by L. M. Hawke
The emptiness of the vast courtyard sent a prickle of wariness up Una’s spine. The place seemed to have been created to hold large gatherings of the Fair Folk, but now there was no one present save for Una and Bracken. As she hurried after her Seelie guide, the sound of their footsteps was the only thing to be heard over the lonesome splash of the fountains.
Beyond the edges of the white-stone courtyard stood the outer buildings of the grand Seelie palace. Shaped like a great horseshoe, the palace’s wings curved around the yard. The shining façade held soaring arches and elegant arabesques high above Una’s head. Towers and ramparts, needle-thin spires and ornate minarets crowded together, seeming to lean out over the courtyard as if to watch Una curiously as she passed far below. The palace was beautiful; there was no doubt about that. But there was something vaguely frightening about it, too. Its proportions seemed to defy all human concept of physics, of gravity itself. Thin, delicate arches supported balconies that seemed far too heavy to stand. Buttresses—apparently made of green-leafed vines—supported massive towers that should have splintered the vines into matchsticks. Just looking at the eerily balanced, implausibly proportioned buildings made Una feel nauseated and dizzy. She couldn’t imagine actually entering such a place.
But entering the palace was exactly what Bracken intended to do. She led Una straight down the center of the courtyard, toward a huge, central double-door, made of wood so ancient it was aged to a lustrous black patina. The door’s twin surfaces were carved with a clamor of images—vines, leaves, scampering creatures, birds on the wing, with here and there the hint of a cat-like Sidhe face peering out from the tangled thicket. There were no handles or pulls on the door, yet Bracken went confidently to it and touched it gently, resting her palm where the two great pieces came together. The crack between them widened; the doors swung ponderously inward without a creak or a groan, and golden light spilled out from the room within.
Una checked and stared on the threshold as the two huge doors continued to swing slowly inward. The long hall inside stretched for what seemed an unfathomable distance. Its floor was made of shining, dark-green malachite, with flecks like stars glittering in the well-polished stone. A row of pillars towered to either side; each pillar was painted and gilded with scenes of Sidhe in repose on couches or among flowering gardens, or engaged in activities Una couldn’t begin to understand—the painted figures wielded oddly shaped instruments that served no purpose Una knew of, yet were obviously important enough to the Sidhe to be enshrined in their art. Rows of leaping deer-like animals or golden-winged birds ranged around the columns, too. They put Una in mind of the Minoan art she had studied at university. A warm, golden light came from nowhere that Una could identify, suffusing the hall with a glow that should have been welcoming and pleasant. Yet because she could not find the source of the light—no windows, no lamps—Una found the effect quite unsettling.
At the far end of the malachite hall, a group of people stood in a rough semi-circle around a low, two-step dais. Atop the dais was a throne made of twisted vines, and on the throne sat the same pale, long-haired Sidhe man who had come to take Ailill away. Una’s blood turned to ice and her spine tingled at the sight of him. She resisted the urge to charge at him, to shout out her demands for answers, for Ailill, for justice. But she sensed instinctively that such a display would get her nowhere at best—and at worst, might be dangerous for either herself or for Ailill. She did not know how these Seelie worked—what kind of behavior they expected in what was obviously a throne room, a place of great ceremonial importance. She did not know the penalty for disrespecting their throne.
The Seelie men and women who ranged about the dais were all tall and slender—that seemed to be the unifying feature of their kind—but although most of them had hair ranging from Bracken’s silvery platinum to a soft golden yellow, a few had locks of deep auburn or glossy black. Some even had hair of a strange, pale-violet hue that reminded Una of dried lavender buds. They all wore some iteration of the loose-fitting, old-fashioned garment Bracken wore, made of that silky, water-like, rippling cloth. In all, there were fewer than a hundred Seelie gathered in the throne room.
“Come,” Bracken said, beckoning to Una.
“I… I don’t know what to do,” Una said uncertainly. She still hesitated on the threshold, caught between awe, caution, and welling frustration.
Bracken smiled in a tolerant way. “Simply do as you are told. No one will harm you here; I promise you that.”
You promise me, Una thought with a twist of disgust in her stomach. Kathleen said your kind have little care for humans, even if you aren’t actively our enemies. Why should I trust in your promises? Why should I trust that you won’t harm me?
But Una was in the Seelie world now—the Otherworld. She had little choice but to do as she was bidden, at least until she learned enough about this place to formulate an effective plan.
With a deep breath to soothe her edgy nerves, she went with Bracken into the throne room. The crowd fell silent as Una entered; her footsteps rang too loudly against the malachite floor and echoed among the towering columns. She didn’t move with a tenth of the Bracken’s natural grace, and her clunky footfalls proved it. She blushed as she walked, wondering what those ethereal creatures thought of her clumsy, galumphing gait.
As she drew nearer to the throne of vines, the crowd of Seelie turned as one, watching Una with their strange, feline eyes. She could all but feel their collective gaze upon her, a constant pressure against her skin, a sensation of something closing slowly around her body. It was a gentle fist with a feather’s touch, but a fist none the less. No one spoke, yet Una still sensed a vague, distant murmur of approval. She heard the whispers of a few satisfied sighs.
At the foot of the dais, Bracken sank into a fluid bow of impossible grace, bending her neck before the light-haired man who sat coolly on the throne. The fabric of her star-colored gown pooled on the floor around her until she rose again, straight and proud.
Una blinked in surprise. She realized vaguely that she ought to bow, too… When in Rome, and all that. She stooped hastily, but didn’t manage to do it as well as Bracken had. Her awkward bend of the knee felt more like the frightened crouch of a hunted animal than any proper bow, and beside the simply yet beautifully dressed Seelie, Una was painfully aware that she looked a proper fright in her faded jeans, t-shirt, and pilled cardigan sweater.
“Una Teig,” the man on the throne said. His voice was as fluid as the Sidhe garments—rippling, soothing, and soft. “It is well that you have come after all. We have great need of you now.”
Una pressed her lips together. It was not that she didn’t want to speak to the pale man. A dozen urgent questions had long since formed a knot in her throat, together with the accusations she wanted to sling at him and his people. But faced now by his undeniable majesty—even more evident than when he had stood before her in her parlor, arrogant and cool—she doubted her voice would work at all. She only stared up at him, waiting.
“I am Da’axshtilean Boronaxshtil do Seelie do Tuatha de Danaan. By the grace of my birth, I am honored to be called Prince of my people, the voice of the Seelie Court.”
There was something altogether sorrowful in the prince’s voice when he said the words by the grace of my birth. Una opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded weakly, wondering at his sadness, and wondering, too, how she could ever hope to pronounce his name.
The prince seemed to sense the reason for her discomfort. He smiled lightly and added, “In the human tongue—which as you can see, we all speak fluently—my name means ‘High Leaves That Never Fall.’ But even that is much for a human tongue to manage in the course of a conversation. If you like, you may call me by the name my friends used long ago, before I ascended to the throne: Dax.”
Una licked her lips. “Thank you, Prince Dax.” Her voice sounded dry and withered. “That is gracious of you, sir.”
“You must have many questions for us—for me,” Dax
said.
Una took his statement as an invitation. “I do, Prince. When you appeared in my home—in the human realm—you took away my… my friend. Ailill is his name.”
“Yes,” Prince Dax said slowly. His calm, regal face fell in an expression of sorrow. “Ailill.”
The Seelie Court murmured like a breeze, reflecting their prince’s sadness.
“Where is he?” Una asked, stepping forward urgently. “I’ve come to take him back—to get him out of the Otherworld before it’s too late.”
Dax did not answer right away. He gazed despondently past Una, down the length of the malachite hall, as if watching some dismal scene from memory replay itself before his eyes. At length, he said, “Ailill was… lost to us.”
Una gasped. “What do you mean? How was he lost?” She stepped forward again, clutching her hands together so hard her knuckles ached. If Ailill had been killed, she would never forgive herself.
