Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  He leaned closer and peered into the inky depths. A pair of clawed hands shot up from the surface and grabbed his shoulders, digging into his flesh. With a sharp yank, they pulled him in. The revenant’s strength was undeniable. James tumbled into the cool water. With a wet slap, his face parted the lily pads on the surface to plunge among the long strands of their deep roots, swirling in the murk. Caught in their interlocking web, he sank lower and lower.

  James tore at the strands, unable to see anything under the water except the masses of matted tendrils wrapping themselves around his body like murderous strands of long, dark hair. The strange voice had stopped singing. Now the voice was screaming.

  James coughed out a few bubbles of air. He couldn’t last much longer without taking a breath. Like all drowning men, an urgent sense of panic threatened his sanity, but he forced himself to stay calm. Struggling against this creature was the wrong approach. He could not see through the murky water but if he relaxed and strengthened the connection he might sense true. That was the only way out. Embrace the bond in full, just as he would do with any other woodland creature.

  A young girl slowly came into focus. Oozing from the shadows, swirling in a sticky web of lies and deceit. James suddenly had a fatalistic desire to give in and draw the cold black water deep into his lungs. She wanted him to do that. But he held on, concentrating on the screams in the water. He heard two screams, two notes which resolved themselves into a bi-syllabic name, ringing in his ears: “Eh-ric! Eh-ric!”

  James was short on time. His lungs felt very heavy, the murky blue of the water darkening. He knew how to communicate without words, once he’d forged the bond. “Why do you call for Eric?” he asked.

  A wet, nervous giggle. “We’re meant to get married. You still want to, don’t you?”

  “I’m not Eric.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He was running out of time. “What’s your name?”

  “You know my name.”

  He didn’t. Who was she? Now his head was getting very fuzzy. A vision appeared before him out of the murky water. A girl’s face, pale and bloated; long exposure to pond water had exaggerated the rounded curves of her young face, which had once been pretty. Her eyes were black and deep and full of rage. Her hair was long and black and matted, indistinguishable from the long strands of kelp that held him tight, squeezing the life out of him, dragging him down. Was he imagining this in the foggy haze of near-death, or really seeing it through the connection? Did it matter?

  “I am not Eric Grayson.” He forced the thought out at her, sending it cutting through the water. “I am his son.”

  “That can’t be! We aren’t even married yet. You still want me? Tell me you do! I have a million hands now to hold you, to caress you and pull you down, in these chill waters.”

  James had no more time. He gave up all resistance, taking in a breath of cold water. Instead of resisting the strands that tore at his skin he reached out for them, drawing her toward him. He did not choke or sputter. As she pressed against him, he put his lips to her own.

  The kiss was icy cold, the dead pale flesh, clammy. The revenant held him tight, half buried in muck and mire, the weeds slowly filling his mouth.

  But as he had hoped, the kiss convinced her immediately that he was not Eric. She didn’t want to embrace him; she didn’t even know him. He was a stranger. She didn’t want him to die.

  As she realized his true identity, he felt a wave of shock and horror pushing him up to the surface. The thin strands of kelp propelled him now instead of holding him down. James burst through the surface, gasping for a breath of real air, coughing violently as the pond water spewed from his lungs. He flailed wildly in the water, fighting the disorientation that had come with nearly passing out. He grabbed a shrub at the water’s edge and pulled himself from the lake.

  James spit out the rest of the water and rolled over onto his back, still gasping and sputtering. The girl was still there, beneath the murky water, looking up at him as through a blackened mirror, still concerned for his safety.

  During their connection James had learned her name. “Marjorie?” he said.

  She cringed at mention of her name.

  “Marjorie, why do you want to kill my father?”

  She moved away, to drift slowly back down into the depths of the lake. “Because he killed me.”

  Chapter 31

  Nora said, “I have to go back.”

  Threadneedle stopped walking so abruptly he nearly stumbled. Bent slightly over, their faces drew together as she took his elbow to steady him. He searched her eyes for a moment, and then smiled.

  “I understand,” he said, turning his gaze out upon the vast expanse of heather and tall grasses that carpeted the meadow before them. He leaned heavily on his cane. “I didn’t expect you to stay as long as you have. How long? Six months, isn’t it?”

  “Nine. You were unconscious the first three.”

  “Right. That’s quite a long time. And you haven’t been back to London at all? You had a promising career…”

  “I had to make sure you were all right, that’s all.”

  “I appreciate that.” He shot her the raised-eyebrow and pursed-lips expression that she always found so heartfelt and endearing. “I felt them trying to help me, while I lay asleep. Moonshadow, your mother, some of the others. And I felt you too.”

  “I tried to help, but somehow I never got the hang of it.”

  “Well, it’s a lot harder than it looks.” He stretched out his hand to indicate that they might as well resume their walk. She was impressed by his progress. He seemed much stronger today than yesterday.

  “Six months—nine months—cooped up in Barrow Downes,” he resumed. “Quite an adventure.”

  “Spent most of it worrying,” she chided.

  He offered her his most charming smile. “Sorry about that. But in the end, as your teacher, I’m glad. I can’t think of any other way I might’ve persuaded you to stay on here so long. You must have learned quite a lot.”

