Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  “But I don’t wanna miss the feygappe!” moaned Gryfllet.

  Theodora winced. The little faery’s pouty expression and small round face evinced the perfect sympathy, even if it was just an illusion. As always Gryfflet chose to appear as a ten-year old girl with lustrous blonde hair and a prepubescent body dressed only in a wreath of baby’s breath swaddling her groin. She was insufferably cute.

  “I don’t wanna!” Gryfflet repeated.

  “I don’t want to either,” Theodora said emphasizing the correct pronunciation out of habit as if schooling a child. “But we must.”

  She led the little faery away from the courtyard by her little hand. Behind them the feygappe, already in progress, filled the square with frolicking faeries.

  “It’s up to us—you, me, Nora and Threadneedle to find that traitor. And we can hardly do that while we’re cavorting around with all the others.”

  “Oh, foo! Moonshadow! Let Moonshadow find whoever it is,” said Gryfflet, looking over her shoulder at the ecstatic throng. “Anyone who is false she will know. She’ll know!”

  “She’ll know the hearts of everyone in the feygappe, but the traitor won’t be in the feygappe, for that exact reason. We’re to find anyone not participating. She can’t keep track of everyone who is and isn’t there—not like that.”

  “Not fair. Not fair! It’ll be another year before we can have it again. I don’t wanna miss it.”

  Theodora didn’t want to miss it either. Once a year the ‘Harvest Moon’, as the humans called it, rose just shortly after sunset, hanging so low to the horizon that it filled the night sky with an abundance of bright silver light. When the faeries assembled together on such a night, even in the caves beneath the Barrow Downes, it was like shaking hands with Mother Moon. Absorbing the moon’s abundance en masse, the faeries used her power to perform a communal merging of spirit that was, in effect, a massive love feast. The sensation created was truly unique—a gigantic shared orgasm. It was an event not to be missed. Hearts would be open, souls bared, and the traitor’s ill-intent would be exposed in the link, especially with Moonshadow on the alert. They would not risk it.

  Three faeries had departed Barrow Downes within the past few days, but these were all established traders with extensive human contacts and scheduled runs. Two such traders had even cancelled their routes when Moonshadow announced the feygappe on such short notice. No, Theodora felt certain the spy was still here in Barrow Downes. They just had to find him.

  “We’ll have to split up,” she said. “You go through the center of town.”

  “Go in people’s houses?”

  “Yes, go in their houses. Try to find anyone doing anything suspicious.”

  “You’re suspicious!” Gryfflet remarked. “Ruining my feygappe.”

  “I know,” said Theodora sadly. “Mommy’s always the bad guy. Now get along. We’ve got to hurry.”

  “Foo!”

  As the little faery skipped away toward the main avenue, Theodora wondered how far she would get in her search before becoming thoroughly distracted. Probably wind up right in the middle of the festivities before long, but it couldn’t be helped. They would gain nothing by staying together and covering the same ground.

  She thought about all the faeries in the main square. It was hard to be sure who was there and who wasn’t. They were all jammed together, many locked in steamy embraces, adding physical lovemaking to the spiritual high, often in groups of three or more. Impossible to keep track of everyone, but she felt certain she hadn’t seen old Varney there. She made a visit to his house her first priority.

  She did not knock on the door although a pair of nightingales on the window ledge announced her arrival with a loud snippet of birdsong. She went right in.

  Theodora paused at the entrance as the heady scents of exotic flowers inflamed her nostrils. Such a strange and wonderful combination of smells in this place. The sitting room was as wild as any jungle but she saw no sign of Varney among the blooms. She passed through into his kitchen.

  Varney sat at a heavy oaken table, several small potted plants laid out before him. He sat so still, his head slumped on his chest, his mouth agape, that Theodora imagined he might already be dead. He had not realized she’d entered the room and only a slight twitching of one of his hands betrayed any sign of life. He might be sleeping or dreaming.

  But he didn’t seem to be up to anything too nefarious.

