Disenchanted

by Brianna Sugalski

  Eventually collapsing onto the rain-soaked earth, she refilled her lungs and choked out a half-sob and giggle, giddy from the adrenaline. She had known there were things that wanted to kill her in the forest—the ogres shouldn’t have been a surprise. Still, her first encounter with the creatures of Brocéliande was much too close a call. Lilac pulled herself together, hastily snatching her bag off the ground and forcing herself to get up. As she supported herself on one knee, she groaned; she was definitely going to feel all of it tomorrow—if she survived that long.

  She looked up and nearly laughed out loud.

  A two-story limestone building stood a rock’s toss in front of her. Above the front stoop hung a sign, upon which the remainder of the phrase, “Fenfoss—” was covered in ivy. Robust vines and leaf-dappled moss crept up the walls like serpents in the dim torchlight. A small front window to the right of the door was covered by a thin curtain from the inside; squinting, she could make out silhouettes bobbing and weaving among one another. Boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the cracks bottoming the peeling red door.

  Lilac considered changing into something dry from her knapsack, but that included stripping down in the middle of the woods, in front of the building. With things probably watching her from the dark. She would have to make do with her shift and cloak soaked in rainwater. Frowning, she at least made sure to wring the ends of her hair out.

  Her flats squelched against the soles of her feet as she plodded through the mud. When she reached the door, she hesitated. Her signature long locks were gone, so no one would recognize her, right? It had to be enough, and she probably looked the furthest thing from royalty considering her current appearance. Either way, she’d soon find out.

  Something nearly unintelligible was scribbled onto a wooden sign nailed to the door:

  Mortals… at… own risk.

  It was reassuring enough.

  As soon as her fingers touched the knob, the dagger on her hip began to hum wildly, clanging against the iron buttons that lined her belt.

  Not now, she thought furiously. It immediately lessened its vibrations, stopping altogether in seconds. She had half the mind to leave the bothersome thing on the forest floor, and might have, if doing so didn’t leave her with zero protection.

  Lilac pushed the door open and found herself in a narrow, poorly-lit foyer. Beyond it, the first floor opened up to her right into a sort of dining area scattered with mismatched tables, as if they’d been stolen from several different establishments. Booths and alcoves lined the northern wall opposite her, but most of these were empty, as a sizeable crowd gathered around the roaring fireplace.

  Darklings. Korrigans, Fae, witches, probably vampires. Maybe humans, but it was hard to tell from so far away. She gulped, but her throat went dry.

  No one spared her more than a passing glance, seemingly oblivious to the late hour. They were so busy laughing, drinking, and singing that no one batted an eye at her entrance. A trio of stout, grey-skinned creatures were perched upon a platform beside the fire, playing an upbeat jig. One held a flute, another, a bagpipe, and the last sat at a decrepit clavichord. Each time one of the korrigan bards hit a sour note, the entire pub took a swig and raised their glasses with uproarious laughter.

  Lilac let out a sigh of relief and turned to the bar in front of her—and laid eyes on the most striking gentleman she’d ever seen.

  He was tending the counter, wiping the rim of a tankard as he conversed with the old man before him; the sweeping violet robes, short pointed hat, and thick white beard easily revealed the old man’s identity as warlock.

  Blushing, she forced her to breath to slow in an attempt to calm the rush of adrenaline that had shot through her. Relieved that he took no notice, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and glanced around the room for a scapegoat. Striking up a conversation with anyone, even a drunken korrigan, would make her feel slightly less like an unwelcome outsider.

  Like clockwork, a tomato-faced woman appeared in front of her, white locks struggling to escape the carnation pink bonnet atop her head. Lilac’s warm smile was met with frost, the woman’s eyes narrowing into slits at the sight of the human newcomer. She scrutinized the princess in a quick once-over. It was quick, but more than enough time for Lilac to notice the woman’s vertical pupils and neon yellow irises.

  A witch.

  “May I ’elp you?” the witch snapped.

  Right. Lilac was human. She thought she’d spotted a few like her mingling amongst the crowd of Darklings, but she was evidently mistaken.

  “Erm, yes, ma’am,” Lilac replied, swallowing the sudden urge to match the old woman’s shocking tone of disdain. “I would like a room to stay for the night. If you have one,” she cleared her throat. “Ma’am.”

  “I am sorry to inform you that we are full. Completely,” the innkeeper sniffed, not looking one bit sorry at all.

  Some creatures at the edge of the crowd had begun to glance over at them. The witch probably wasn’t lying, or at least that’s what Lilac tried to convince herself. There were about twenty creatures in the tavern alone, after all. The nearest bench table was occupied by four of the most exotic women she’d ever seen. They turned to stare jadedly in her direction, with no sense of mannered discretion whatsoever.

  Faeries, Lilac guessed. She didn’t know much about them; no human seemed to, other than that they were among the most secretive, elusive creatures known to man, and that their populace had shifted to the Low Forest after the rest of the Darklings infiltrated Brocéliande. Their tapered ears here made it most obvious, if not the way the firelight glinted off of their freckles, setting their cheekbones ablaze.

  The nearest, her sapphire-blue hair brushing against her shoulders, leaned over to whisper to the others. “I’m usually not a fan of the mortal stench as it is, but this one could certainly use a hot bath.”

  Just like Freya’s had, the creature’s voice echoed distantly in her head, as if her voice had bounced through a tunnel. Hearing the Darkling language again for the first time since Freya, Lilac quickly realized that this was what the Tongue sounded like to her. Echoed reverberation.

