Etiquette of Exiles (Senyaza Series Book 4)

by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  Then he reached down inside himself, deep down and far back again, to when he’d been a mortal. It was a point between the two memories that the landscape of Faerie had tempted him with, a point crushed under centuries of immortality and cynicism. Slowly, he peeled away the layers of boredom and irritation and servitude, back to when he’d dreamt of a different future.

  Then he spun a tiny thread of glamour around himself, just enough to offset any caution a sensible child might have around him.

  Once, he’d dreamt of playing with his own children. Once, before he’d been betrayed, trapped, killed, and reborn. He hadn’t even had a bride, but he’d always wanted to raise his own sons and daughters with the same affection his father had given him. If nothing else, there were always orphans in those days. Always children who needed loving parents.

  Things hadn’t changed that much between now and then, after all. The curiosity of the children brought them to him, and he showed them how to spin pink clouds into elephants with their fingertips, showed them how to make leaves into paper birds that really flew. He learned their names and ages and told them his own, and threw the youngest into the air and smiled as she giggled.

  Then, as the caretakers started to notice—without even a pause for curiosity, going straight to concerned—he backed off and returned to the taxi driver as she leaned against the car. Her phone was out too, but she never seemed to look at it.

  He put on his jacket again. As the approaching caretakers saw his companion, they hesitated. Joanne waved, and they turned away to scold their children instead.

  “Your presence makes me less frightening to them? Odd,” said William.

  “It’s a dark world,” said the driver, shrugging. “You told them your name was William.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Hush a moment.” He took another deep breath and pushed the memory of playing with the children deep down inside, burying it with spikes and duty and a different kind of love. And then more spikes, because it was a dark world, and he’d chosen his light long ago. When he was done, he felt more like himself again. But he’d still be glad when Their Magnificence could take the burden he’d created from him.

  The driver remained silent, watching him the whole time. He raised his eyebrows at her and said, “Will you take me to the next place I want to go now? Or did you decide you needed to call—somebody?”

  “Are you going to hurt anybody?”

  He wondered why she’d bother asking that, why she’d expect an honest answer. “The entire point of this little exercise is to stop people from getting hurt.”

  She studied him, just as she’d been studying him all this time. Then she said, “Get in.”

  Once they pulled into traffic again, she said, “You can’t just stroll in to talk to him, you know.”

  “I would be aghast if I could,” said William, trying to inject as much boredom into his voice as he could. He didn’t want to talk about this. He wanted to get there, deliver his message, and go home again.

  Joanne shook her head. “If I did call somebody, he might be able to help.”

  “Look. I don’t need your help. All I need you to do is drive.”

  “Fine,” she snapped and stayed quiet until the white mansion was in sight. When she pulled the vehicle to a curb, she said, “I don’t suppose you have any ability to pay me, do you?”

  He waved his glamoured leaf in her direction, more out of habit than hope, and she narrowed her eyes. “That’s not real.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t work very well on people who know something’s going on.” He glanced in the mirror, frowned, ran a hand through his hair, and then shrugged and opened the door. “Thank you for the ride.”

  She grimaced, and he guessed that she was thinking about following him around some more. He hopped out and slammed the door, walking away before she could make up her mind. Most mortals were easily distracted, but some could be so very persistent. It made them interesting to Tarn and sometimes worthy of respect from William. But he was glad she didn’t follow him. He’d already spent too much time talking to mortals instead of delivering his message.

  He looked up at the huge, white house, shook his head at what was considered grand and elegant these days, and set out to find a way to the Commander in Chief.

  * * *

  An hour later, he was starting to feel frustrated. The magical leaf most definitely didn’t work on the guardians of the white mansion, who had extremely good magical protection and always believed something was going on.

  It would, he felt, serve the humans right if he failed in his mission and the sprite Yeracha’s tantrum caused unchecked havoc. Not only did they have mortal guards in place—so many mortal guards—but they had supernatural traps, too, and not traps set by any faerie. No, they had an angel working with them, and that was unfair and wrong. The angels weren’t supposed to get involved like that anymore.

  He leaned on a tree in the park next to the house and wiped blood from a cut over his eye. The last trap had been hard to avoid: the shadow of a bird, on the shadow of a power line, both of them ripped loose from any mooring or sense of sanity as they lashed around him, opening cuts with edges nobody but him could see. When reddened, lidless eyes opened along the shadow line, William backed off. He knew better than to go up against that kind of madness alone.

  Was it an angel protecting the Commander in Chief? Or something worse? The nature of the traps suggested something worse, but there were still the unmistakable traces of angel magic. It was a sort of sparkle, a shine of purity and self-righteousness and implacable focus—but it glittered over a twisted knot of torment that suggested either an angel on the edge or the most unholy of alliances.

  “William?” said a man striding up to him, startling him out of his contemplation of the problem. He whirled around, his stance changing instinctively to a combative one. Which reminded him that he didn’t have his spear, because he was in the mortal world, and he wasn’t going to be fighting anybody.

