A Court of Faerie

by Sarina Dorie

  Prince Elric-Atherius stuck his hand out. “Now you will shake on it with this man as our witness.”

  Paega looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

  Errol shook the prince’s hand. Magic glittered around his palm, and a chill rushed up his arm. The binding magic of an oath tied him to his word. Errol had limited experiences with binding bargains or promises such as this, but he knew there would be dire consequences if he broke his word.

  “Now you must fulfill this promise, or you will suffer the consequences. Magic will drain from you, and you will become weak if you don’t attend this cèilidh.” Prince Elric-Atherius raised an imperious eyebrow. “And I think we both know that isn’t in your best interests these days.”

  Errol wanted to laugh at the prince’s cleverness as much as shrink from it. Just when Errol had started to not dislike the prince, it turned out he could be as manipulative and cunning as the rest of his kin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cèilidh 101: Social Dances for Beginners

  Errol had to go to the cèilidh. He went back and forth about inviting Ivy.

  He was supposed to drink creativity, but he didn’t want her around when he did that. Of course, there was no reason to think music or dance would inspire her. And she wasn’t going to know what he was doing if he did imbibe a small amount of energy from others if they went together.

  It took Errol so long to decide, that the cèilidh had already started when he went to her room that evening. He clenched the box containing her gift in his clammy palms, uncertain whether he was making a mistake when he knocked on her door.

  She peeked out, clad in a white dress, and gasped when she saw him. Errol realized the prince must have been right about him needing to absorb creativity; he was so distracted by the aroma of passion and resourcefulness that he could barely focus. Sparks of errant ingenuity wafted toward him. The air tasted like the agony and ecstasy of artistry. The fervor of imagination flared with the afternotes of color-embroidered flowers, temporarily blinding him.

  “Um. . . .” Ivy said.

  “Good evening.” He realized she was in a nightgown, and he was staring. He averted his gaze. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Excuse me.” She closed the door. Through the wood, she said, “I need a minute.”

  Fabric rustled on the other side of the door.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said.

  “No. It’s fine. I was sewing. I’ll be right out.”

  When she opened the door again, she was dressed in a gray-blue overdress on top of a shift. Behind her, pieces of cut fabric were spread out on the floor between two beds, sections pinned together. An oil lamp had been placed on the floor. It was hardly enough light. As he’d suspected, she had no window. Now that he saw she’d probably been straining her eyes to work on her sewing, he suspected he should have bought her candles or another lamp.

  “Good evening.” He started again. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He rarely saw her without her cap. Her short hair suited her, reminding him of the winged pixies he’d seen in the forest.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I thought you were my roommate.” Her cheeks flushed as magenta as her hair. “I didn’t know you knew where my room was.” She wrung her dress in her hands. “I’m not done mending the hole in the pants you gave me. If you need them now, I can work on it.”

  Flickers of creativity wafted off her. Errol tried to ignore the errant sparks of energy.

  Distracted, he said, “I don’t need my pants right now.”

  Ivy’s gaze flickered to the pants he was wearing.

  He realized his words hadn’t come out as he intended. “I mean, I didn’t come for my mending.” He held the present out to her, feeling out of place standing in the hallway. “Happy Yule.”

  “Oh.” She accepted the gift, staring at it in dismay.

  “Do they celebrate Yule where you come from?”

  “Yes, but it’s been a long time.” She smoothed her fingers over the paper of the box. “I haven’t had a present from anyone since . . . my parents died.”

  Errol cleared his throat. “You don’t have to open it now.”

  “Oh, um, do you prefer for me to wait?” She tugged at the ribbon, and then stopped, uncertainty on her face.

  He feared he was only making her more uncomfortable. “No. You can open it now if you want.”

  She opened the box, examining the contents of thread, needles, pins, and a new pair of scissors.

  “I thought you could use more supplies.” He couldn’t think of anything better to say to explain himself, so he added, “Because you sew.”

  “That’s generous of you.” She stared at the box.

  The silence stretched on uncomfortably.

  He nodded to the dress behind her. “I can see you’re sewing something new for yourself.”

  “It isn’t new exactly. I’m modifying a bigger dress. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  She shifted from foot to foot uneasily. “They told me it was your sister’s.”

  Errol wondered who had given it to her. Kendra? Another maid? They hadn’t given him any of her things. He pushed down his momentary resentment.

  He smiled. “I’m glad it’s gone to a good home. Don’t worry about that.” He wondered whether the dress she wore now was a hand-me-down. He wouldn’t know if it was. It had been twenty years since he’d seen his sister. “It’s good to be practical. I should have thought about you needing new dresses. Are you paid enough that you can see to all your needs?”

  “I don’t need anything new. I can sew.” She held up the box. “This was very generous.”

  Errol stepped back, thinking he was being dismissed, but she remained in the doorway. “I wish I’d thought of something to give you.”

  “You’re always making me biscuits. That’s present enough.” He clasped his hands behind his back, needing to do something with them.

  “I haven’t made you biscuits in a while.” She bit her lip and avoided his gaze.