  “Mmm, bit more than a bath. Some powder and a comb, too,” another added, her eyes lustrous in the firelight.

  “She’s probably lost. Give the poor harlot a break, will you?” The four of them chortled, the tinny sound of bells.

  Her ears grew warm. She couldn’t react, couldn’t let anybody know she understood the faerie conversation. Apart from the witches who lived among humankind for centuries, and the vampires who were previously human themselves, Lilac had to remain blissfully ignorant.

  She stared at the ground where her wet clothes dripped, creating a dirt-caked puddle around her feet.

  “Er… It’s fine, I’ll just—”

  “Meriam.”

  Lilac glanced up in horror. The barkeep had walked over. He stood directly behind the witch, towering a full head over her. Clasping his hands politely, he spoke so quietly that Lilac barely heard.

  “Excuse me, Madame.” He tapped Meriam lightly on the shoulder.

  Miraculously, Meriam ignored him, though the muscle under her left eye twitched slightly. “So, as I was saying,” she directed at Lilac, “you will have to find—”

  “Meriam.”

  “Yes, Garin.” Meriam spoke with a resigned sigh.

  Lilac wondered why the unpleasant old woman felt such a need to tolerate Garin, even if she was clearly reluctant about it. Aside from his looks, he was unremarkable.

  Almost.

  There was something about him. Maybe it was the way he looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed. Or his eyes, grey and searching under his furrowed brow. But, compared to everyone else in the room, he was human—perhaps the only other, as far as she could tell.

  Garin didn’t have the silvering hair of a young warlock; tousled artfully, his was a soft black with a slight curl that gradually cropped down to his skin at the nape of
his neck. Lacking the tapered ears of the Fair Folk, his own were rounded and too large for his head, jutting out from the sides of his face. And his eyes weren’t burgundy like a vampire’s, either. For all she knew, he might have been a shapeshifter; then again, Lilac was sure she’d spotted an Egg Moon outside, marking the one night of the month when their beastly transformation wasn’t an option.

  Human, she thought decidedly.

  An annoyingly flawless specimen of one, at that.

  Still, his eyes were full of a treachery that Lilac could not place. It was as if he withheld the punchline to a clever joke, or the answer to some forbidden secret from the rest of the world.

  “Merle here has just checked out,” he offered matter-of-factly, cocking his head towards the warlock who now fumbled with his cane near the entryway coat rack. “Surely the girl can have his room.”

  Even at low volume, his voice hinted at the most peculiar English drawl that she couldn’t place. He’d maintained the same jovial tone in which he had taken with Merle the warlock, not once bothering to glance in Lilac’s direction. In the midst of trying to decide whether this embarrassed or irked her, the innkeeper finally made a noise of defeat.

  Meriam nodded, but muttered something dejectedly under her breath before answering. “Very well. Second room on the left.”

  “Thanks,” Lilac croaked grimly, watching her disappear up the stairs.

  Head hung, she sighed and turned to follow the witch when Garin gave a disjointed grunt behind her.

  Lilac spun. “Can I help you?” The night’s events surmounted with Meriam’s outstanding hospitality, and the words shot out sharper than she’d intended.

  Garin only grinned, unphased, as if the hypothetical joke he’d withheld had only grown funnier. “Rough night?”

  “Why would you think that?” Lilac blinked, pretending the rainwater hadn’t formed into sizeable puddle around her feet.

  “Well, you waltz into my bar,” he replied, waving his arm at the puddle she’d so casually tried to hide. “Absolutely drenched, as if you’ve been cavorting in the creek.”

  Lilac’s mouth fell open. “I—it’s raining outside,” she snapped, taken aback by his accusatory tone.

  “Then, you slosh all over my floor.” His eyes twinkled as they challenged hers.

  Her ears had grown so hot they felt like they might fall off her head. Was he being clever, or was this his skewed attempt at trying to impress her?

  “Where else was I supposed to go? And, no offense, but aren’t you supposed to be serving drinks or something?” Lilac waved a flippant hand in the direction of the bar.

  “My shift’s nearly over. But you look like you could use one.”

  “Excuse me?” Her voice cracked.

  “Being the only two people here, we both could.” Garin took a step nearer. “Join me?”

  “No thank you,” she answered immediately, taking an involuntary step back at his sudden change in intensity. Were commoners usually this forward? It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, because she did need a drink, especially after her ogre ordeal. Whether it was with him or not, she didn’t care. Regardless, she couldn’t jeopardize her journey or its strict timeline by forging friendships.

  Part of her expected him to insist. Instead, Garin merely shrugged and stalked back to his station behind the counter before returning with a rag.

  “If you’re too exhausted,” he continued, “I completely understand. However, when you change your mind, I’ll be here.”

  Retreating from her puddle, she crossed her arms and watched the brazen barkeep kneel before her. He yanked his cream tunic sleeve up and proceeded to mop the rainwater and mud. There were a great many things she wanted to reply with, none of them suitable coming from a young woman’s mouth. In her nineteen years, there wasn’t a single instance she could recall in which a man had been brazen enough to insult and attempt to woo her in the same breath.

  Before she could gather a response, Meriam appeared at the top of the staircase landing. “Mademoiselle,” she snapped impatiently.

  Without another glance his way, Lilac bent her head to hide her relief and crossed the narrow foyer. