said. “Put out your light.”
Theodora stood firm. “Moonshadow is patient and reasonable, like Moon Dancer before her. She is good for us. She will take us to our new home in time, without bloodshed.”
“I’m tired of waiting!” raged Meadowlark. “You are nothing more than a spy for the Graysons. You should not even be here. Go back to your manor house and human husband.”
“I was one of the seven, just as you,” Theodora said.
Her revelation incited a wild murmur from the crowd.
“I remember,” said Meadowlark. “I remember why we had to kill Griffin Grayson. But you’ve forgotten. You’ve turned against us. You spy for them. The Graysons will be the first to fall. Lord Eric can either take your children and go, or he can put a musket in his hand and fight for us. Which will it be?”
“Eric is fighting for us right now. He’s gone to London. He is meeting with someone important right now.”
Murmurs rose again from the crowd. Some of the red lights wavered.
“It’s happening,” Theodora said. “He speaks for us. He has a meeting with someone important. I think it is the King himself.” Now she was the one telling a lie, but she betrayed no signs of it. “Give him his chance!”
The sea of lights continued to turn, going from red to silver.
“You’ve had too many chances,” spat Meadowlark. “You’ll never listen.”
Theodora noticed the glitter of tears in his eyes. Was he talking about them? Was this all just personal?
“It’s decided,” Moonshadow said, taking a tally of the lights. “Silver holds the day. I will light the torch.”
“Pshaww!” Meadowlark shot a ball of red flame at the incandenza but it failed to ignite. Without the support of the others, he could never light the eternal flame.
“Perhaps you should take your own advice,” Moonshadow told him. “Perhaps you best belong in the Winter Court.”
“Perhaps I do.”
Meadowlark shot one final glance at Theodora, but the water was gone from his eyes. He turned and walked away. This is far from over, he thought. Far from over.
Chapter 6
Aldebaran sat so absolutely still, Weasel thought the great faery might have been turned to stone. His skin was such a deep purple it seemed almost black in the semi-darkness of the cavern. With his face lowered, his head and the tops of his broad shoulders appeared as three rounded lumps of dusky granite. The illusion was ruined only by the two thick black horns that spiraled up from his temples.
The full Winter Court had assembled in the courtyard at the center of Deepgrave’s main cavern. The faeries crowded in a wide circle around the Queen’s consort, surrounding Aldebaran in a ring that stretched thirty deep on every side. They sat very still in the semi-darkness, waiting.
All this infernal waiting annoyed Weasel more than anything else. The Festival of Lights was a celebration of the coming winter; there was supposed to be music, and dancing, and brackenwine. And that last was what Weasel wanted most of all. Just a little wine to wet his whistle. Not all this sitting and waiting, this boring, forced obeisance as if they were the dogs of the hunt. A stark reminder that they were all just Dresdemona’s playthings and nothing more. He wished something would happen. Anything.
His gaze shifted from Aldebaran’s inert and lumpy form to the raised dais where the Dark Queen sat on her high seat. It was too dark to see much of her but Weasel thought he caught the coppery glint of her eyes. A pair of banshee handmaidens stood beside her but, dressed always in black, they faded into the murky gloom, barely discernable even to sharp faery eyes. That was fine. Weasel didn’t want to see them.
A spark ignited behind the queen’s head, a fuzzy golden light backlighting her silhouette. Weasel felt a tremor of excitement at the outline of her lithe figure. He could only see the suggestion of her face in the darkness, the pronounced line of her jaw, the sensuous tips of her ears, the copper headpiece she wore and the way her long hair trailed out from it. She stood up from the chair. She said nothing.
Weasel looked quickly away, though he could have stared at the Queen forever. The tips of her ears—just the shape of them made his cock hard—but he dared not linger. There was no telling that she might notice his lecherous gaze, or whether her handmaidens, still swathed in darkness beside her, might see the bulge at his crotch.
Aldebaran moved next. It was a subtle thing and yet they all noticed it immediately in the stillness of the cavern. He raised his head. Slowly the craggy outlines of his face were revealed—heavy, mature and confident, his beefy frame so unlike the wiry, ethereal forms of the other faeries. Strong-jawed and heavy-browed, a face so stern that it would seem ugly if not for the slight uptick of thick lips that formed a crookedly attractive smile. His horns were black and heavy. Their aggressive spiral made him seem more minotaur than man.