  “I haven’t seen you much of late.” He rubbed his hands over the back of his coat, hating how clammy his palms felt. “I’m afraid Sergeant Norris may have given you the wrong idea about me.”

  “No, not at all.” She said quickly. “I don’t have any impression about you.”

  “That day you came in—the day the child was there.” The words rushed out of him in a jumble as he attempted to get the truth out. “He isn’t my son.” Prince Elric-Atherius had told him he could confide the truth, but Errol thought that was folly. “He’s a . . . friend’s son.” If she had the ability to see through glamour, she might have noticed Ned had the same silver hair as Errol. “He’s distant kin.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. He looked a little like you.” She smiled, her expression full of relief.

  He felt even more awkward, now that her expression told him she probably had assumed the worst about him. “I didn’t want you to think I’m the dishonorable sort of man who misleads a woman about his intentions and uses her.”

  She nodded.

  Errol still didn’t feel satisfied she understood. His words were barely adequate to express his worries—namely that she might think he was as cavalier as Prince Elric-Atherius in his affairs. “I wouldn’t bed a woman without intending to settle down with her. Especially if she were the mother of my child.” Of course, he had bedded Kendra in the past without the expectation that their relationship would go any further, but that had been by mutual agreement. If Kendra had been running her mouth off with stories about him, he supposed she might have made him out to be a philanderer.

  He blurted, “You probably know that the head cook and I once had a relationship. I don’t want that to prejudice your good opinion of me.”

  “Kendra may have mentioned it once or twice, but I know to take everything she says with a grain of salt.” She met his eyes, and there was less anxiety
in hers now.

  Errol supposed if he was going to ask Ivy to the cèilidh, now would be the moment to do so.

  “I realize you’re in the middle of sewing, and I wouldn’t have intruded if I’d known.” He cleared his throat. “But I came because I thought it’s a terrible thing to be alone on Yule. There’s a party tonight. A cèilidh with singing and dancing. My sister and I used to go. I realize you’re busy sewing—” Errol tried to organize his thoughts into words, but he kept getting lost in the amber color of her eyes.

  This was ridiculous. He couldn’t understand why words were failing him.

  “I could go to the cèilidh with you. I don’t have plans.” She grinned, looking happier than he’d ever seen her. “It will only take me a minute to tidy up. I don’t want to leave anything out that my roommate might step on later.”

  “Oh, indeed? Brilliant. I can wait.” His anxiety at offending her melted away at seeing her joy.

  She turned from the door and scooped up her fabric pieces. She donned a cap, shawl, and thicker stockings. With the door open wider, he examined the small space shared by Ivy and her roommate. They didn’t own much between the two of them. His room was luxurious in comparison. When she transferred the lamp to the nightstand, light fell on the painting on the wall above her bed that he’d missed before.

  It was the painting he’d commissioned for his sister’s wedding present. In it, Alma, Semmy, and Errol posed.

  Errol stepped forward, releasing his hold on some of the glamour of his wings so that their light brightened the room. The painting was similar to the one in his room, but in this, Alma and Semmy made silly faces and Errol stared at the viewer with the same solemn expression that was in the other one. It captured the three of them perfectly: Semmy and Alma the playful ones who were a good match for each other. He was as grim and grouchy as his sister had accused him of being.

  It was one thing to walk by the painting in his room every day, so accustomed to it that he didn’t see it anymore. This painting was just different enough—and in an unexpected place—that he was forced to see it. He couldn’t avoid gazing upon Alma. There was no way he could forget she was dead, and it was now too late to fix things between them.

  Errol looked away, realizing Ivy’s smile was gone. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  He shook his head, trying to brush away the sorrow he didn’t want to admit he felt. “Sorry? Why?”

  “Alma’s friends gave me her things because I didn’t have anything.” Her voice was so quiet, it was nearly a whisper. “I thought I should bring you the painting, but the longer I had it, the harder it was to part with it. The painting reminds me why I’m here. I look at your face, and it makes me remember you’re the one who spared me. I see her face, and it helps give me a reason to live each day because she can’t. I try to remember to do good and be diligent because she was a hard worker, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

  His heart swelled at those words. He was certain Alma would have been proud of her. It was him he was less certain about.

  All he had done of late was search for her killers, and now people were dead. The king had promised Errol he would have his revenge—in the form of a war. Was that what she would have wanted? More people to die on her behalf?

  Prince Elric-Atherius had been right. Errol didn’t know the difference between justice and revenge anymore.

  He nodded. “I think it’s good you kept it, then. I have my own painting.” He had his own memories haunting him. He didn’t need more. This painting made her happier than it made him.

  He took in the knitted shawl Ivy wore—one he remembered Alma wearing. “Are you ready to go? Do you have a cloak or anything heavier? It’s cold outside tonight.”

  “This is my warmest shawl,” she said.

  Alma had once owned warmer shawls and cloaks, but someone hadn’t bothered to give Ivy those.

