The Wild Hunt’s train wasn’t coming for anyone else tonight. Not if he could help it.
Pru didn’t wait for an answer. With a swirl of her cloak, she shrank down to something more closely resembling faerie size; another flicker of shimmering fabric, and she disappeared altogether.
Her only parting gift was the ice slowly creeping down from the top of the balloon—a slick, thick shell that added more weight with every passing second.
The balloon sank like a stone, losing height so quickly it made Carmer dizzy. The gasbag, and then the envelope, crumpled and cracked like broken slate as the whole thing hit the water. Carmer gasped, plunged into icy water that seeped through the basket and up to his knees. He shoved the envelope to the side as it fell and tried to cut it loose—he had to get what remained of the balloon to float for as long as he could—but the whole basket tilted to the side and dipped into the sea.
Carmer shifted to the other end of the basket as quickly as he could, hoping to tilt it upright. But the water had already gotten in, weighing the basket down even more. It sloshed up through the wicker floor, inching higher and higher, each little wave like a blazing, icy knife slashing against his skin.
He could just make out the outline of a ship—he hoped it was Rinka’s—leaving Wetherwren Light. He thought about calling out, but he knew it was useless. Rinka and Grit had little reason to sail in his direction, and even if they did, he would be well underwater by the time they reached him.
Or frozen to death. One or the other was a certainty at this point. At any rate, he was alone, in enemy territory, in a decidedly unseaworthy vessel that was about to be swallowed up by the frigid Atlantic.
He thought back to the brief moment, during their conversation, when he’d wondered if Pru had come alone as well. How the Unseelie terrors she’d promised to rain down on them had never materialized. How she had complained about “some of” her people resisting her more active stance against humanity. How many was “some”?
Was it possible—just maybe—that the Unseelie king shared his Seelie counterpart’s aversion to open conflict with humans?
His life depended on the answer. Because in the next moment, as the water rose up to his chest, he remembered a boy with long blond hair and his arm in a sling, running into the Oldtown Arboretum with his hands held up in surrender.
As a Friend of the Fae, I claim sanctuary in this place from those who would do me harm, Gideon Sharpe had said.
Carmer had never been so thankful to be in enemy territory in his life.
He repeated the words, straining his chin above the water, and took one last gulp of air before the ocean closed over his head.
24.
DO NOT LEAVE CHILDREN UNATTENDED
Faerie fireworks, Grit decided, were much better than human ones. They were brighter and less noisy and much less likely to blow anyone up by accident. As it was, Rinka’s ship had to very carefully edge around the New Year’s celebration currently exploding off the Driftside City pier.
At least staring at the popping and sparkling—if slightly lackluster—show made for a distraction. Grit had tried to prepare herself for the moment when Princess Purslain Ashenstep landed on Rinka’s airship, but the second those tiny, inky footprints appeared on the deck—their owner presumably choosing to remain invisible for dramatic effect—anxiety clawed at her already frayed nerves. The fight would soon be over, one way or the other, and Grit had done everything in her power to prepare for it.
The bone-chilling wind whipped across Grit’s face, sending her dandelion cloud of hair flying in all directions, but she barely felt it. She was still touched by the magic of Faerie; her light, which had cast out every shadow on the island and beyond, still glowed from somewhere under her heart. If she closed her eyes, she saw flames dancing behind her eyelids. She wondered if the others could see them, too.
But there had been no time for the customary revels or displays of magic, not with so many other lives at risk, so Grit kept her power in check, though she could feel the energy thrumming from the top of her head to her fingertips, her power waiting and wanting to be used. It did nothing to ease the tension inside her, coiled in her gut like a snake.
Grit thought Pru might try to sink the ship first, so she stuck close to the engine car while Yarlo patrolled the area around the gas cells. Rinka had insisted on remaining out in the open to steer the ship herself. Grit had to admit, the girl was braver—and more stubborn—than she looked.
