The Eighth Court

by Mike Shevdon

  “Vanished?” said Garvin.

  Altair continued. “At their solstice feast, Barthia and many of her court died in a tragic fire – a terrible way to go, especially with the windows and doors all sealed. I’m told that sand turned to glass, the heat was so intense.”

  “Why?” asked Garvin. “You’re destroying everything. Why?”

  “Sometimes there must be death in order for there to be renewal,” said Altair. “You cannot always succeed with negotiation, and so must turn instead to the sword, speaking of which, it’s time you were finally repaid for the lives you took.”

  They moved in as one. Garvin’s sword flashed in the darkness, and blades rang together. A shadow darted in, and the silver end of Garvin’s staff found an eye. There was a scream and a sound of crunching bone. One of the shadows fell back into darkness. Without breaking step his blade swept around, clearing space, opening up the fight as he moved across the circle, forcing his opponents back. If he was going to break out, it had to be quick. He could not win a long fight against so many. The circle of ghostly figures distorted into an oval. He carved diagonal arcs of glinting light as he worked his way towards the door. His sword rang each time he parried a cut, the long staff clattering against steel as he pushed to break the circle, which now tightened and bunched as he neared the door. With blades stabbing in from all sides, he whirled to deflect each attack, but with so many, it was inevitable something would get through. An initial stab drew a gasp of pain, a slice across the arm another. The circle turned with slow menace around him, slicing, stabbing; wearing him down.

  In a desperate attempt to break the circle he pushed away from the door. An upward slice produced a satisfying cry and he pressed the advantage into creating an opening, but it was all taking too long. The advantage was short-lived as another moved to take their place, and he was forced back into the ring. Now, one after another beat forwards to cut at him. It was a ring of slicing, cutting blades each falling in different time or stabbing in to catch him out. He cried out in anger as an opponent’s sword found its mark in his side, roaring at them in defiance, finding enough space to whirl around and take the head clean off one of the stabbing shadows. It was a reckless move – others lunged in, piercing his undefended flank. Relentlessly the circle closed, the blades hacking down, until it was a ring of rising and falling steel with only silence at the centre.

  After a few moments, they subsided and the circle opened, leaving the pile of tattered grey cloth and the weapons, where they fell.

  “It is done,” said one from the circle, now arrayed in a semi-circle around the three remaining members of the High Court.

  “Finally,” said Altair.

  “What about the rest of them?” asked Krane.

  “The Warders are no more,” said Altair. “Fionh and Fellstamp are gone. Slimgrin is missing, along with Mellion. Amber and Mishla are all that remain and they are not enough to stand against us. Without Garvin to lead them they will fall.”

  “Then the day is ours,” said Krane.

  “Ours?” said Altair. “There is still much to do, but the day will never be ours.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Teoth.

  Altair walked forward through the semi-circle of ghostly figures outlined in a nimbus of white fire. “Your record does not serve you well,” he said.

  “But we delivered Garvin to you,” protested Teoth.

  “Yes,” said Altair. “You betrayed him, just as you betrayed me long ago. Just as you would betray me as soon as I turn my back.”

  “But we trusted you!” said Krane.

  “As I trusted you,” said Altair, “even while you were planning my downfall. You know what to do,” he said.

  Even as the semi-circle started to close, the ground beneath the hall began to tremble as Teoth reached down with fingers outstretched to the ground. Krane’s form shifted, becoming more feral, with elongated eyebrows, fingers more like claws, teeth lengthening into fangs.

  Four new figures stepped forward into the ring around the two. Their clothes were the colour of ash, their eyes cold grey. From them, a darkness deeper than any shadow spread forward, initially slowly and then running across the floor like water.

  Eager to escape the spreading blackness, Krane leapt at one from the ring of shadows, half-man, half-beast, and twice the size with claws extended and long fangs bared. The figure went down under that onslaught but the others moved in and the were-creature was unceremoniously hacked, stabbed and sliced by the swords gathered around.

  Teoth watched in horror and shrank back. The foundations of the building vibrated to his summons. From the earth below the hall a huge figure burst upwards through the floor, rising with ponderous implacability, splintering floorboards and crashing its blunt head into beams. Vaguely man-shaped with a blank earthen face, its maw opened with a gravelly roar, sand spilling from its open mouth while its mighty arm swept at the ring of shadows, the swordsmen falling back before the assault of mud and stone.

  Not so the grey shades, who stood their ground and shifted into insubstantial mist. The huge stone fist passed right through them while the blackness reaching for Teoth advanced as he tried to climb the wall away from it. The blackness spread up his legs and thighs, chest and head, enveloping him.

  Teoth screamed and crashed to the floor, thrashing blindly and choking as the darkness entered his mouth, nose and eyes, He thrashed briefly, kicking out at nothing. The huge earthen shape wavered back and forth, flailing its arms, staggering blind, then fell apart, tumbling into crashing mounds, crumbling into rubble, slipping back into the hole it had risen from, even as Teoth spasmed on the floor and was still. The four figures watched as Teoth’s body collapsed into dust no different from that drifting in the air. Then they kicked what was left into the hole after the rest of the dirt.

