by Elise Kova
“Good.” I turn to face off against the inn. Sucking in a deep breath, I march across the narrow street on the exhale. Before I inhale again, I’ve opened the door. There’s no turning back now.
The troupe isn’t so much performing as sitting and strumming together. The first floor of the inn is a tavern, empty at this time of day. I can smell the herbaceous aroma of something slow cooking in the back—the owners no doubt getting a head start on the dinner rush before the sun is even up.
Because it’s so empty, all eyes are on me as soon as I enter. Instruments fall silent. I cross straight for them, weaving around the vacant tables. My eyes meet the man who I assume is the head of the troupe. The man with the raven hair and markings on his brow whom I played with in Dreamsong.
We simply stare at each other for several long seconds. I can tell he recognizes me instantly—I can tell they all do by their demeanor. We’re silently sizing each other up, waiting to see who’s going to act first. The muscles in my legs are tense and ready to run.
“You look weary, traveler.” The leader hooks a chair with his toes and kicks it toward me. “Take a load off.”
“I’ve come a long way.” I sit. “I heard the king has something truly special planned for the end of the autumnal celebrations.”
“Can’t speak for the king, but we’ve heard whispers of the like.” As their leader speaks, the troupe exchanges wary glances. I see the flash of steel as one of them moves. Bards who live on the road would be armed to the teeth.
“Must be nice, having the opportunity to see those celebrations inside the king’s halls.”
“It’s certainly something.” The fact that he doesn’t agree—that none of them have immediately called the Butchers at the sight of me—gives me hope.
“Do you play for royalty often?” I have to be absolutely certain where their loyalties lie. How they can go from playing for the people of Dreamsong to Boltov’s inner circle in a few short days is beyond me. But if I’m to work with them, I need to understand.
“Only when we’re summoned. The king has a good ear for music; he appreciates quality.”
That must be why they’ve been afforded some freedoms. They must’ve cut a deal with the king—or at least reached an understanding. Is what I have to offer enough to sway them from the security they’ve managed to procure?
“Do you think he would appreciate the quality of my playing?”
“As I said, I can’t speak for the king.”
That’s not a no. “It would be an honor to play for the Fae King.”
“Would it now?” He arches his eyebrows.
“I desperately want to get inside the castle.”
“And why is that?”
I bite my lower lip, weighing my next words carefully. “There is something—someone—within his walls that I would very much like to see. But alas, the Butchers keep the place well-guarded and I’m not of high enough standing to gain entry otherwise, so there’s no way I’ll be able to get in on my own.”
“You want to play your way in, is that it?” His directness gives me hope.
“If that’s what it takes.”
The man holds out a hand to one of his fellow performers. She hands him her lute without question. The leader then passes it to me.
“Play for it.”
“Pardon?” As I take the lute, he picks up his own from where it leans against the chair.
“A duel of the strings.” His fingers pluck up the neck of his fiddle. “I play, then you play, then I play, then you, until one of us is bested.”
“And how do we know when one of us is bested?” I’m already tuning the lute.
“We’ll know; that’s never a problem.”
The other minstrels are settling into their chairs. They wear smiles, as if this is all an amusing game to them—as if the fate of the fae wilds doesn’t hang in the balance. Maybe it is just another amusement. Maybe the life of these bards is looking for one burst of inspiration, or entertainment, after the next. They have no loyalty, no fidelity, but to the muse of music.
Perhaps it’s their lack of loyalty to anyone that means I can trust them. It makes them simple and straightforward. I’ll always know where they stand—for themselves.
“If I win, you let me and my friend join your troupe for the next performance inside the castle, yes?” I ask carefully, knowing I need to be mindful when cutting a bargain with fae.
“You and your friend?”
“He can play the drums.” I consider this, knowing the musical aptitude of the people I’m speaking to. “Or, he can be like a jester, dancing about. He’s small and can be quite silly.”
The leader exchanges glances with another woman. She chuckles. “I think I’d like to see her little assistant.”
“Very well then. You’ve a deal.”
No sooner does the man say it than his fingers start to move. He starts off slow, dancing around single notes, plucking one string after the next, before they evolve into chords. It’s a shrill, short little ditty, almost like a wordless limerick in music form.
The second he stops, I begin to play. I take the same line he laid with his notes and turn it into full chords. When he plays next, he harmonizes those chords, bow in hand this time and blazing across the strings.
I’m in as much awe watching him play now as the very first time. Inspiration makes my fingertips itch. The music soothes away my troubles. It puts the world on hold. I can’t stop myself. I don’t wait for my turn.
I begin playing in harmony, and then, in creative dissonance to him. The leader gives me a glance, and a smirk, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. I grin slyly at him as well and begin to play faster. We egg each other on with glances and clever notes. The troupe begins to stomp and clap. And as we reach our crescendo, we both finish with a flourish. Breathless.
We share a smile, as only two musicians can.
“All right. You should get some rest. Because tonight, you come with us to play for Boltov.”
Chapter 35
I sleep for most of the day. When I wake, it’s because the other troupe members I’m sharing my room with are beginning to stir. I feel like I could’ve slept for eternity. Raph is curled up at my side, snoring softly. His face is relaxed and he looks so vulnerable, so peaceful. I’ve never been more aware of just how young he is. Guilt cuts me deep at what I’ve thrust him into. I gently stroke hair from his eyes.
One of the musicians crosses over, holding out a small bundle of clothes. I take it with quiet thanks. They have three whole trunks of costumes that they all source their attire from. What they gave to me is a ruffled blouse with billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline. It’s paired with tight, black, leather pants. I fuss over the pendant, eventually deciding to twist it around and hang it between my shoulder blades. Like this, it looks almost like a choker, as long as my hair covers my shoulders.
I rouse Raph to give him his clothes. He sleepily dresses in the brightly colored tunic and spotted leggings. He’s awake enough by the end to frown at the ensemble.
“I look like a clown.”
I chuckle softly and don’t tell him about my jester comment the night before. “You look like a performer.”
“You got the good clothes.” He pouts.
“I look like a pirate.”
“Pirates are fabulous.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Let’s get breakfast.”
Raph and I keep to ourselves as we eat. The troupe isn’t unkind, but they don’t seem to be interested in engaging with us more than they have to. I suppose it’s for the best. The less they know, the safer we all are. Moreover, no matter what happens tonight, I get the keen sense that we won’t be leaving the castle together. This is strictly business.
I’m halfway through my meal when it strikes me that the food still has taste. Raph notices the sudden shift in my demeanor and tries to inquire as to the reason. But I brush him off.
We have enough to worry about. Adding concern for me withering awa
y as a human in the world of the fae is something we don’t need. And I still don’t think I’m withering. It must be because I still have the necklace on my person—the power of kings is still with me even if it’s no longer in me. Fortunately, it seems to be enough to sustain me in this world.
The lamps are being lit as we emerge from the inn. The leader guides the troupe in a merry jig as we walk and dance down the road. I try and throw myself into the music. My fingers move on instinct, sure. But it’s impossible for me to get lost in the melody the way I usually do, the way I did last night, not with the castle looming over me and the portcullis drawing ever closer.
“Hold it.” One of the Butchers stops us just before we can enter. Her eyes shift to me and Raph. “Those two weren’t with you yesterday.”
“Ah, yes, they were late in getting to the High Court. They joined us last night. But we’d be remiss to perform again without their skill,” the leader says. All technically true.
The Butcher still seems wary. “I don’t recall any new people entering the city.”
I clutch my lute a little bit tighter, trying to keep my face as calm as possible. When we crossed through the barriers, did they know how many people entered? Or did they just get a sense of the wall being breached? Did they think that by capturing Shaye and Giles, they got everyone? Even if they don’t…I can only hope that they would assume that anyone who is foolish enough to sneak into the High Court will stay far away from the castle.
“Do you recall everything that happens in the High Court?” The leader tilts his head.
“Do you often lose members of your troupe?”
“I lose many things.” The man chuckles and plucks his fiddle.
The Butcher looks to me, narrowing her eyes. “Going to ask you a very simple question. You can only answer yes, or no. If you say any other words then I will kill you without a second’s hesitation. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” This is going to be too easy. She’s treating me like a fae and thinking I can’t lie. Even though I have no horns, or wings, they have no reason to expect a human to be here.
“Did you and him—” she points to Raph “—infiltrate the High Court, yes or no?”
“No.” I smile widely and can’t help but add, “Everything he said is completely true. They came out and got me.”
One of the women of the troupe laughs. “Do you think something is funny?” the Butcher snaps.
“I think the world is one big joke, and the only tragedy is the people who can’t seem to laugh at it,” she says with a smile.
“Get out of my sight,” the Butcher snarls and waves us along.
As we pass under the portcullis, the leader of the troupe looks back at me with a sly smile. He slows his pace to fall beside me. “I thought you were a bit different…a bit boring…but now I realize you are most interesting indeed. For it is what you lack that makes you special.”
“I’m unique in my own way, as we all are,” I agree, sharing in what might be the only smile I have of the night. “And you’re right in that I don’t need horns or wings to be special.”
“You certainly don’t.” He dips his head and raises his catlike eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that it has been my supreme honor playing with you.”
“Likewise.”
“No matter what happens tonight, I think I shall compose an epic ballad inspired by your tale.”
I chuckle softly. I begin to suspect that’s why he let me come along. “Hopefully, that song is not cut short and has a happy ending.”
Our conversation comes to an end as we emerge on the other side of the portcullis. There is an antechamber where people mill about in their finery. A few clap and smile as we enter. A grand, gilded staircase winds around the room, but we head for the double doors that open into the main hall of the castle.
All breath leaves my body and I’m suddenly torn between awe and horror. Buttresses support a ceiling that feels as if it could touch the sky. Holes in the roof have been punched out with circular panes of glass, giving the stars and moon a view of the revelries below. Fae dance to unheard music, spinning around the floor, laughing. Some linger off to the side, eating and scheming.