Not that Rinka looked much like a girl anymore. The magic that had kept her looking relatively human for so many years was peeling off like strips of old paint. Her bird’s nest of long hair was turning into actual bird feathers—still long, but in shiny, healthy shades of black and brown. Her skin was a warm chestnut color with a texture more like bark than skin, but it didn’t seem to hamper her movements. There was no sign of wings—at least not yet—but Grit suspected the girl was some sort of dryad or other tree-centered fae, anyway, and not technically a winged faerie at all.
But Pru made no move for the envelope or the engine car, or even a direct attack against Rinka. When Pru finally swept back the hood of the Mechanist’s cloak, standing nearly as tall as a human, she even took a few steps away from the girl.
Perhaps Grit wasn’t the only one who could sense where a faerie’s loyalties lay.
“It’s well past midnight, Rinka,” said Pru, as if she were chiding a child who had refused to go to bed, but Grit heard the faint quiver of uncertainty in her voice. Pru took a step toward Rinka, who gripped the tiller tightly. “It’s time to come home.”
Grit ran down to one of the railings behind Pru, careful to keep her back facing away from the Unseelie princess. Rinka had splinted her wing, but the last thing Grit needed in this showdown was the Unseelie princess knowing Grit couldn’t fly.
“Sorry, Princess,” Grit said. “Not gonna happen.” It felt gratifying to be able to hurl “princess” as an insult at someone else for a change.
“I don’t believe you have any say in the matter, Grettifrida,” said Pru, not even turning around to face Grit.
Grit knew Pru was only trying to needle her, but for fae’s sake, she really hated that name.
“Rinka is a member of the Unseelie Court, and one of my subjects,” Pru said with a haughty tilt of her chin. “She will do as I command her.”
Rinka looked like she was trying to hide (unsuccessfully) behind her hair, hunched over and backed against the rail. She snuck terrified glances up at Pru.
“N-no,” she breathed. It was barely a whisper. “No, I won’t . . . b-because I’m not.”
“Excuse me?” asked Pru quietly.
“You heard her,” Grit said. “It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, since you can probably feel the change in her magic already. Rinka Tinkerton is no longer a member of the Unseelie Court. She doesn’t have to go anywhere she doesn’t want to, because she isn’t one of your subjects anymore.”
Grit paused for a breath, trying to sound as confident and imposing as the hundred-year-old Pru: “She’s one of mine.”
Pru whipped around to face Grit so fast the Mechanist’s cloak slashed through the air around her, edges hard as cut glass. Grit jumped back to avoid it.
“Getting a little ahead of ourselves, are we, Princess?” asked Pru, her bony white fingers flexing and curling at her sides. “Only a king or queen’s magic can change a fae’s court.”
“Well, that’s right,” said Yarlo, taking the opportunity to swing down from the ceiling. His eyes immediately went to the cloak hanging off Pru’s shoulders; this was probably the first time he’d ever seen it. “So, we had ourselves a little scrying session with Ombrienne Lightbringer. Lovely lady. Tall, hair as close to the color of dried blood as I’ve ever seen, Seelie Queen of the Oldtown Arboretum?”
Pru’s eyes shifted from their usual whitish gray to a deep purple as Yarlo spoke.
“But she wasn’t really here,” Pru insisted. “She couldn’t have be
en. She wouldn’t leave that silly garden of hers for a minute . . .”
“She didn’t have to,” said Grit.
“But we did need a queen,” said Yarlo. “And fortunately, she named us one.”
He bowed to Grit with a fancy flourish of his wrist. She was never, ever going to live this down.
“Meet Queen Grettifrida Goldenwing,” Yarlo announced, “Seelie ruler of Wetherwren Light.”
“No . . .” said Pru, her eyes darkening almost to black. “No, this land is Unseelie territory! That rock hasn’t seen a faerie since before I was born!” She stomped her foot, and a creeping black moss exploded from under her heel, snaking out over the deck of the ship in seconds. Rinka jumped out of its way and up onto the railing, losing her grip on the till. The ship banked slightly to one side.