Bracken took Una gently by the arm, preventing her from moving any closer to the throne. With great effort, Una subsided; she was in the Seelie realm now, and must play by their rules—must respect their customs and conform as best she could to their expectations.
“Ailill is alive,” Dax said, coming out of his reverie and meeting Una’s eye with his intense, leaf-green stare. “He has not been harmed, so far as I know, but he is no longer in our possession, either.”
“Then where is he? How do I get to him? I must find him, and soon!”
Dax’s gaze flickered briefly to Bracken; he gave an almost imperceptible sideways jerk of his head. Bracken turned at once to one of the other Seelie who stood nearby, holding a tray of pale wood in his hands. Bracken took the tray and proffered it to Una. It held a small goblet filled with a pink liquid and a few small, scone-like bits of golden-brown bread.
Bracken indicated the goblet with a nod. “Sweet honey wine,” she said, smiling. “Do not fear; it is not potent.”
“No, thank you,” Una said.
Despite Bracken’s promise that no harm would come to her, Una couldn’t imagine the folly of consuming Seelie food. What if it didn’t agree with her human digestive tract? What it if made her ill?
“This is our custom,” Bracken said rather sternly. “If you do not take wine and bread under our roof, then we cannot be certain of your friendship. And until we can be certain of you, the prince will not reveal any further information.”
Una stared at the woman, disbelieving. It was Dax who had come into Una’s home, ready to spirit her away to the Otherworld. True, Una had foolishly called for the Fair Folk to take her, but still…! The very idea that they could be suspicious of Una, when they had apparently been working to lure her into the Otherworld from the moment she’d first arrived in Kylebeg, was so astounding that she nearly laughed in Bracken’s face.
But laughing at the Seelie would certainly not help her cause. Nor would Una help herself by refusing to honor Seelie customs. So she nodded, albeit reluctantly, and accepted the goblet from Bracken’s hand.
She took a small sip of the honey wine, just enough to appease her strange hosts’ expectations. The drink was warm and rich on her tongue, redolent with spices and sweet as nectar, though never cloying. Despite her unease, Una closed her eyes, savoring the taste, marveling at the delicate play of flavors over her tongue. Warmth and confidence flowed through her veins when she swallowed. And before she realized what she was doing, she drank again from the goblet—longer this time, a deeper draught that filled her head with memories of summer sun and pleasant indolence, of bird song and the flow of fountains.
Enough, she told herself, though her own voice sounded dim and distant in her head. With an effort, she opened her eyes and replaced the goblet on the tray.
“Now the bread,” Bracken said.
Una picked up one of the little scones, wondering at its light, airy texture. When she placed it in her mouth, it dissolved on her tongue, releasing a faint taste of herbs and a hearty, barley flavor that put her in mind of autumn’s golden glories. Again, she closed her eyes, the better to appreciate the taste. It was the finest bread she had ever eaten, and as soon as she swallowed it, she hungered for another piece.
“You asked about your friend Ailill,” Prince Dax said, apparently satisfied with Una’s compliance. “In order to explain where he has gone, I must tell you of our predicament, and why we have summoned you here. For Ailill’s fate and ours—and your fate, Una Teig—are caught up together in the same dark snare.”
“Ailill,” Una said vaguely. She knew him, of course. He was her reason for coming here…. wasn’t he? She furrowed her brow, trying to focus on her inner image of Ailill—his angular face, his dark hair, his brilliant blue eyes. But Una’s memories of Ailill kept bleeding into long-ago recollections of easy summer days, of warm nights from her childhood, when she had nothing better to do than lie on her back in a field and watch the moon and stars wheel slowly overhead.
“Do you know who we are, Una—what we are?”
She nodded slowly, trying to recall all the names Kathleen had given her for these people. Fairies—Fair Folk—Seelie—Sidhe. “You’re the…” She blinked and swallowed hard, trying to remain focused. “You’re the Shining Ones.”
“That is one of the names humankind often uses for us, yes. But we call ourselves the Sidhe, and this—” the prince gestured smoothly, taking in the hundred or so people who stood around him, the malachite hall, the palace itself— “This is the Seelie Court. We are an old civilization, Una Teig—older by far than any known to your people, in your realm. The Sidhe have existed alongside you, watching, observing as humankind grew and changed. We are much older than humans, but we are not so unlike humans that we can separate ourselves entirely from your realm. Sidhe of all kinds have always felt drawn to your realm, to your spirits. I believe it’s likely that, far back in time—perhaps at the point where our time and your time converge, like a magical crossroads—perhaps then, we sprang from a common ancestor, an original Mother who gave birth to both of our bloodlines.”
“You called me cousin,” Una said, retrieving one clear memory from the thick fog that seemed to be encroaching, little by little, on her thoughts. “You called me cousin at the crossroads, and in my dream.”
Dax nodded. “Indeed I did, for you are still more closely related to the Seelie Court, Una Teig—more closely than other humans.”
“My name is Una,” she said suddenly. “Just Una.”
Dax smiled, a slow, amused curl of his wide mouth. “Very well—Una. As I told you, the Sidhe have long been drawn to your realm, and sometimes drawn to humans themselves. Now and then, human and Sidhe have come together in mating, and children have been born of such pairings. And so there have ever been Sidhe men and women, in our world, who have carried human blood—just as there have ever been human men and women, in your world, who have carried the Sidhe blood.”
“And I… I am one of those?” Una asked thickly. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on Dax’s words; the bright colors painted on the hall’s pillars and the soft, flowing garments of the Seelie around her seemed to whirl and ripple in the periphery of her gaze, so her attention was forever tugged away from the prince and his story.
“Yes,” Dax said. “You are our cousin in truth, Una—my cousin, a descendant of the noble line of the Seelie Court, and one of the few humans remaining who carries a strong strain of our most pure and royal blood.”
“But Ailill…”
Una shook her head as she trailed off. What had she wanted to say about Ailill? She remembered the prick of a thorn, a droplet of blood raised to Prince Dax’s lips… Where had she ever seen such a thing? Why did she remember something so improbable?
You must concentrate, she told herself. You must… But the colors were dancing again at the edges of her vision, and Prince Dax’s voice was so melodic, so lulling…
“Ailill, too, descends from the royal line, though his strain is more dilute than yours. He did not suit our purpose
s as well as you will, Una, but we were willing to take him anyhow. That is how desperate we have become.”
“Desperate,” Una mumbled. Her thoughts were thick and sluggish. “I don’t understand. And what purpose are you talking about?”
“Once,” Dax said, “the Seelie were the most powerful people ever known—in this world, in yours, or in any other world that we have yet discovered.”
There are more worlds? Even through her strange, weary haze, Una was startled by Dax’s words. Now that she stood in a parallel realm, Una knew it shouldn’t surprise her to learn that countless other worlds might lie alongside her own. Yet still, it was a concept nearly impossible for a human mind to comprehend.
“Back then, many generations ago, our abilities—which your people refer to as ‘magic’—were honed and well-functioning. We wanted for nothing, lacked nothing; our society was at perfect peace, unchallenged in our greatness and secure in our future.”
There was a slight rustle among the court—the Seelie shifting uncomfortably.
Their prince continued in a somber tone, “But over time, we became complacent. We did not guard the gift the Earth had given us—our natural skills; our magic. As each successive generation came into the world, our abilities dwindled, little by little. At first, in generations long past, the depletion was so small that few noticed it, or were troubled by it when they did notice. Indeed, what could ever trouble us? We were the peak of Earth’s creation, the pinnacle of evolution, the shining glory of all Nature—or so we believed. We could never fall low, would never diminish. That was what we believed, in our hubris.”
The Seelie murmured sadly. The sound drifted up into the high reaches of the great malachite hall, whispering above like a restless wind.
“By the time we realized what was happening to us—that our natural abilities were so diluted, we might never recover our former strength—it was nearly too late. We have always been a close people, clannish and secretive. It has ever been our way to keep to our own. Yet because we paid no heed to maintaining our powers, the magical strain of our bloodline has been almost eliminated.