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br /> The Dark Queen raised her slender arms and spread her golden light across the scene, illuminating Aldebaran in all his greatness. An ancient broadsword with a wide copper blade lay before him. Weasel had never seen such a thing before. It was not a faery weapon.
But then again Aldebaran was an enigma to them all. The Queen’s consort was not a native-born faery. He had come to Deepgrave from somewhere else. He might well be something else, Weasel thought, some demon or other malicious spirit. He even smells different. He was every inch a sadist and enjoyed causing pain, yet in his relations with the Queen he remained submissive. Such was her power. Weasel wondered often about their lovemaking. Dresdemona would not stoop to bedding anyone else. Weasel couldn’t imagine any regular faery having the nerve for it.
Aldebaran was leader of the Wild Hunt, and Weasel desperately wanted a place in his regime but couldn’t ever drum up the nerve to apply, or to speak to Aldebaran at all. Damn it, where is that wine?
By this time the Queen’s light had widened to illuminate the ring of faeries waiting patiently as Weasel waited impatiently. All of Deepgrave were here, dressed in white or black robes, perhaps a hundred faeries in all. They sat on broken stones arranged in concentric rings to form a sort of amphitheater, a place reserved for spectacle and proceedings of the high court. At last the music began. Flute and tambour and drum, playing a slow and sad song, one of the Queen’s favorites. Weasel looked around. Was there no wine? How could they have the festival without wine?
“Is there a challenge?” Aldebaran asked. His voice was deep and sonorous, as if his broad chest was a bass drum.
Three faeries stepped forward. The first two, a male and a female, carried long, slender faery swords resembling French rapiers. Weasel knew them both, Blackwing and Rainbird, a pair of young and very good fighters. The third male, whose name was Pox, wielded a pair of curved short swords that were little more than daggers. He was a member of the Wild Hunt, and deadliest of them all.
The three challengers were dressed the same way as Aldebaran, naked except for a tight gray loincloth wrapped around their groin and pelvis. The two younger warriors had daubed their bodies with bioluminescent paint. Streaks of neon green and flaming yellow ran down their arms and across their cheeks. Pox would have none of such nonsense.
At least, thought Weasel, some entertainment. His mouth was dry. He wanted some wine.
“Very good,” said the Queen. At sound of her voice the music stopped abruptly. She raised the light intensity again and the entire cavern came into view. Her light now shone blindingly white, casting oppressive shadows across the large courtyard and stretching away to the streets of Deepgrave. Aldebaran’s dogs paced between the people’s houses, which were cut directly into the dark stone. There was no plant life among the funerary furnishings and the surfaces of every wall were covered with carvings that showed the history of the Winter Court. As illuminated by the Queen’s white light, the entire scene had a monotone quality in shades of gray and darker gray. Dusky circles of lichen clung to the walls in gray, black and rust, drinking moisture from the stone. Beetles, centipedes, and other chittery things crawled among the mushrooms underfoot.
Most remarkable of all was the ceiling. The Deepgrave was a hollow belowground, not so much a real space as a distortion, a fold of spacetime the Queen herself had created beneath a small graveyard in Manchester. It was situated crosswise to reality. It had neither ceiling nor sky. Instead the dome of the place created a bizarre visual effect. It mirrored the surface of the ground above so that reflections of the graveyard’s statuary and headstones appeared to hang down into the top of cavern, the tallest monuments and spires stretched down like claws reaching to claim the faeries below.
The Queen raised her hands above her head, stretching up toward the gravestones high above, preparing to give the signal to start. Weasel stole only a tiny glance at her, lest the quickening of his heartbeat give him away.
Dresdemona was magnificent. Her skin had a deep copper hue with a slight metallic sheen, particularly across her pronounced chin and deep-set eyes. Those eyes were enormous and black as pools of liquid tar. Her long black hair ran straight down her back to her waist. Such black hair was unusual for a faery and had earned her the first half of the sobriquet of Dark Queen. Her long neck ended in sharp-boned shoulders that flowed into lithe, muscular arms that matched the rest of her slim, firm build precisely. Her breasts were bare and high, the nipples large and full of dark copper color. She wore only a skullcap of that warm-colored metal, embossed with the image of a dragon in flight, and a slender circlet of the same around her waist resting at the top of her sharp hipbones.
On either side of her stood her two handmaids, banshees from the southern lands. Beneath their black hoods they had identical faces, like withered husks, so pale and wrinkled there was little life left to them. Mummies, corpses. They both had the same wide, lipless mouth and Weasel looked quickly away from those mouths too. If they should open...