“Which means Wetherwren Light was neutral territory,” Grit corrected her. “And now it’s not, and I’d really appreciate it if you would stop terrorizing my subjects and back off.”
Pru flew straight at Grit, stopping so close their noses nearly touched.
“Because as you so kindly reminded me the other night,” Grit said, “a direct attack against a member of the opposite court is—how did you put it?—oh, right, ‘grounds for war.’”
Pru’s eyes were filled with black, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath of barely contained rage.
“This isn’t the end,” Pru said, her voice shaking with anger. She flitted over to Rinka’s side faster than Grit would have thought possible.
“You may be technically out of my reach, little frail one,” sneered Pru. “But those you love are not. Faerie rules do not apply to humans and Free Folk, as you may have noticed these past few months . . .”
Rinka’s lip quivered. The ship was veering farther off course; tendrils of smoke wafted over from the fireworks, much too close for Grit’s liking.
“What will your answer be, then?” asked Pru. “What about your little faerie friends? What about all those people on your ships? What about your father?”
Rinka looked out to Driftside City with terrified eyes, coughing a little as more smoke from the fireworks show drifted toward them.
Grit’s eyes followed Rinka’s, and with her keen faerie vision, she could just make out the carnival on the shore. The lanterns were still lit, the pier still packed with revelers, the songs of brass bands still toot-tooting through the air.
Princess Pru had given them until midnight to give up Rinka—and it was well past. So where was the great display of Unseelie might that had been promised? Where was the great storm sweeping in from the sea to destroy everything in its path? Where was the chaos engulfing the carnival and bringing the Wonder Show crashing down in flames?
Either Carmer and Mr. Tinkerton had done an absolutely flawless job of defending the entire Driftside City coastline, or that onslaught wasn’t coming because it never would. Because a certain faerie princess couldn’t afford to draw too much attention to herself.
“What about yours?” Grit asked Pru pointedly.
“What?” Pru was inching her pale hand forward, reaching for the ends of Rinka’s hair.
Grit wanted nothing more than to shoot forward and slap it out of the way. “I said, what about your father? If Rinka’s so important, where’s the Unseelie king?”
Pru’s hand froze, and that was all Grit needed.
“Unless,” Grit mused, “he doesn’t actually know.”
Pru bristled. “My father is far too busy to—”
“Maybe,” Grit interrupted with a shrug, “he had some idea about Rinka’s existence. Maybe he even thought it would be a good idea to check up on her. But I wonder . . . no one’s seen the king in ages. He’s got a reputation as a very secretive, very cautious kind of guy.”
Grit plunked herself down on the railing, letting her feet dangle over the edge. “I can sympathize. My own mother’s a bit stuck in the dark ages herself.”
“You have no idea—”
“But I wonder,” Grit said, knowing she was pushing her luck, “does he know about his daughter using his generous gift”—she gestured to the Mechanist’s cloak—“to sneak onto filthy, smoking, human machines? Does he know she’s interfered with human affairs so much she’s made every newspaper in the country and gotten the attention of whole teams of people dedicated to solving the mystery of the airship she crashed?”
Pru lunged at Grit, who dodged her clawing fingers just in time.
“Rinka, the ship,” Grit said between her teeth, scurrying away from Pru.
Rinka turned and yanked at the tiller while Pru rose into the air, shrinking until she wasn’t that much bigger than Grit.
“Shut up,” Pru spat.
The wind picked up around them, flinging Grit backward. She grabbed on to a rope to steady herself.
“Be queen of your stupid, crumbling rock for all I care. My water fae and I will drag it into the sea before you can say ‘Seelie.’”
“Fine by me,” said Grit, gripping the rope tighter. She still wasn’t quite keen on being the queen of anywhere, even an uninhabited tidal island hundreds of miles from her real home. “It’s not a very nice rock, anyway.”
“Laugh if you want, Grettifrida,” said Pru with a smirk. “It’s too bad that fine wit of yours won’t be enough to save your Friend.”