  The man raised his hands, laughing nervously. “No threat.” He wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt, and his beard looked like he couldn’t decide if he needed a shave or not. Not a soldier, and not one of the bodyguards either. But William didn’t relax, because the man had called him by name. It meant he was an agent of somebody.

  “I can see you’re definitely William,” said the man, still laughing. “Look, man, can I buy you a cup of coffee or something? I’d love to talk to you.”

  “Who are you?” William took a step backward: not a retreat but a repositioning.

  The man scratched his beard. “John Brady. Hey, are you trying to get in like that crew at Thanksgiving?”

  William ran his hand through his spiky hair. “They were morons.” And then he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “And so was everybody else involved. They just wanted to help celebrate your feast. They had no intention of hurting anybody. And neither do I.”

  “I was there,” said John Brady, apologetically. “It looked like they were playing some kind of sport on the White House Lawn. With good china and turkeys. It’s the sort of thing that makes the Secret Service pretty nervous, especially when it comes from aliens like yourself.”

  William scowled. “If any folk are the aliens, you are.”

  John Brady shrugged. “And yet that’s your legal description and what the hearings are all about.” He looked William up and down. “I admit, it’s a pretty useless description.”

  Meeting the man’s eyes, William realized that he wasn’t anybody’s agent after all. Gloomily, he said, “You’re that driver’s ‘somebody.’”

  “Joanne’s my sister, and yes, she called me.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m a journalist. And I’d really like to buy you a cup of coffee.”

  William looked past the mortal at the White House. “I’m better than those clowns at the feast,” he muttered. “I could get in. But not while leaving a positive impression.”

  “You do seem smarter than them,” ag
reed John Brady. “Why exactly are you trying to get in?”

  “I need a cup of tea,” said William slowly.

  “Excellent.” John grinned. “This way.”

  He guided William to a little cafe, trying to ask him questions the whole walk. William couldn’t be bothered to chat. He had to come up with another plan. But his choices depended on first getting a cup of tea.

  The cafe thought a bag in a cup of hot water counted as tea, which was depressing. After he and John Brady sat down outside the cafe, William tore the bag open and let the leaves swirl in the hot water to steep directly. Then he fixed his gaze on his host, staring him into uncomfortable shifting.

  “What is it you want, John Brady? Not to make small talk, not to turn me over to your soldiers. Why did your Joanne think you were the one to call about an ‘alien’ like me?”

  “I’m a journalist. I want to talk to you and write about what you tell me.” He watched William stirring his tea with interest. “Why did you tear open the bag?”

  “Because I need to check the time,” said William, purely to amuse himself at the mortal’s confusion. He waited until the tea turned deep brown, then added several heaping spoons of sugar, and took a long drink of the brew. Then he scooped out some of the soggy leaves and spread them on the napkin. Casting his thoughts outward, he reached for Harold.

  It wasn’t the same as reaching out for Tarn. He had no interest in touching Harold’s mind; he just wanted Harold’s opinion. It was hard for them to exchange anything as concrete as words, and feelings were useless in an operation as time-sensitive as this one. So the tea leaves came in handy. Once he’d attracted Harold’s attention and held himself aligned, he peered into the scattered black bits on the white napkin, and an image emerged from the pattern: the hill, the sprite. Harold’s hand, signing something.

  William slumped in his chair.

  “Yeah, I have trouble getting the time from tea leaves, too,” said the journalist, with an unbelievably straight face.

  “I found out the time.”

  John Brady narrowed his eyes. “Oh? What time is it?”

  “An hourglass that is rapidly emptying.” William didn’t have time for any of his more elaborate plans. He eyed the reporter, then swallowed hard. “What would you do, mortal, if you had to get a message to the Commander in Chief?”

  “Ah, well. What I’d do isn’t what everybody could do,” said John Brady, in such a comfortable way that William wanted to box his ears. “I have connections. But they’re not the kind of connections to be casually exploited. I’d have to have a very good reason to use them.” He raised his eyebrows at William invitingly.

  William hesitated, then shook his head. “If I tell you and you do the wrong thing with the information, it could be very bad. And it would certainly disappoint my lord.”

  “I see you have connections too,” said John Brady happily. “Maybe we can make some kind of deal. Something where you do something for me, and in return I do something for you.”

  Tiredly, William said, “I haven’t the power to do things for mortals. I could put in a word with my lord if you wish, but it probably won’t do anything you couldn’t get on your own.”

  “You’ve got the power to talk to me. You’re doing it right now.”

  “Ah, have we made an exchange, then? Very good.”

  “I want a lot of talk, man. And I want to write it down and share it with the world. I want to know where you came from and what you do with yourself when you’re not carrying messages to world leaders. I want to know who picked out your clothes and about that leaf you tried to pay Joanne with and about the kids—”

  “Not about the kids,” said William, and he was pleased his voice didn’t crack. “Some of the other topics, perhaps. But first my message has to be delivered.”

  “How do I know you’re not going to run out on me after?”

  William blew out his breath in exasperation. “How do I know you’re going to deliver my message? Perhaps you’re a liar too.”

