Invisible

by Dawn Metcalf

  She shifted her attention away from the Council’s stares and stopped twisting the edge of her shawl. Clutching her purse and pashmina, Joy steadied herself for whatever came next. She reconsidered her plan as her thoughts scattered like leaves. She was standing before the Council of the Twixt. The stares of the assembled Folk were real and unfriendly. They could take out her eyes. They could tear out her heart. Or they could do none of these things if Filly’s riddle was correct and she was somehow one of them, if only just. But Joy stood on the stump as if it were the edge of the Crags, because no matter what happened in the next few minutes, she knew that her life would never be the same.

  “The Council formally acknowledges Joy Malone,” the old man said, and Joy tried not to wince as he said her name. His voice warbled out of a throat that stretched and lengthened as he spoke, and she noticed that his eyes had slits for pupils. She felt more human than ever. “You present a difficult case, Miss Malone. Having been born a creature bestowed with the Sight is a remarkable quality, one that we have old laws to address and control. Having been chosen by the Scribe, you were granted leniency as well as your gift—a rare honor—yet once you shirked the bonds of lehmanship, we found it difficult to excuse your continued actions within our demesnes without the onus of proper guidance and enforced restraint.” The speaker failed to keep the contempt from his voice. “However, your deeds upholding the balance between our worlds as Accorded by the Twixt were recognized by this Council and we awarded you and your family proper protections under the Edict via our Decree. Despite our word and recent recriminations—” the slitted eyes flicked to the severe Councilman and his pale-haired page “—we cannot continue to ignore the flouting of our authority, both by your person and those persons who wish to do you harm. These are transgressions which the Twixt cannot abide.” His head moved in a way that reminded her of snakes, slithering hypnotically on his well-muscled neck. “Therefore, we, the Council, felt it best to invite you forth to settle our disquiet in a time-honored manner upheld by both laws of our peoples in ancient times.” The elderly man stroked the heavy stone gavel with long fingernails filed to points. “I confess that your situation is without precedent. You have been cited with improprieties unequaled since the days of the Rhymer, and that is no small accomplishment. But we acknowledge that the crimes committed against you by the employ of the Dreaded Red Knight were in defiance of our Edict and herewith forgive any action of yours that necessitated defending your person or persons of your blood or acquaintance against him.” Joy exhaled slowly and was surprised to see Graus Claude do the same. Is this his doing? Or Inq’s? Or both? She didn’t know if she should be grateful, but she was glad that she didn’t have to defend her actions or her Grimson’s mark. A great swell of talking forced the Council leader to rap the stone in sharp rebuke.

  “The Tide’s representative moves for a redress.”

  The elderly man’s head turned, his moustache tips fluttering to either side of his ears. The man with the widow’s peak had bent forward slightly, his elaborate, stardusted cloak catching winks of firefly light.

  “Indeed,” the Council head said. “I would not expect any less from you, Sol Leander, but as you are newly admitted to the Council, I would also not expect you to be familiar with the common considerations accorded to persons who have been wronged by actions against the Accords or, in this case, our own Decrees.” The reedy voice thrummed with an iron undercurrent. Joy saw great ram’s horns curved along the sides of the old man’s skull. Or were they part of his skull? Joy shivered. “Understand that at this time, there is no need for redress or reconsideration.” The scaled chin turned back to Joy and she saw the barest nod from Sol Leander acknowledging the dismissal. The young man in the feathered cloak looked even more affronted and his anger found a target in Joy.

  So this is the Tide.

  These were the people who wanted her dead.

  “Now then, Miss Malone,” the Council leader resumed. “We are given to understand that you have been presented with several options for your consideration, those which have been suggested and approved by the Council in private session, and we wish to acknowledge your human laws by offering you a choice.” His face twisted around the word and Joy saw tiny wisps of smoke curl up from his nostrils. “By voicing your preference in our presence, you will exercise that right. I urge you to consider the full ramifications of this allowance before you answer. To that end, we, the Council, offer the following options...”