Grit nearly let go of the rope.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that Carmer and I met again?” asked Pru. Her eyes flicked to the fast-approaching shoreline and back to Grit. Pru turned to fly away, but a vine edged with sharp, pointy thorns snapped up from below. It snagged onto the clasp at her neck.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Yarlo. “I believe you’ve got something that’s rightfully mine.”
“Yarlo, wait—” said Grit, barely aware of what was happening over the pounding in her ears and the words that kept repeating, over and over again, in her mind.
Did I forget to mention that Carmer and I met again?
Yarlo gave the vine a mighty tug. The clasp came unhooked; the cloak fell from Pru’s shoulders and landed in a heap on the deck of the ship below.
Pru made a straight shot for the cloak, and Grit had just enough presence of mind to shoot a stream of sparks to cut her off. The wind was so strong Grit could barely hold on to her rope.
“Maybe I’ll add his real head to my collection, too,” snapped Pru, just before she let the wind carry her away with a snap of her purple wings.
This time, Grit almost did blow up the ship.
CARMER WOKE UP spitting seawater onto the cold, damp floor of the throne room, face-to-face with the Unseelie king.
The “throne of bones” Grit had described to Carmer was empty, but the wall behind it was not. It was made entirely of pointed spikes of limestone crystals—some as thick as tree trunks, others as thin as well-sharpened pencils. They fit together like an uneven jigsaw puzzle, or a broken jawline with pointed teeth. It reminded Carmer of the gaping maw of the Whale of Tales. He just hoped this one wouldn’t swallow him whole.
As Carmer looked closer, he saw that it really was a mouth, nearly ten feet across. The rock formation morphed into the sculpted face of an old man, each feature carved in jagged crystal that stretched to accommodate the outlines of his face. The spikes became the flowing locks of his long beard, stretching out over the entire length of the wall. Clusters of glowworms filled the holes where his eyes should have been.
Carmer knew he should probably bow or something, but he was already on the ground, and it had been a very long evening. Before he could stop himself, he said the first thing that came to his mind: “Where were you the other day?”
Because if the king had been here—in that wall, behind it, or in whatever form he chose—when Grit came to the castle and spoke with Mister Moon, then the king probably did know about Pru’s plans and her use of the Wild Hunt. And that meant Carmer was in even greater danger than he’d been in a sinking balloon.
Fortunately, King Roden Bonefisher didn’t s
eem bothered by Carmer’s lack of formality. But it was a few moments before he answered, his voice low enough to send a rumble through Carmer’s stomach. Carmer bet that voice could cause earthquakes, if it wanted to.
“Sleeping,” said the king slowly, each syllable reverberating with a low hum. “As I often am, these days. But I am always here.”
Sleeping, thought Carmer numbly. He and Grit had been fighting for their lives in these very halls, and the Unseelie king—the unnamed terror behind Carmer’s nightmares—had been taking a nap. In fact, he looked about ready to go back to sleep then and there; his heavily lidded stone eyes looked like he could barely keep them open.
“Thank you for saving me,” said Carmer. He supposed he should say something about the fact that the Unseelies had just pulled him from a watery grave.
The King inclined his massive head. “You may stay for as long as you need. The mermaids have taken a liking to you.”
Carmer tried not to visibly recoil at the thought.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stay. And I don’t want to take too much of your time,” said Carmer, “but I need to ask you something else. Your daughter—Princess Purslain—took a friend of mine . . . another human, but not a Friend of the Fae. His name is Bell. And, um, she kind of kidnapped him and I was just wondering . . .”
Carmer had half been expecting the king to cut him off, but he had underestimated the patience (or lack of interest) of his listener. The king merely blinked.
“I was wondering if he was still alive,” said Carmer, hating the finality of saying those words aloud—and wondering if he really wanted to know the answer. “And if he is, and if he’s here . . . if you could give him back.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the water dripping from the crystals in the king’s face.
“Why?” asked the great stone lips. The word seemed to echo back to Carmer from all sides of the room.
Carmer coughed up another burning mouthful of seawater. “Sorry, what?”
The Crooked Castle Page 23