  Nora scoffed. Threadneedle always had the oddest way of turning any situation into an object lesson. But of course he was right. Spending so much time in Barrow Downes she’d learned much of the faeries, so many things she hadn’t appreciated before. She had been, from the beginning, so totally opposed to faery lore. She had raised an impenetrable wall. But somehow Threadneedle, in his inimitable way, had found a way to undo her prejudices—had threaded the needle so to speak—and brought all her defenses down.

  The night the Chrysalid had come, ten years ago, the first time she’d changed, had been terribly traumatic for her. James had been enthralled, maybe because he was younger, or a boy. He’d always dreamed of being a pirate; perhaps a faery was not so very different.

  But Nanny’s reaction had scared them both, and they’d put the whole thing off limits, not to talk about, not to think about. Just like their mother, who had hidden her true nature from them, waiting on the time when she thought they were mature enough to understand. Nature had caught up to Nora first. That second unexpected change, as adolescence broke over her in a wave, threatening her girlish crush on the stable boy, had frightened her even more. The monster had been dragged out of the dark place, and into the light. And she was the monster. There was no ignoring it any longer. When she had confronted her mother about it, Theodora had revealed herself to them. Nora thought it the most hideous thing she’d ever seen—her own mother changing right before their eyes. James had thought it wonderful.

  Nora supposed her mother was quite beautiful as a faery, but she could not appreciate that fact as she’d watched her mother change, teary-eyed, riddled with insecurity and fear. That green skin was horrible, those pointed ears, the elongated nose and chin, her mother’s familiar features warped and twisted. She’d been horrified. Her own mother! And she’d been so very angry that the truth had been kept from her for so long.

  Theodora offered to take them to Barrow Downes to meet the other faeries. James e
mbraced it. Nora refused to go. She continued to deny her true nature, to hide beneath the façade of a human girl just like her mother had done. “Did I set a bad example?” Theodora had asked, “By not telling you this from the start?” Nora wouldn’t answer. In the end Theodora did not press the case; she left it up to Nora to decide.

  But Threadneedle had changed all that. He’d drawn her in like nobody else ever could have. He intrigued and mystified her. He fascinated her. He was a crafty fellow. It was entirely possible he’d planned the whole thing, bringing her along bit by bit, appealing to her curiosity, her father’s need for help. He taught her how to manipulate people’s perception of her appearance. But did he have affection for her? True affection? She didn’t know. Even now, she didn’t know.

  Over the past nine months she’d often thought about their fevered embrace that night on the bank of the Thames. That fleeting, impetuous kiss. Had he been playing a role then too? She didn’t think so. She had to test his feelings; she had to kiss him again.

  The whole thing seemed impossible. He was one hundred and seven years old! But what of it? He still looked as he chose to look, like a man of no more than forty, a mature, handsome fellow. Nora had no doubt he could appear to be as youthful as she was, if he so chose. Her mother was well past a hundred and looked no more than thirty. It was all illusion. Appearances were inconsequential to the faeries. Time did not seem to touch them. But age was different than just appearance. Her mother, married to a mortal man, had to watch her lover slowly grow old, to see his vitality wither and fade away. How could she stand it? What would she do, in the end, when she wound up married to an old man?

  Nora didn’t know how time would take its toll on her and James—being half faery—nobody knew. She had been told that some halflings aged regularly, while some inherited the extreme longevity of their forebears. If she were to marry a mortal man she might well watch him age and die. Perhaps she’d be better off with one of her own kind. But what kind, exactly, was that?

  She’d learned so much about the faeries in recent months. They were a fun-loving and free people. They cared little for all the silly social restrictions that seemed to dominate British society; they cared nothing for money or power. And yes they could be petty and impish and quick to anger as well, but those too were honest and natural emotions. They held nothing back. On the whole, they wanted only to live and laugh and frolic in the open spaces, a life that was mostly denied to them now.

  They wanted to be free. Nora had come to understand her father’s obsession with creating a commonwealth for the faeries. After witnessing how they were cooped up here, intimidated and oppressed, she could see it no other way. It wasn’t right. She must work to free them. Just like her father, she would not abandon them.

  Over the past few months she had formed some deep friendships here, especially with James’ lover, Arabelle. Arabelle had the most wonderful laugh and she could dance and play the lyre like an angel. When she fluttered her wings and stepped into the air, it was easy to believe she was an angel. She certainly looked the part—or chose to look it—with that blonde hair and blue eyes and perfect face.

  And Nora felt a change physically as well. The faeries of Barrow Downes were very clear about the source of their power and strength—the moon. They made a practice of gathering that power in secret vigils out on the fields at night and midnight dancing circles. She had basked in the glow herself on hot summer nights along with all the others, stopping only short of engaging in their sexual debauches. She was an Englishwoman at heart, born and raised, and still a virgin. She would not give herself to some prancing jackanapes out on the moors, nor would she succumb to the temptation of Arabelle’s feminine charms. But all in all, she felt liberated being around them, and basking under the welcoming light of the moon. She felt strong; she felt powerful.