  There was a ripple among the Council members and the Folk assembled in the massive stands, and Joy wondered if everyone already knew the answer and it was only she who didn’t quite know what to expect. Did they know? Did they suspect? Filly thought she was the first to guess the truth about Joy, but she was wrong. Ink had known the real truth about Joy, before anyone—before Joy knew herself—and it had nothing to do with her being human or not. He knew that he loved her and that she loved him. No matter what. It buoyed her in a way she hadn’t experienced before, her body and mind suddenly feeling light and carefree as a pink balloon. Joy realized that there had never been any other choice she would make.

  This is my choice. I choose this.

  It really was as simple as that.

  “To willingly return that which was bequeathed by Master Indelible Ink, which has been proven to affect signaturae, a singular crime within the confines of the Twixt, to accept the yoke of signatura from one of the Folk and thereby be bound to our laws under their Name and auspice, answerable for your actions within the confines of the Twixt, or to willingly abandon all contact and future interaction with the Folk and the Twixt, up to and including the use of your gifts, both innate and acquired, for as long as you shall live.”

  There was a general hubbub, but Joy had lost track of what had been said as opposed to what she had been preparing herself to say. She glanced around hastily, trying to catch a hint, a glimpse from those she knew, but only when the voices had quieted down did she hear the words “...means taking the blade and her eyes...”

  Joy shuddered, squeezing the clutch purse harder, feeling her body contract. Carefully memorized words dissolved into a white mist of panic. Fear hammered in her chest and spots of terror winked behind her eyes. All she could think was that whatever the Folk were, they weren’t human. They would blind her, cut her, kill her without a moment’s hesitation—her life meant nothing more to them than a dust mote in a breeze—but they also envied and feared her, and that made her powerful. She still had freedoms—human freedoms and human choices.

  “And now, Miss Malone, we invite you to voice your preference for our consideration.”

  Joy swallowed her misgivings and a sudden lack of spit. The words she’d been planning to say fractured like bits of refrigerator poetry. She caught Graus Claude’s icy glare and the Council leader’s crocodile gaze.

  “For your...consideration?” she said, surprised at the volume of her own voice amplified back at her from the high, glittering walls. It sounded high and weak.

  “You have the right to voice your preference.” The crystalline figure with the molten eyes spoke like steam escaping, shifting in its seat with delicate pings of broken music. “But this does not obligate the Council to grant it.”

  There was another murmur, this time of approval, and Joy bit back the retort that came to mind, That’s not fair! Joy knew more than a little about “fair”—in Olympic training, it was a banned word. There was nothing in the rules about anything or anyone being “fair,” and she was sure this was the closest to “fairness” that she could expect in the Twixt. She tried to ignore the flush of heat and sweat that blotched her face and the pinch in her toes as she shifted her feet.

  Joy cleared her throat and tried to stand tall under the collective gaze of the Twixt.

  “Thank you,” she said, her whisper amplified to fill the Hall, “I am honored to be invited here by the Council of the Twixt, who h
ave graciously protected my family and I under your Decree,” she said, ignoring the ridiculous boom of her words. She knew more than a little about showing deference before a panel of judges. “I know that it has been difficult and that many unforeseen things have happened to bring about this decision, and I wanted you to know that I appreciate being included in the process.” She licked her lips. “However...” She swallowed again. “For reasons that I hope will become clear, I am unable to accept any of your stated offers.”

  There erupted a sound unlike any she’d heard since the battle on the fiery warehouse floor: screeches and shouts, roars of outrage, snaps and barks and howls of hundreds of berating voices and hissing curses. She buckled on the stand, slipping in her shoes. The rapping of the stone split the chamber, chopping at the noise like an axe.

  “Please,” Joy said. “Please let me explain!”

  “ENOUGH.” Graus Claude’s bellow wasn’t a shout so much as a clap of thunder. He’d half risen out of his chair, four hands gripping the edge of the partition wall. He settled back, two arms crossing over his chest and his browridge lowered, the ice-blue eyes searing into Joy with unspoken warnings and worse. “Let her speak.”