  John Brady gave him a cocky, confident smile. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  William ground his teeth together and tried to remember that only a handful of years ago, this mortal had also been a child. It took so much more than a handful of years to really grow up.

  The pattern in the tea leaves taunted him. Tarn’s expectations tormented him. His lord had wanted him to deliver the message personally—but his lord wanted the message to be delivered. He wanted mortals to be saved.

  His lord trusted him.

  “Fine,” William snapped, and relayed the message.

  * * *

  A few days later, William stomped his way through the Veil between worlds until he came to his lord’s court. The sweet smell of jasmine and patchouli and pomegranates rose around him, and the silk hangings obscuring the fragile walls of the court’s heart shimmered delicately. Much of Underlight was still shattered from his lord’s previous attempts to meddle with human fate, but this place remained as long as Tarn did.

  The faerie Duke lounged on his throne, reading a newspaper. He didn’t seem to notice William’s return but started reading aloud.

  “The 7.2 earthquake that rocked the Pacific Northwest Tuesday evening was preceded by an unusual—and unexpected—early warning system. With a little less than an hour’s notice, the government was able to issue a widely distributed warning which allowed doctors to delay surgical procedures, traffic to be halted on dangerous spans, and residents to depart at-risk buildings. In addition, local fire departments and the National Guard were already mobilized to take action to assist those who didn’t get (or disregarded) the message. Current estimates suggest 73% fewer injuries as a result, and some believe the early warning system also prevented property damage.

  “What was this system? Not a technological system at all, but a warning carried by one of the Strangers, a faerie of the Underlight, a group associated with the earth and tides. Despite the suspicions about these visitors—and the debates over their fate in Congress, where they have not been allowed to speak for themselves—this particular Stranger delivered his warning, saving hundreds of lives. Afterward, we managed to get an interview with this brave hero, in which he tells us some of what it’s like to serve a Faerie Duke.”

  The paper rustled as Tarn turned the page. “Ah, and here’s a splendid picture of you with the President, William. They describe you as stoic. How little they know.”

  William hesitated on the threshold, trying to gauge his lord’s mood. Then Tarn looked over the paper at him and smiled. “Welcome home, William,” he said and William relaxed, back in the place he belonged.

  Afterword

  That’s it! Thank you for reading along. This volume came from a project to reach beyond my limits and stop being so afraid of the short story. I think it worked!

  * * *

  As usual, reviews are very welcome. In this case, even if you don’t read all the stories, I’ll still be happy to see your thoughts and other readers will find your opinions of use. And if you’re not yet on my mailing list and would like to be, you’ll be able to sign up at my web page.

  * * *

  The next Senyaza book takes place a year after Matchbox Girls. If you’d like to see an early chapter from Branwyn’s perspective, read on.

  Divinity Circuit Sample

  Branwyn tapped her foot as she stared at the tablet screen, waiting for her youngest sister to get her act together. She’d decided to fill out the paperwork for Meredith’s new music school at her own studio instead of at her family’s house, because her family’s house was endlessly noisy and distracting. It had been a good idea. But she’d failed to get all the bits together in advance. It turned out filling out paperwork for a school was a lot more complicated than Branwyn had realized. Or at least this school. She hoped fervently it was the only school she’d be filling out paperwork for in the next decade.

  Meredith fumbled through a file folder, babbling a mix of chee
rful apologies and enthusiasm. Their mother, Holly, hovered in the background. “You can just bring it by and I’ll get it done, sweetheart.”

  “You’ve got enough to do, Mom. I said I’d send Meri to this place, so I’m going to do the paperwork,” said Branwyn, digging deep into the patience reserves. She was so, so glad Tristan, one of her middle brothers, could fill out his own paperwork for the drama seminar she was sending him to.

  “It’s just so generous of you,” said her mother anxiously. “Are you sure you don’t want to save the money for a rainy day instead?”

  Branwyn laughed, looking around her studio and the detritus of a dozen very profitable commissions. “I have a waiting list, Mom. I’ll be busy for years.”

  “Yes, but it’s for all these… magic people,” said her mother fretfully. “How reliable can that be?”

  “Found it!” said Meredith, pulling a sheet of paper out of the folder.

  “It’ll be fine, Mom. I’m ready, Meri,” Branwyn lifted her pen.

  “I just don’t want you to end up in trouble like Jaime did,” explained Holly.

  “Mom, go away,” said Meredith impatiently. “She’s going to send me to Gleason Academy of Music. Dad already signed the form. Why are you trying to talk her out of it?”

  Holly just shook her head and moved out of the line of sight of the camera.

  “Quick, while she’s temporarily defeated,” said Branwyn, and Meredith read off the information Branwyn needed. She noted it down neatly, then slid the final form into the envelope. “There we go, brat. I’ll send it off today and you’ll get a letter in a couple weeks. And now I have to go, because I’m already late for lunch.” She ended the call mid-gush without a twinge of guilt. Meredith’s enthusiasm could eat up hours.