  “I’m glad you stayed,” Threadneedle said. “It was good to know I had a friend nearby, and I did know it, even while asleep. These people are not really my friends.”

  That was true. Despite their efforts to restore his health, the faeries of Barrow Downes did not really trust him. Not because he was a spy, not because he was a false face. That didn’t matter at all. It was all just one big trick to them. A trick on the Englishmen. Threadneedle was never so popular as when he regaled them with tales of his intrigues at the palace, making a fool of old King George and even tricking stodgy William Pitt on occasion as well.

  But there was a lot more to the story, or a lot less, depending on what little she had been able to uncover. Nora had spent a good deal of time trying to ferret out information regarding Threadneedle’s enigmatic past. It must be hard, she thought, for a faery to live in London, a city of coal smoke and industry instead of in the open fields. How odd that he should live among humans and fit in so very well.

  Others had asked her about him, thinking she would know some juicy tidbit, but she’d had to admit they hadn’t spoken much about his past. Threadneedle was just coaching her to hone her abilities.

  She’d been told, in hushed tones, that he had originally belonged to the Winter Court. The juiciest rumors indicated that he had been a favorite lover of the Dark Queen. Why he had left their company, and under what circumstances was not known. He wouldn’t talk about it to anyone.

  He was a man of many secrets. As he lay unconscious in the healing chamber Nora had ample opportunity to study his face—his real face. Threadneedle used his natural faery form here at Barrow Downes—elegant but masculine, with thin but pleasant lines. But even in that he was not being entirely honest. His real face, as revealed while asleep, differed in one significant way. Without his glamour he was just as handsome, but there were more than a few scars on his face from sword fighting. He had not willingly shown her those before. He didn’t want her to see. Was that modesty, or an attempt to beguile a young, attractive woman? It didn’t matter. Seeing him at his most vulnerable, with no glamour at all, she had decided that she loved him.

  After leaving the Winter Court, Threadneedle had entered the world of men. Had that move been sparked by mere curiosity or some other motive, she wondered? He’d learned human ways and reveled in their culture, especially theatre and the arts. A veritable outcast from the Winter Court, he had been approached and recruited to the Summer Court by none other than the great Moon Dancer herself. He had agreed to help them, so long as he remained in the thick of it—Paris, Geneva, London. Mister Richard Templeton, enthusiastic patron of the arts, was not entirely fiction. Nora could understand the allure perhaps better than most. She too had embraced the world of the theatre, the grand opera and the great plays. Unfortunately now, any thoughts of the Menagerie caused her pangs of regret…

  “I have to go back,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I’ve acted very poorly toward Master Spagnelli, abandoning him without a word. How has he gotten on, without his star impresario Mr. Horace Wilde? I need to settle things with him, to apologize at least.”

  “I know. So, I thank you,” he continued. “For your kindness and friendship.”

  Friendship? Was that all it was? Damn it, she had to know.

  Nora stopped walking quite abruptly. She grabbed his hand and pulled him closer. It was meant to be a bold move but turned out rather clumsy as he stumbled and nearly fell. I’m an idiot, she thought. What am I doing?

  He took her elbow to steady himself. A serious look crossed his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…”

  She couldn’t tell him. She didn’t know what else to say or do.

  He cocked his head gamely at her. A penetrating look. Oh, this was useless. If he didn’t know what she meant by now, he was a fool. She should just end this, one way or the other.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked. The question seemed odd, his tone too casual. He couldn’t mean...

  Oh dear, this had all been a terrible mistake. But still, she wasn’t going to stop now. She couldn’t. “I want you to kiss me.”

  He smiled and tilted his he
ad, as if thinking it over. Nora thought she might drop dead right there on the spot.

  And then his lips pressed against her own. She fell into his arms and he seemed stronger than ever, holding her with one arm, supporting them both on the cane with the other. She lay her hand on his cheek as they kissed and this was different, this was so very different because she wasn’t kissing him in his human form. She was kissing him in all his green-skinned glory. She drew him closer and they pressed together as their passion increased. His hot mouth, his firm kisses, his passionate tongue. There was no deception here.

  She pulled back, gasping for breath. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Oh, but you must. First, to make amends to your friend and patron Spagnelli, but also for me.”

  “For you? I don’t understand.”

  “I need you to return to my house, to retrieve a small item for me. It’s very important. I think there’s something wrong at the royal court. Something seriously wrong.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “I don’t know, not exactly. But the old King’s death… I can scarcely think it was an accident.”

  “Surely he was a very old man, and in poor health.”

  “They say he died on the privy, with his trousers down round his ankles.”

  Nora could not suppress a chuckle. “Well I suppose…”

  “Yes, well, I suppose something else entirely. Do you know what a faery stroke is?”

  She shook her head. This was not the sort of thing she wanted to be talking about just now. She wanted him to kiss her again. It occurred to her that she might well never understand this man.

  Threadneedle said, “A faery stroke is a way to kill a man. It’s not easy, but it is sudden. It’s a reversal of the healing energy, concentrated and directed at the victim’s heart. But to do such a thing, one has to get the victim to open up, to relax and trust. And if they do that, they’re soon dead.”