  “I...” In the quiet, Joy’s voice shook. She scraped her fingernails against the inside of her arm and brushed back her hair from her eyes. She placed the Olympic mask over her face: this was the beginning of her performance, as routine as a routine. She straightened her shoulders, centered her spine, raised her rib cage and started again. She could do this.

  “I am sorry, but I can’t give back the scalpel as it was a gift willingly given, bequeathed to me by use of my name,” she said. “And while I would be tempted to swear to you that I would never use it again, recent experiences have proven that I would use it in self-defense, to protect myself or those I care about most.” She faltered at the momentary flashes of Stef and Monica and Ink. “And I would not want to insult you by offering up any false or hasty promises.”

  There was a general murmur; an acknowledgment that a human promise wasn’t worth much and that she was wise to admit it up front.

  Humility.

  “Furthermore,” Joy continued, “while I had the honor of being chosen as lehman by the Scribe, Indelible Ink, I was ignorant of the responsibilities and obligations of that position. Knowing what I do now, I could not accept that role again from any other in the Twixt,” she said. “Nor did I realize that my actions would strip me of that title and the respect I had not yet earned. To that end, I offer my sincerest apologies to the Council and to him.” Joy didn’t turn around but was sorely tempted. Was Ink in the stands? Had he heard her most public apology? Would he care? Did it matter? It was from the heart.

  Sincerity.

  Again the clamor of debate, lower this time, and again came the knock for silence. Joy matched the reptilian glance of the Council speaker, whose scaled face was now wreathed in smoke. It made her heart flutter, but her words did not falter. She had committed herself to this course—she would see it through. This is my choice.

  “But even then, I could not accept his signatura, or the mark of any one of the Folk as my bond to the Twixt, because...” Joy faltered as the Council head grew more serpentine and awful as the moments ticked by. She found it hard to breathe in the smell of smoke, slightly damp and organic, and stand before the collective anger in the Hall. The tension had a taste to it. If she succeeded, it was over. If she failed, she was dead. She drew her palms across the fringe of the pashmina, wiping them dry, remembering the words that Filly had made her recite over and over until she knew them by heart.

  “Because, I, Joy Malone, do seal my soul upon my Name and thus upon my sigil.” She’d had to raise her voice over the rising outcry. “I offer my armor and accept this decree by blood and by word and by deed.”

  Taking the scalpel from her purse, she stabbed her thumb.

  A wash rippled over her body, lighting her entirely in glyph-drawn light that spun and swirled, unzipping and collapsing, a chorus of undoing, ending with a final punch between the shoulder blades. Joy pitched forward, gasping. Her pashmina fluttered to the ground. The Council and all assembled could see the mark blazing in the center of her spine—fully formed, fresh and new: a circular pictogram of a bird’s outflung wings, its pointed beak raised to the sky. Even as it faded from view, save from those who had the Sight, they had witnessed its birth. They could not remove it and they could not deny it.

  It was hers. Her. My True Name, she thought. Mine.

  Joy Malone.

  NINETEEN

  PANDEMONIUM.

  Joy kept her head down as the Hall erupted. She was glad she’d listened to Graus Claude’s advice and stayed bowed, conciliatory, allowing everyone the time to react without looking directly at her face. The Council is more impressed with a show of vulnerability than strength. She shut her eyes and tried to ignore the chaos boiling all around her, quietly holding on to her scalpel as well as her bleeding thumb. She sneaked her hand to her face and sucked at the cut. It tasted deep. It might even leave a scar.

  “Joy.”

  She lifted her face and looked up at Ink. Tiny flickers of firefly light swam in his eyes. Was it wonder? Hope? Fear? Awe? He stood nearby, shielding her, like he had with the bain sidhe, like the Red Knight—always by her side.

  “I am here,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said into the quiet cave of his ear. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.” Her voice bounced quietly between them under the uproar. “And now I do. Erasing your mark erases a part of you—your integrity, your purpose, and tears at both our worlds, harming everyone, everything, and that’s wrong. It was wrong for me to do and wrong to try and excuse it and I’m sorry.” She pushed her heart into her words, trying to close the distance between them. “And now you know that I know,” she said. “I’m part-Folk. I cannot lie.”