  Outside, figures emerged into the moonlight, patting their clothes and spitting grit and sand. “Is it done?” asked Altair.

  “Who would have thought the old bastard still had the power to raise an elemental?” asked Deefnir.

  “It didn’t help him,” said Altair.

  “Shame about the hall,” said Raffmir, looking back. “I rather liked what they’d done with it.” The roof sagged where it had been weakened and tiles slipped from the roof to clatter noisily into the yard below.

  “Don’t get too attached to anything,” said Altair. “By the time we’re finished they’ll be burning anything they can find just to hold back the dark.”

  “Ah,” said Raffmir, with a sigh. “Just like old times.”

  There was a stillness in the room. For a moment I thought no one would step forward. Then Andy moved forward out of the crowd. “It is my wish to be first,” he said. “Though I do not know what is expected.”

  “Come forward,” said Blackbird, “and bare your wrist.”

  A space cleared in front of Blackbird as people drew back. I stepped forward into that space and drew my sword. Andy looked worried then, but slipped out of his jacket and passed it to the woman in the orange dress to hold. As he stepped forward he unbuttoned his cuff and pulled back the cuff.

  “Hold out your wrist,” said Blackbird.

  “You’ll be able to sew it back on afterwards, right?” said Andy to me, joking. A murmur of nervous laughter rippled through the room.

  “You can close your eyes if it helps,” I told him. His eyes met mine and held them.

  It was with a moment of trepidation that I readied myself. A mistake at this point would be a bad moment, and no one else would volunteer after Andy. In a single fluid movement, I lift the sword and cut swiftly downwards, stopping the blade over Andy’s bare wrist. He looked momentarily relieved and then paled as a line of red welled across his wrist. It was the moment when I acknowledged that all those hours of sword practice had been worth it.

  “Taste it,” said Blackbird, “and stand before me.”

  Andy turned and lifted his wrist and pressed it to his lips, sucking the blood from the long cut.


  “By your blood do you swear to serve the Gifted Court until released of your bond?” asked Blackbird.

  “I do,” said Andy. I could feel the power building in the room.

  “By your heart, will you abide by the rulings of the Gifted Court, for better or worse, even until life or death?” she asked.

  “I will.” My own mouth watered at the memory of the taste of blood.

  “By your mind, will you become an embodiment of the honour of the Gifted Court, always remembering your place in it, and its place in you?”

  “I will,” he said.”

  “By your power, will you seek to protect the Gifted Court, its Lady, and all its members, even unto the cost of your own life?” said Blackbird.

  “I will,” said Andy.

  Blackbird offered her hand and Andy gave the hand with the cut on the wrist to her. She pressed her other hand over the wound and when she removed it there was no trace of the cut, or the blood.

  “Be welcome into the Gifted Court, The Eighth Court of the Feyre,” she said.

  Applause broke out around the room, and Andy turned around and beamed at everyone, relieved that I hadn’t accidentally chopped his hand off at the wrist. After that they came forward, initially in ones and twos, but then a line formed. Each of them was sworn into the court, one after another. Each tasted their own blood, and with each taste, the sense of power in the room built.

  At one point I briefly looked for Alex in the line, but she was not there. I found myself angry and disappointed after what she had said, but then had to push all those thoughts to one side when the next cut was a little strong and that much deeper. A gasp went down the line, and there was a degree of hesitancy in the next in line. After that I centred myself completely in the moment, focusing, as in a battle, only on what was in front of me.

  Alex regarded herself in the mirror. It kept trying to steam up, but Alex wasn’t quite finished. Her make-up was a flawless fusion of glamour and art, her dress fitted OK, and her hair – well it was behaving itself. That was the best that could be said.

  Her only problem was her tattoos. She’d become used to the black vines that normally twined around her wrists, but at some point the black flowers had receded and now she was adorned with tiny pale blossoms. She’d tried to make them vanish, but they persistently grew back. Each white four-petal bloom had a tiny red centre that didn’t go with the dress, but she was damned if she could make them go away. She was just going to have to live with it.

  She smoothed down the dress and turned to the bathroom door. “How do I look?” asked Alex from the doorway.

  Tate looked up from the book he was reading and regarded her for a long time.

  “Well say something,” she said, smiling hesitantly.

  “I was trying to find the right word,” he said, still appraising her.

  “You don’t like it? You think it’s over the top? Too long? Too tight?” she drew the skirt sideways in a slither of material and plucked at the neckline of the royal blue dress. “The back’s quite low as well,” she said, turning slowly in her high heels.

  “Beautiful,” said Tate, as he closed the book and shifted across to sit on the edge. “Simply beautiful.”

  “Now you’re teasing me,” she said, approaching him. “Tell me what you were really thinking.” She stood next to him, looking down into his eyes. They were very dark. He didn’t need to say anything and she knew. The honestly in his eyes made her blush, but she smiled. “I really have to go,” she said. Her tummy was tight again and she knew she was already late. If she stayed any longer then she was going to be in so much trouble.

  “Then I will escort you,” he said, taking her hand.

  “You don’t have to,” she said, brushing her lips against his in a way that made her want to change her mind. “I know the way.”

  “How are you getting there?” he asked.