  “We’ll stop in my room, and you can borrow one of my cloaks,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later, they walked away from the castle toward the cèilidh, on the road through the grounds. The Yule party was always outside Caern proper, hosted by one of the farmers with a barn and plenty of room for dancing. Ivy walked with her arm tucked into the crook of Errol’s elbow. His cloak was too large for her, but she wasn’t so much shorter than him that it dragged on the ground. Unused to walking with a woman like this, he was careful not to walk too fast and drag her along.

  He could have transported them with magic, but Errol rarely used that kind of enchantment unless it was out of necessity. It used up magic he might need during his late shift, and it was better to save such a reserve for duty when he might truly need it.

  With his attention on Ivy, he had momentarily forgotten about duties and dangers. After Prince Elric-Atherius’ cryptic remarks, he knew he couldn’t let his guard down when Prince Beorhtsige, Princess Quenylda, or others in the Silver Court might use his lack of vigilance to their advantage.

  Due to his digging into conspiracies, he was aware of the increasing number of conflicts between the Raven Queen’s people and their own. Any day, Errol expected the king would be called away for battle—and Errol would join. He hoped the king wouldn’t bring his pet Jabberwock.

  “What kind of party will this be?” Ivy asked, her voice eager.

  The pale illumination of moonlight flickered through the trees, catching her amber eyes in the light.

  “Festive. There will be a little bit of everything.” He had never walked with her like this and had never noticed that she was close to his height when she wasn’t shrinking down to appear smaller. “My sister enjoyed dancing the most. I like the storytelling and singing best. The food is always good. There’s always a fine selection of drink this time of year. It’s a nice chance for you to see your friends outside of work.”

  She nodded soberly. He wondered whether she had friends. He didn’t want to overstep and ask her. It would embarrass her if she didn’t.

  “I’ve never been to a party before,” she said quietly.

  Errol’s chest tightened at those words. The Raven Court had deprived her of so much. He was grateful he was able to give her an opportunity for a normal life, only he wished it hadn’t cost him his sister in the process.

  “I hope it won’t be a disappointment,” he finally said.

  “I doubt that! Only. . . .” Her words seemed to catch in her throat. “I don’t know all the proper etiquette for a party. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”

  He wanted to reassure her, for her to know she was safe. “That makes two of us, then. We’ll have to help each other.”

  She ducked her chin down.

  He suspected he knew how to draw her out of her shell. “Tell me about your sewing projects. Do you have any masterpieces you’ve been working on?”

  “I enjoy embroidery. I stitched flowers and ivy onto my stockings. No one sees them except for me, but I like to admire them.” Sparks of creativity drifted out of her as she spoke about her passion.

  Her artistry was the flavor of plants woven into tapestries and the music of lace and ribbon. Errol suspected he was in dangerous territory, drawing out her interest like this, but he wanted to distract her from her worries. He didn’t mean to inspire her, nor did he wish to take from her.

  Perhaps if he hadn’t allowed himself to grow so depleted, he wouldn’t have craved her creativity. He shouldn’t have encouraged her to chatter away about her sewing projects, but it was the first time he had seen her this enthusiastic about something.

  The shadows of trees fell away to reveal flat farmland. A group of women walked ahead of them, their voices broadcasting their excitement. The open stretch was dark aside from the lantern the group up ahead carried, but Errol could see well enough with his Fae sight. The sound of joyful music guided them, signaling they were near before they could see the bonfires. Errol thought about how wide open and unprotected it was on a lane like this outside the castle. He
wasn’t used to being without a unit of soldiers to command. He scanned the sky for danger. He didn’t feel the presence of evil harpies.

  That attack in Caern on his sister hadn’t been an isolated incident. The murderers who had killed Alma were still out there.

  Ivy shivered against him. “I haven’t ever been this far from the kitchen.”

  “Does the dark scare you?” he asked. “I should have thought about illuminating our way with an enchantment.” Yet if he did, it would ruin his eyes for seeing in the dark for a while if he should need to extinguish that light to fight attackers.

  Standing out on a lonely lane made them a target, but he hadn’t considered she might feel more comfortable out here—with him—if she could see.

  She patted his arm. “I don’t worry about anything with you here, Captain.”

  A momentary surge of pride flushed through him before logic took over. He suspected the darkness hid his astounded expression. He couldn’t imagine anyone had that much confidence in him. Even so, he felt flattered that she said it.

  Another minute passed before they came to a barn glowing with light. They took a shortcut and trampled through a threshed field of wheat to get to the party. Whoops and hollers came from the other side.

  As they neared, dancers silhouetted against the golden light resembled joyous shadow goblins. Errol couldn’t go to parties, even ones outside the castle’s walls, without thinking of the atrocities he’d witnessed in the palace.

  Especially when creativity and passion flowed in such abundance that it glittered like fireflies in the air around the dancers.

  Errol had to remind himself these people were safe. He was the only muse present. Even if he did inspire people, there were so many of them. It was unlikely he would draw out too much energy or take too much from a single person. He couldn’t accidentally hurt them as he had with Delilah’s mother all those years ago.