  It took a moment for her words to register, and his eyes grew incredibly deeper.

  “I...” He touched her hand, the barest brush of his fingers. “Joy? How?” he said. “How did this happen? When?” His voice sliced through the noise like the sweep of his razor, crisp and clean and sharp. “When did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” she confessed as the stone gavel banged. “But Filly did. I’d given only a few people my True Name willingly—including her and you.” Joy shook her head, caught between laughter and tears. “Inq, too, probably, since you seem to come as a set.” She was feeling something very big, but she couldn’t quite decide how to define it. Her body quivered as she whispered, “I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I chose you then and I choose this now.” She pushed the scalpel into his hand and squeezed their fingers around it. “There are no accidents.”

  Joy picked up her shawl and rose to stand as the Order was brought to order. Ink stepped behind her to her left, much as the feather-cloaked boy stood next to Sol Leander, who sat smoldering in his seat.

  “The Council must consider your claim.” the elderly man’s voice was no longer reedy, but slithered ominously like smoke issuing from a deep pit. His eyes burned a startling golden-green that hadn’t been there before. Joy swallowed. “But we cannot ignore that you come into our chambers bearing armor and weapons in defiance of our laws.”

  The redheaded pixie chirped, “Which laws?”

  Sol Leander spoke easily. “No human can appear here bearing weapons against the Twixt.”

  “She isn’t human,” Ink said, the words costing him more to say than even he realized until they rang out in the Hall, his crisp voice tight. Joy could hear the loss of something she might have never known. “She is not entirely human. She bears a signatura. She completed the ritual. She is one of the Folk,” he said. “One of the Twixt.”

  “It’s been long rumored that those born with the Sight have a drop of faery blood flowing through their veins,” mused the
crystalline figure aloud, its eyes burning with fire. Joy was startled to hear the words phrased exactly as Filly had said them, as if it was an adage or a nursery rhyme...or a well-paid bribe.

  “Unh,” grunted the little mushroom woman, pointing at Joy with a grin. “An’ there’s yer proof.”

  “I move that all rulings pertaining to those with the Sight be suspended immediately pending a thorough investigation.” Graus Claude’s rumbling bass soothed like water over stones. He glanced at Joy, and she caught a glimmer of a smile. “If this theory proves correct, we would not want to unintentionally harm those who are our own.”

  Joy knew that the Folk were few, and their safety was the Council’s top priority, which was why signaturae and the Scribes had been created. If she were one of them, they would have to protect her and her family and all those like her. Everyone with the Sight would be spared!

  The Council had no choice in the matter. No choice at all.

  “Falsehood! Trickery!” Sol Leander seethed with his fist on the wall. “Lies!” The word was like a slap in the Twixt, and his young associate shot Joy a scathing glare. “This human is an affront to the very nature of the Twixt!” he said and Joy could all but feel the glyphs no longer humming against her skin. “She stands before us as a warning—a sign of what’s to come—a harbinger of war! This...” His voice rang out. “This is the infestation humanity represents. This embodies the very circumstance that the Council endeavors to shield us from!” He stood, an imposing figure in an imposing Hall, and leveled a finger at her brow. “This before you is our death, incarnate!”

  She flinched and buried her bleeding thumb in the meat of her fist. The Tide could not know what she had done. They could not possibly know that their Red Knight was more than dead, but completely unmade. They could never know how close Sol Leander’s words were to the truth.

  But then she saw something: the glow of signatura on his skin, Sol Leander’s True Name etched on the side of his throat: a familiar-looking spear-shaped arrow striking down like a slash. It pulsed with a hot, itchy light, looking swollen and painful, and all at once she knew that she had insulted Sol Leander more personally than anyone else in the Twixt. His auspice is survivors of unprovoked attack. She dropped her eyes and sighed miserably with the realization. Monica.