It would be a normal enough celebration were it not for the men and women suspended in cages between each of the buttresses. I see Hol in one of the cages and instantly grab for Raph. The child looks to me and I meet his eyes.
Be strong, I mouth silently and stare at him with an intense gaze. Then, I lift my eyes back to Hol. Raph must follow my stare because I can feel him trip; I hear the choked whimper that almost escapes. I clutch on to him with white knuckles, so tightly that I know it hurts. He would’ve seen his father eventually. It’s better for him to not be caught off guard. But, yet again, I’m overwhelmed by the guilt of bringing him here.
All of this will be worth it so long as our plan works. Raph and I went over the details multiple times last night before we slept. He knows why he’s here. He knows why I need him. And he won’t back down…not even when he sees his father on the menu of tonight’s entertainment for these demented people. This is his only chance of saving his mother and father.
At the far end of the hall, perched high atop a dais, is the throne and the man that I can only presume is King Boltov. From this distance, it’s hard to make out the details of him. I can gather only the broad strokes—like his fiery red hair, or how tall he must be to still dominate a chair while so hunched and sullen. I’m taken aback by how wiry and frail he looks. This is the man that has kept the Boltov legacy alive and the fae kingdom on its knees? This is the king who has committed all of the atrocities I’ve seen and imagined? He looks like the one withering, not me.
No, I can’t let his appearance fool me; I must stay on guard.
As we cross the room to ultimately stand before the king, I search for any sign of Davien or Vena. The people in the cages are certainly captives from the sacking of Dreamsong, but I can’t see any of the leaders. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.
“Your Majesty.” The leader of the troupe dips into a low bow. “Thank you for bringing us back tonight to serenade your great hall.”
King Boltov nods his head ever so slightly. The glass crown that sits heavily on his brow picks up the light of the massive chandeliers and breaks it into a thousand pieces. It puts the replicas from the night in Dreamsong, and those on the brows of the men in this hall, to shame. Its craftsmanship is more refined and it oozes staggering power. A thousand rainbows cage in a cosmos within it.
It also appears that Davien was right—he’s performed some dark ritual to allow him to wear the crown. Seeing it on his head churns my stomach. I am enraged, as if seeing him with that crown is an affront to my history—an insult to me.
“My favorite minstrels have returned.”
“We would not dare object to your summons, Your Majesty.” The troupe leader has yet to straighten. He still stares at the floor. The rest of us have followed suit, bowing our heads. Though I look up through my lashes.
This close, I get more details of the bloody king.
His face is weathered, like leather that has been over-tanned, thinned in the process, and stretched taut over jagged stones. His eyes are sharp blue, piercing, threatening to expose even the slightest hint of deceit. The man’s fingers are more bone than flesh or muscle, and gnarly yellow claws extend out in place of nails. Two crescent horns, as black as pitch, curl up from his brow around the glass crown. There is nothing about him that is soft, or warm, or inviting. Everything is brutal angles.
“I look forward to what you perform for me tonight as we are at the end of our celebrations. Play well and I’ll let you keep all your fingers and feet. Play poorly and you’ll be forced to dance on nubs.”
I’m beginning to figure out why the troupe was so willing to allow me to join them. Even if they’re not strictly loyal or disloyal to anyone but themselves, Boltov is an easy enemy to all.
“It will be our pleasure to
play for you. We will not let you down, sire.”
“Good. But do know when to stop; I have a special surprise planned for the culmination of the autumnal celebrations that I do not want interrupted.”
The words “special surprise” fill me with dread—anything that this man feels is special is surely something I won’t like. But I move with the troupe off to the side of the dais. The leader lays down the initial melody. The rest of us follow. Raph taps along on his comically small drum, bravely putting on a smile.
Two hours and my fingers are aching. I’ve never played this long or this hard. But I continue forcing myself to do so even when my hands are threatening to cramp. I’m playing for my life.
And then, the music suddenly stops. I look from the leader of the troupe to the king. Boltov has lifted a hand. Like a dark omen, he slowly unfurls himself from the throne, standing at full height and towering above everyone else.
“Good subjects, today is the last day of fall and the first of winter. It is the day when the living gives way to the dead. When one world passes to the next. And the Veil between us and the great Beyond is at its most thin.”
There’s excited murmuring throughout the hall. I see courtiers grabbing up goblets and taking hearty sips. They can’t wait to see what their king has planned, and it makes me sick.
“I know many of you are expecting entertainment tonight similar to that of last night, especially given my décor.” Boltov lifts his hands and motions to the cages around the room. “However, tonight’s special. Tonight is for me, and for a history that began hundreds of years ago with the death of King Aviness the Sixth.” The gathered fae hiss at the mention of the former king. He slowly begins to descend the staircase that wraps around the dais. “As you know, there are some who still think that the Aviness line can be restored. That the true king to the throne is out there, even though it is I who wear the crown.” He taps on the glass circling his brow for emphasis. Chuckles ripple through the hall. “So tonight it is my pleasure to see that the last of that line is finally cut off—henceforth, there will never be a question about who is most fit to rule.”