The Queen nodded once.
The three faeries attacked all at once. Aldebaran moved with blinding speed, retrieving his weapon from the floor while rolling to the side. He swung the broadsword in the same motion that had picked it up, dealing a heavy blow at Blackwing. The broadsword rang off Blacking’s rapier so forcefully it sent the lithe faery sprawling. Aldebaran had no time to take advantage of this. He had sidestepped Rainbird’s thrust, but Pox had leapt into the air and now came down at him with both short swords aimed in a deadly arc.
Aldebaran shifted at the last instant and the swords missed their marks, but only slightly. One sank deep into his shoulder and the other slid between his ribs. He flinched, Weasel thought not so much from the pain as the error of underestimating his most deadly attacker. The flinch was short-lived and followed immediately by a backhand strike that caught the edge of Pox’s chin and sent him flying to the side. The nimble faery corrected himself in mid-air, landed on his feet and braced for another attack.
Rainbird swung her rapier at Aldebaran’s throat, but his great broadsword had switched hands, almost of its own volition, and he parried easily. Weasel had never seen the chieftain using this weapon before but he seemed as well used to it as any other. Black blood flowed down Aldebaran’s’ arm from his shoulder, and Weasel noticed the slow, steady pulse of it. He was calm as ever, solid as a rock. This fight was almost over. Where was that damn wine?
Aldebaran switched from defense to offense. He blocked Blackwing’s next thrust, pushing him back again. He spun around, his huge fist striking Rainbird full in the nose. Stunned, he kicked her legs out from under and slapped her ass with the flat of his blade.
Despite its size, the heavy broadsword parried a flurry of attacks from Pox’s twin blades. Blackwing attempted to distract Aldebaran with faery lights that popped all around his head but the great faery managed to ignore them entirely. He struck Pox a hard blow to the midsection with the large round knob at the hilt of the broadsword and watched him bend over double and vomit. Aldebaran was so busy laughing at this fine display he was nearly decapitated by Blackwing’s next attack. He took a step backward out of range just in time.
The copper broadsword returned the favor, heading straight across Blackwing’s neck. He could not move fast enough to avoid the strike and a feeble attempt to parry with his rapier slowed down the blade not at all. At the last moment Aldebaran turned his broadsword again so that only the flat of the blade struck his opponent’s neck. Still and all, the force of the swing knocked Blackwing to the ground but left his head still attached.
Aldebaran laughed again, transforming his brutish face into a joyous, almost handsome one. He stabbed the great sword into the ground before him, signaling the end of the fight. He spread his arms wide and bowed his head toward his Queen.
Dresdemona clapped her hands. “Splendid.”
Weasel turned to the faery next to him and whispered, “Is there anything to drink?”
“Let the festival continue,” the Queen said. “M
usic! Drink!”
At last. The music resumed, though no more lighthearted in character than it had formerly been. People began to pass out cakes and goblets of wine. Weasel reached for a cup. He could already taste the bittersweet Thistlewine.
“Wait!” cried the Queen. Though it broke his heart, Weasel fought the urge to snatch and drain the cup. The server pulled the goblet back, spilling the wine. Weasel whimpered. All eyes went to the dais.
“Perhaps there is a challenge for me today,” said Dresdemona. “It’s been so long since I had one. I almost miss it all.”
She paused to look them over. Weasel and the others were careful to avoid her gaze.
“Someone here…” said the Queen.
Weasel tried to make himself as small as possible. He looked down, kicked absently at the dark soil beneath his sandaled feet.
“Someone…” said the Queen. “You––Grettlefish! Do you wish to challenge me?”
“No mistress. I do not.”
“But I see that you do. You feel upset. Unhappy with the way things are run down here.”
“I do not feel that way.” Grettlefish also kept his gaze to the ground, but it was clear to everyone that panic was setting in. He had survived in Deepgrave for eighty years by being insignificant. He was a short, unimposing figure, slightly overweight. He had not an ounce of ambition in him.
“But you do,” said the Queen. “I see that you do. You question my abilities, whispering in secret. You think that you should be in charge. You tell this to your friends, your family.”
The Queen’s light intensified on several members of the crowd, identifying members of Grettlefish’s clan. Their objections were written clearly on their faces. If ever there had been someone to talk against the Queen it certainly would not have been Grettlefish. Weasel was certain he wasn’t even capable of such a thing. Surely they all knew that. Surely the Queen knew.
