A Court of Muses

by Sarina Dorie

  The Silver Court was known for their fine crafts like what Errol’s own father and mother had once produced. Being granted permission to be in the king’s or queen’s presence was said to be a blessing for an artist, though the effect was often less dramatic in Fae than it was for Witchkin. Morties were the most easily influenced.

  Like the man playing the pianoforte with zeal.

  Errol prided himself on the generosity of the king, inviting Morty musicians into his home and inspiring greatness in their hearts. He was so much more noble and charitable than the rulers of other Fae courts, the Raven Court for one. Those harpies would attack helpless Morties for sport and kidnap children from the Morty Realm. Errol’s people did no such thing.

  The more his guest played, the stronger King Viridios radiated silver light. The air smelled sweet and salty, wisps of dreams dancing in the air like mist. Unrequited love tingled against Errol’s skin and gave him goosebumps. The king’s magic filled the room. Errol had never felt an inclination to be an artist or musician. Even so, he feared what might happen if the king’s rays of muse magic washed over him. He retreated to a corner where he could remain invisible and out of the way while still fulfilling his duty to stand guard.

  Errol watched as particles of energy drifted up from the human musician. His creativity tasted of religious fervor and dusty pages. Tiny blue particles rose from the man bent over the pianoforte, swirling around the king where he reclined on a settee. The king drank in the music and the man’s excess energy.

  It was a symbiotic relationship, and Errol saw a certain beauty in the way a muse could inspire, and an artist could, in return, share excess creative energies. His king wasn’t like some of the sovereigns of other courts, taking from nature or their subjects without giving back.

  The young man played for hours, and the king kept breathing in his creativity. This wasn’t like when Errol stood in the hallway or patrolled around the castle, monotonous tasks he performed without complaint but didn’t enjoy. Listening to such exquisite music was a treat. Several times, the playing lulled him into complacency. Only when each song ended did he realize he wasn’t performing his duty as he’d been assigned. He was supposed to remain aware and alert so that he could keep his sovereign safe from danger.

  There was a point when the musician broke down crying, playing on as he sobbed. The king didn’t seem to notice. The words of the song became unintelligible gibberish.

  Finally the king rose and took the Morty man’s hands into his own. “William, I do believe you’ve overtaxed yourself. You’ve had enough for the day, don’t you think?”

  “No, my lord. Please! I’ve only just begun. I can feel my true masterpiece just out of my grasp.” He held up his hands, looking at them as if they were instruments rather than part of his body. “It is there, just under the surface, ready to emerge at any moment.”

  He tried to turn back to the pianoforte, but the king’s grip was firm.

  “William, it is time for you to stop.” The king’s voice was kind, his eyes full of charity and goodness.

  “Just one more song. Please, my lord. Then I will be done.”

  King Viridios smiled, as if indulging a child. “As you wish. One last song. But then you must cease your playing, or you will become so ill that the world will never be able to enjoy your music again.”

  The king sat on the bench beside the musician as he played. Sweat drenched the young man’s armpits, and his hair dropped into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Errol might not have possessed creativity himself, but he was able to appreciate the beauty of the man’s playing. This last song truly was his masterpiece. The king closed his eyes and smiled.

  When he was finished, the musician laid his head on the pianoforte and sobbed, snot dripping onto the keys. Power radiated from King Viridios. He glowed like the moon.

  The king rang a bell, and a butler entered the room. “Please escort Mr. Byrd out. You may send in the next artist. The man is a painter, I believe.”

  The butler had to carry the human out. Errol was eager to see what the artist painted, but he and Paega were relieved from duty by two more guards. He didn’t think he would mind guard duty half as much now that he knew he was going to be paid and entertained at the same time.

  Errol walked back to the barracks with Paega. He was still so enthralled by the mesmerizing music, he could hear it playing in his head. He failed to notice the state of the other guard until the man stumbled into a wall.

  “Lieutenant Paega?” Errol asked, helping the man to his feet.

  His complexion was ashen and waxy. His eyes were wild.

  “Are you ill?” Errol felt his forehead.

  “I need a quill,” Paega said. “To write it down before it flies away.”

  “Before what flies away?” Errol asked.

  “My inspiration.” He mumbled other nonsense Errol couldn’t make out.

  Errol kept a hand under Paega’s elbow. It soon became clear the man could hardly walk on his own.

  “We’re getting you to the infirmary,” Errol said.

  “I’m fine. I just need some ink and paper.” He struggled against Errol’s hold on him, but he was too weak to resist.

  Errol chided himself for not noticing the other guard’s state earlier. His job was to be aware of his surroundings and be alert for danger. He wasn’t doing his duty if he failed to notice the other guard at his post was ill. If someone attacked while the king was occupied with music magic and Errol was distracted, the king would be left vulnerable. Errol couldn’t allow himself to be hypnotized by music again.

  Errol escorted Paega to the first bed he found in the infirmary. The physician came over, looking from Errol to Paega. “What is the nature of this injury?”

  “I’m not injured,” Paega said. “I just need to go to my room. I need paper.” He tried to rise, but Errol shoved him back into the bed.

  Errol leaned in toward the doctor. “He was like this after the king used his muse powers on a musician. I think His Majesty’s magic affected Paega somehow.”

  “Oh fie! Not another one.” The physician grimaced. “If there’s any compassion in your soul, you’ll go on and find him paper and ink. Bring a stack of it if you can. He isn’t going to run out of fodder anytime soon. Thank the stars it isn’t a pianoforte we’ve got to find this time, or we’d never be able to satisfy this itch.”

  Errol went to his own quarters and fetched parchment, a quill, and ink. When he returned to the infirmary, he found Paega already writing. Errol placed the supplies before him. Paega took up the quill in his other hand and began writing with that one too. Errol gazed in wonder, noticing Paega was writing sonnets—but different ones with each hand.

  “Son of a witch! You’re ambidextrous. You never told me!” Errol couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen anyone so talented.

  The doctor nudged Errol. “Quiet. The best thing you can do at this point is leave him be until he burns himself out. He’ll eventually fall asleep and feel better when he wakes… unless he wakes up worse. Sometimes that happens too.”

  Errol edged away.

  The doctor shook his head. “Another one unfit for duty.”

  “What do you mean?” Errol asked. “Who else is unfit for duty?”

  “It’s common. Especially for a Witchkin trying to pass as a Fae.” The doctor grimaced. “He should have at least told someone he was a poet before accepting this post.”

  Errol glanced at Paega writing fervently with both hands. “What does this mean? Will he be demoted?”

  “That’s up to his superiors to determine. I’m just a healer. If his captain is lenient, he might not penalize him if the lad didn’t know he was a poet. But trying to pass himself off as a pure-blooded Fae, well, that’s a different offense.” The doctor squinted at Errol. “I expect you’ll have a report to make as well.” His gaze flickered over Errol’s pristine uniform.

  Errol wondered whether
the doctor knew he wasn’t a pure-blooded Fae either.

  Errol rushed on, hoping the doctor didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions about his own bloodline. “Just because he’s a poet and a Witchkin doesn’t necessarily make him unfit for duty. He simply needs to stay away from the king when his muse magic is at work. And even when His Majesty is entertaining Morty artists and musicians, Paega simply needs to stay out of range.”

  “What do you mean by ‘range?’ Muse magic isn’t archery. I think you’re confusing it for cupidry—and that court died out a thousand years ago.”

  Errol tried to articulate what he’d witnessed in the king’s presence. “When His Majesty glows with muse magic, it’s like a ray of sunshine falling on the musician—or poet.”

  The doctor’s brow crinkled. “I haven’t been in His Majesty’s presence when he works his magic on those poor Morties myself, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard muse magic described quite like that.”

  “If the lieutenant just stays out of the way of King Viridios’ muse magic, I think he’ll be all right.” Errol saw no reason Paega should be considered unfit for duty simply because of his Witchkin lineage, which was no fault of his own.

  Paega continued writing with both his hands, but he called over his shoulder, attesting to the fact that he’d been listening in. “I’ll never be all right after this. I need my muse to inspire me. I don’t care if they do dock my pay or throw me out. One day of being in the king’s presence and being inspired was worth it all.”

  The doctor rolled his eyes. “We’ll see whether he still feels the same upon the morrow.”

  Errol blamed himself for not catching Paega’s affliction sooner. He was required to write a full report on the incident. His captain called him into his office a day later. Errol wondered whether he would be fired for his lack of observation.

  Captain Kasen sat at his desk, scrutinizing Errol as one might do with a particularly interesting rodent. There was a shimmer of magic in the corner of the room, but Errol couldn’t tell whether it was a soundproofing ward or some other kind of magic.

  Captain Kasen leaned back in his chair, making the wood creak. “Do you know why I’ve asked you to debrief me on this incident in person?”

  Errol shifted from foot to foot in anxiety. “I imagine it has to do with my inadequate performance and inability to perform duties in a satisfactory manner, sir.”

  Kasen snorted. “No. I can’t fault you when you have done no worse than any other man I put on duty.”

  The muscles in Errol’s back tightened with anticipation.

  Kasen folded his hands in front of him. “Tell me more about this gift of sight you seem to possess.”

  “Sir?” Errol asked. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘gift of sight’.” As far as Errol was concerned, it was his lack of sight that had been the problem.

  “You mentioned in your report an ability to see the king’s magic at work. Describe again what you witnessed.”

  A creak in the corner where the air sparkled drew Errol’s attention. Someone else was in the room. Errol suspected the captain knew, as he was more skilled than Errol, but he couldn’t see what the need for secrecy was or why he didn’t want Errol to know who was there.

  Errol recounted what he’d seen, describing the flow of symbiotic magic from the king to the artist and the artist to the king.

  “You saw all that without training to do so?” Captain Kasen asked.

  “Just so. Are you saying it usually takes training to see muse magic?” Errol asked.

  “Not everyone has this gift of sight.” Kasen crossed his arms, looking especially grumpy.

  A grunt came from the corner in the room.

  “May I ask, sir . . . ? Can you?”

  The captain fidgeted in his hair, as if the seat were too hard. “No. Nor can most of the officers. It’s a useful skill being able to see who the king’s enchantments affect. Your ability could help us prevent casualties in the guards.”

  Errol’s face flushed with shame. “But that was the problem, sir. I couldn’t see it at work on Paega. I was . . . distracted.” He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat.

  “Indeed, you were.” Kasen crossed his arms, looking especially grumpy. “I believe the words you chose in your report were that you were ‘enraptured’ by the musician’s playing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Only Witchkin are affected by the king’s muse magic to such an extent to drive them to distraction or madness. You do realize that, do you not?” Captain Kasen said. “Witchkin and Morty artists.”

  Errol swallowed. Here it was. The captain had been skating around the issue now. He was about to let the cannonball fly, and Errol would have to admit what he was.

  “And you were too enthralled by the musician to think clearly, eh?” The way the captain said the word “enthralled” made it sound like a dirty word.

  “Yes, sir.” Errol tried to stand tall and not allow his shoulders to sag.

  Captain Kasen leaned in. “And only those with a muse lineage are affected by creativity this way.”

  Errol didn’t have an answer for that. “If I had been able to see Paega through his glamour, I would have known he was being hypnotized by muse magic.”

  “Paega’s problem is not your responsibility. At least not at the moment, though if this is a skill you can cultivate, we may put him and men like him under your supervision.”

  Errol could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’d expected a reprimand, not to be given more responsibility.

  The shimmer shifted behind the captain, and Errol thought he heard a hiss of air. He wished more than ever he were better at seeing through glamours. It was a different skill than creating them.

  Captain Kasen nodded as if in agreement with something. “You are aware the king recommended you himself for this position, are you not?”

  “Indeed, sir. I’m quite aware,” Errol said. “And flattered he would notice me at all.”

  “Indeed, that is unusual.” The captain eyed Errol’s silver hair. “Who in your family is related to His Majesty?”

  “I-I don’t rightly know. I got my hair and looks from my mother. I suppose I might have inherited other talents as well. But I doubt I’m related to the king, at least not directly. My mother said my great-great-grandmother caught the eye of a noble from the Silver Court.”

  “Is your mother available to question further about your lineage?”

  “No, sir. My mother died in childbirth when I was six. My father died not long after. My only kin left is my sister, and she was only a baby when Captain Arnfinnr and his wife adopted her. They know nothing of our family.” Errol dreaded lying to his superiors, but he feared it would come to that if they asked how it was possible his parents had conceived when so many other couples had become infertile.

  It was only a matter of time before the captain found out about Errol’s inferior lineage and knew he had human ancestry if he went far enough back.

  “Why do you think he did that?” Kasen’s cold gray eyes raked over Errol with dislike.

  Errol reminded himself that Captain Arnfinnr and Captain Manchester both had disliked him until they had realized he wasn’t an entitled noble’s son and he was common like them. It was a strange thing that the royalty looked down on him for being common and the working class looked down upon him for not being common enough.

  Errol hoped explaining his family history might soften Kasen’s resolve to dislike him.

  “I don’t rightly know, sir. When I was a lad and my da was sick from touching cold iron, he petitioned the king and asked him to find me a trade since he couldn’t take care of my sister and me both. He told the king my mother had lineage far back with the Silver Court. The king took pity on me and made me a cabin boy in the navy.”

  “And it was the king who transferred you to the air navy and then the cavalry?” The captain offered a brief smile that wasn’t the least bit inviting.
>
  “Aye.”

  “Have you given any thought at all as to why he would do such a thing?”

  “I used to think I was being punished. Then, when I was offered this position because of my experience in multiple branches of the military, I thought he must have done it to prepare me for this job.” Errol wiped his clammy hands on his uniform.

  “Precisely. I’d wager the king has had his eye on you for quite some time, and he’s planned your career out for you. I’m guessing he knew your silver hair meant you’d have other traits of the Silver Court as well. I take it he’s aware you have an ability to see muse magic and . . . to use it.”

  “I can see it.” Errol didn’t see how that was a particularly useful skill in itself. “But I don’t know how to use it.”

  “That’s just as well. Only nobles of the Silver Court are permitted to use muse magic to fuel themselves from artists in the way you witnessed.” His gaze swept over Errol’s hair. “And as you said, you are no noble.”

  As the shimmer shifted behind the captain, Errol’s gaze followed it. “Excuse me, sir. May I ask who else is in the room with us?”

  The captain’s mouth twitched into a smile. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you care to make your presence known, sir?”

  The glamour faded, revealing a Fae man in a pristine white uniform decorated with silver embroidery. The insignia on his collar was high ranking. A general. No, Errol realized, he was the general.

  “General Hereweald, sir?” Errol saluted.

  “At ease, soldier.” The general chuckled. “It appears your eyes can see more than we first suspected.”

  “I couldn’t see through your glamours. I was only able to tell someone was there.” Errol didn’t think he was particularly skilled. Not compared to other Fae.

  “That’s more than most new recruits are capable of. But then, you have experience in other branches of the military.” The general looked him up and down. “You’ll do nicely. I have a list of training exercises to assist you in developing these skills and making yourself a greater asset to the king and the kingdom.”