  “Down the Ways, like always.”

  “And you’re going to walk from the Ways to the house in those shoes, are you?” he asked.

  She looked down. “Maybe I can take my trainers and change when I get there?”

  “Or I could carry you?” he offered.

  Grinning at him, she said, “We are not doing piggy-backs again. No way. Not in this dress.”

  She found herself swept up into his arms as he stood, cradling her against him. “Like this?” he said.

  “Tate?” she said. Her ear was against his chest and she could hear the slow thump of his heart.

  “Yes?”

  “We could go back to bed.”

  He shook his head. “Duty calls. You promised, and you must keep your promise. But I will come with you as far as the house.” Without difficulty he carried her out the door and down through the house.

  “What if someone sees us,” she said.

  “No one will see,” he said. In moments they were slipping down the Ways.

  When Tate travelled the Ways it was like being carried along by an avalanche. They slid around the nodes at a pace that left her breathless, arriving in the darkened wood at the edge of the village. Without breaking stride he carried her through the trees to the road.

  “How far to the house?” he said.

  She looked up and down the road, getting her bearings. “The pub is just down there, so the house is that way. It’s about half a mile.

  He carried her until they reached the driveway where he set her down.

  “I can manage from here,” she said.

  “I’ll walk you up to the house, and then head back to the courts.” He strolled along beside her as she tripped along in her heels until they cleared the trees. The drive circled around to where the house stood, lights shining through every window.

  “Looks like the party’s already started,” she said.

  “Where are we?” asked Tate, halting on the drive.

  “I told you. Grey’s Court. It’s the house where the Eighth Court is having its gathering. It’s OK, I expect they’ll all be too busy to worry about us.”

  “I’ve been here before,” said Tate.

  She stopped and looked back. Something about his expression had changed. Suddenly she felt cold and exposed. “What is it, Tate?”

  “This isn’t Grey’s Court,” he said. “I’ve been here before. It’s changed a bit, and they’ve done things to it, but I’d recognise it anywhere. It’s not a place you’d forget.”

  “If it’s not Grey’s Court,” said Alex, “then what is it?”

  “It’s the Court of the Wraithkin,” said Tate. “This is the Seventh Court.”

  “It can’t be,” said Alex. “Blackbird paid for it with a rose. It’s ours.”

  “You have to warn them,” said Tate. “Get everyone out.” He turned and started running back towards the village, his pace increasing with every step.

  “Where are you going?” Alex shouted after him.

  “Get them out of there,” he called back. “I have to get help.”

  He disappeared into the dark. Alex slipped her shoes off, then turned and ran across the meadow to where the house stood illuminated against the dark.

  At the end of the line of people was Angela. No one else waited after her.

  “Are you the last to swear allegiance?” I asked her.

  She nodded, bearing her wrist.

  “Where’s Alex?” I asked her.

  “I could ask you the same question,” she said, quietly. “Is it her intention to join the court?”

  “As far as I know,” I said. “I haven’t seen her since we came back from beating the bounds.”

  We had to concentrate then, since it would be a shame to spoil an otherwise almost unblemished record by severing a limb. Angela tasted blood, as had those before her, and in a moment it was done – we had formed a court. There was another spontaneous outbreak of applause. My suspicion was that the applause was being orchestrated by Angela, but she looked as surprised and nonplussed as I did.

  I wiped my sword for the last time
, carefully stowing the cloth in a pocket out of sight less the sight of blood spoil someone’s appetite. Having stood for over an hour, I was ready to sit and eat, but Blackbird had other ideas. Lesley brought forward our son, dressed in an outfit of teal silk to match her own. It was a measure of my experience with fatherhood that my first thought was – if he throws up on that we’ll never get it clean.

  She approached me and, as she did, he reached out for me. I took him from her and she turned to the assembled people. “Members of the Gifted Court, if I may have your attention for just one moment more.” She waited until the hubbub of conversation died away. “There is a tradition among the Feyre that children are not named for the first six months of their life, but are simply referred to as ‘baby’. It harks back to a time when children were more prevalent, a time which I hope will come again, but we are in the happy circumstance that tonight the son I share with Niall will receive his name.”

  There was a scattering of applause and she waited while it died away.

  “Amongst the Feyre, a male baby’s name is traditionally chosen by the father, and so Niall would like to say a few words.” She turned to me.

  I stepped forward, and there was another bout of scattered clapping. My son clung to me, nervous at being the sudden focus of attention. I couldn’t blame him. I could see Lesley, passing among the members of the new court, handing out glasses of champagne, and I took that as a cue.

  “Like me,” I said, “many of you have grown up with the traditions and rituals of humanity. You would have been looking forward to Christmas, some of you with mixed feelings, and your New Year celebrations would have been not long after. It seems strange, then, to be celebrating the New Year on the solstice, when Christmas is not yet come. Indeed, Christmas is not a festival celebrated by the Feyre.”

  There was a murmur of shame from somewhere at the back.

  “Nor are christenings, and the tradition of Godparents, with all that entails. Instead we have a naming ceremony, something that will be strange and new to many of us, me included.”

  I looked around the faces, seeing many I did not recognise.