  Suddenly his entire body twitched and he sat upright, a wild look on his face. Still unaware of Theodora, he bent to examine the fronds of the small potted plant in front of his nose. He fretted over every leaf and tendril, blowing and puffing air at them, tickling them with his fingertips.

  “Varney.”

  He looked up. Squinting at her he said, “Who is that? Clarimonde? Is that you?”

  She stepped closer. “Yes Varney.”

  He sneered. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to see... to check… to see why you weren’t at the feygappe.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled. “I didn’t know you cared. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be married. The great experiment. Monogamy isn’t it?”

  “Something like that. Why aren’t you there?”

  He took a long deep breath, then resumed fussing with his plant. “I haven’t the strength.”

  “But that’s the whole point. Mother Moon will provide. You’d perhaps feel a bit stronger just being there.”

  “I’m well past the age of carousing with that bunch, Clarimonde. And not even the Moon can solve my problems. Time runs out for us all. The well runs dry. Don’t waste your time on me. Or are you still looking for your traitor?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Meadowlark? It’s always Meadowlark.”

  “Not this time. There’s somebody else.” We have to find him, she thought. If we are to effect a rescue of the princess we need to know who to trust.

  “Well,” Varney said weakly, “You won’t find him here.”

  “I know. I’ve got to go.” She started to leave, then turned back. “What in the world are you doing with that plant?”

  “It’s a rare find. A goldenrod mated to a Morning Glory. The flower, I’m told, is absolutely exquisite. I’ve got to get this dammed thing to bloom. I’ve got to see it. It will be wonderful.” He smiled broadly, a tiny modicum of strength returning to his saturnine features.

  “My time draws near, Clarimonde,” he continued. “Who wants to merge with some boring old tree? Hmmm? When one can be such a wonderful flower? Do me a favor, love. Come back in a few days. If you don’t find me here, you must plant this flower somewhere safe. Do that for me?”

  “I will,” she said, and went away.

  The slow growl of a bass drum.

  Louder.

  Louder! Neither rising nor falling. A steady hum.

  Eric forced his eyes open, but it didn’t help very much. It took a minute to convince himself that they were indeed open. He was in a dark place, enveloped in shadow. He tried to turn his head but found he could not move.

  What had happened? What could he remember?

  A fight in the Tower yard. A searing pain in his chest. Run through.

  Oh God, he thought. I must be dead.

  His breath, if he were drawing breath, should come with a cough, a bloody wet burble. But he was not breathing.

  Now he recognized the dim surroundings. He was laid out in the Grayson family crypt. He could make out he grim monuments looming over him, carved portraits of his esteemed ancestors. They stared down at him with vacant, dead eyes. He saw the flit of a figure as it hovered over him and then faded into shadow again. Is that grandfather Griffin? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be. The silhouette wasn’t right, too tall, too sleight of build.

  Still he couldn’t move. But… he wasn’t dead. He must be breathing, for he clearly smelled the loamy earth, the slight stench of decay. He felt the earth beneath his naked back, the blood seeping down from his shoulder, red filame
nts spilling into the ground, into the earth, a connection to the land, taking root. Growing. All around.

  The black shadows filled with green as growing things surrounded him, the drum beat fading away. Shoots and tendrils, bark and branch, a panoply of leaves as the foliage blossomed and grew. The smell. The smell of life. And he was a part of it. Union, communion. Inhale, exhale.

  He felt invisible presences all around him, peeking through the leaves with eager eyes. He felt a barrage of emotions—good will, cheer, lust. Somewhere nearby a crowd of people making love. Shining down upon it all, a benevolent Moon.

  Eric opened his eyes.

  He saw James’ face looming above and felt the pressure as his son gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “You’re going to be alright, Father. I’m here with you.”

  “Nora?” he croaked.

  “Quiet, Father. Rest now.”

  Oh, foo!

  Gryfflet had had enough. Going into people’s houses! Snooping around! Looking for someone who likely didn’t even exist. And all the while the feygappe going on just around the corner.

  Even though she wasn’t participating, she could sense the raw emotion in the air. Everyone having a good time, edging closer and closer to the culmination of the night’s events. She felt faint echoes of their howling orgasms even from here. Really, she’d had enough.

  How could she still be sure that Theodora hadn’t joined the crowd? How could anyone resist?

  As she passed Moonshadow’s house Gryfflet decided to go on up. The view from Moonshadow’s window was exquisite. From there she could see the whole thing. And maybe it wasn’t too late to catch the edge of the ecstasy wave. Just a little. No one would deny her that, surely.

  The door to Moonshadow’s house was, as always, open to all. Gryfflet entered the huge petrified mushroom and dashed up several flights of stairs carved into the rock-hard fungus. The view from the kitchen would be best, she thought as she ran.

  Breathless, she reached the top of the stairs and burst into the kitchen. She hurried across the room to gaze out of the huge open window. The wide round forum of Barrow Downes was splayed out below, cluttered with a mass of faeries well into the effects of the feygappe. They joined and writhed together in groups, having a great time. But Gryfflet’s eyes were drawn to the figure of Moonshadow.

  Moonshadow hovered above the crowd, resplendent in a stream of bright moonlight coming down through a fluted aperture in the cave ceiling. She levitated at least a hundred feet above the ground, fully naked, her hairless head thrown back, her arms flung wide. Her alabaster skin glistened and glowed as her body slowly rotated.

  Gryfflet wondered what it must be like for her, to be in intimate contact with everyone in the crowd below simultaneously, to know their hearts and their love all at once. Oh, she wished she—

  What was that?

  A noise coming from the bedroom. Gryfflet turned and walked stealthily to the open alcove of the bedroom. No sooner had she reached the open doorway, she saw a figure inside, fairly ripping the place apart. It was the faery called Arabelle, desperately searching for something among Moonshadow’s private possessions.

  “What are you...?”

  Arabelle whirled around, a terrible guilty look on her face.

  “What are you doing?” Gryfflet asked.

  “Straightening up. Moonshadow asked me to… oh, what the hell!”

  Arabelle shot forward, closing the gap between them in an instant. She wrapped her hands around Gryfflet’s slim neck and began to squeeze.

  Gryfflet could not breathe. She immediately abandoned her glamour of a small child, returning to her natural appearance of an eighty-year-old faery woman. She returned Arabelle’s deadly embrace, grabbing her foe by her own neck. The two grappled mightily, but Arabelle was much younger and stronger, and filled with a murderous rage. Gryfflet was already so short on air she could hardly think. There must be something she could do to defend herself. Something.

  Mother Moon help me, she thought.

  And then everything faded to black.

  Chapter 52

  “Up!” Theodora said, yanking the bedclothes off her husband. “You’ve got to get up!”

  Eric opened his eyes and sat up, taking a minute to wipe the crust from their corners.

  “Breakfast!” Theodora announced, indicating a rosewood tray beside the bed. Fresh fruit, garden greens, honey mustard. Eric sighed. He just wasn’t hungry.

  “Breakfast,” she insisted. “And then we are going for a walk. You’ve been laying around feeling sorry for yourself for over a week already. I won’t have it any more.”

  “Laying around?” he grumbled. “I should probably be dead right now.”

  “You’re well enough for a walk.”

  “A walk?” he muttered. “Where? A tour of the caves?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “A start and a finish too. We both know I’ve no place to go. I can’t show my face above ground. I’m one of the most infamous men alive. A faery collaborator. Escaped from the Tower! The King’s justice won’t allow me to breathe fresh air ever again.”

  Theodora sighed. She stabbed a cube of breadfruit with the fork and shoved it toward his mouth. “Oh, the drama! Eric, we faeries have faced that situation for a hundred years and we’re still here. Eat!”

  Eric accepted the cube, though he chewed it without gusto. “Better I should have been hanged.”

  “For treason? A crime you did not commit?”

  “He shrugged. I’m a prisoner here, just as in the Tower. Everything I’ve tried to accomplish…” he shook his head. “Everything I’ve tried to prevent, it’s all happened just the same. My home and lands taken from me, my family…”

  “This is your home, and we your family. We all know what you tried to do for us.”

  “Tried and failed. The faeries of Barrow Downes are now officially on their own. I don’t belong here.”

  “You do. You belong with me.”

  He returned his focus to the food, knowing she would not leave him go without it. He had nothing more to say.

  “There’s a young girl in trouble,” Theodora said. “She’s alone and she’s scared.”

  Eric thought immediately of Marjorie Hightower, alone in a watery grave. But he had released that ghost from her torment.

  “She needs your help,” Theodora continued.

  Eric pretended not to hear. He pressed a few fingertips to his bare chest. The puncture wound was sore but had already closed up completely. And he could breath normally again. It seemed the faeries had taken care of his bloody cough and cold in the bargain as well.

  “It’s Princess Charlotte,” she said.

  “Princess? Last I heard she was the queen.”

  “You heard wrong, darling. Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was kidnapped on her way to England. An imposter sits on the throne.”

  Eric shot her an angry look. “Let me guess. More faery plots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it never end?”

  “Of course not. There are power-grabbers and rogues among the faeries just as there are among you human folk. But it’s not one of us this time. The imposter comes from the Winter Court.”

  “The ones who live in the grave?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about it.”

  “But there is.” She smiled. “Threadneedle thinks he knows where she’s being held. There’s a small abbey at St Mark’s and the reclusive monks who live there have been acting even more reclusive of late. They traditionally maintain a stall at the local market selling goat cheese, but the townsfolk haven’t seen them for more than two months—just the length of time that should have passed since the abduction. In addition, their morning bells have ceased ringing. There could be other explanations, but…

  “The problem is we’ll never get to her by ourselves. Faeries can smell other faeries just like dogs do. They’ll always see us c
oming. We need mortal men to effect the rescue. Naturally we can’t go to the authorities. But you have some men still loyal. You could organize a rescue party…”

  “I don’t owe King George any favors.”

  “No, you surely don’t. But there’s a young girl being held there. Darling, she’s alone and afraid.”

  He knew she meant it. This wasn’t just a ploy to get him out of bed. One girl he couldn’t save. One girl he had killed. But here was one who did need his help.

  Eric struggled to his feet, then took a tentative step forward. His legs were still weak, having spent a week in bed as James and the others healed the stab wound that should otherwise have ended his life.

  “It’ll take me a few days to raise the men.”

  James propped himself up on an elbow, the featherbed sagging below his weight. He could not sleep.

  Arabelle lay asleep beside him, her pure white skin stark as the moon in the darkened bedroom. Her full lips were pursed by some contemplative dream but the half-moons of purple on each cheek seemed peaceful smiles of their own.

  He lay back down and snuggled, nuzzling the back of her neck, her skin as soft as the feathers. He pressed against her spine, from shoulders to buttocks, letting the fragrance of her golden hair fill his lungs. He cupped her breasts, gently tweaked the nipples and nibbled on her cheek. She stirred and turned around. “James?”

  “You were expecting someone else?’

  Her sky blue eyes opened.

  “Oh,” he said. “Caught me looking.”

  She smiled sleepily. “What do you see?”

  “My heart’s desire.”

  He wrapped his arms across her chest and pressed closer, making both his intentions and his excitement quite clear. “Not just my heart.”

  Arabelle made a soft, uncertain noise and wriggled free. “Not tonight. I’m dead tired. The feygappe absolutely drained me.”

  “Yeah. Drained all the men too. But I wasn’t there.”

  His ran his hand ran down the length of her body, spiraling around her hip and headed for her the mound of sex. She pulled it gently away.

  “There’s always next year,” she said.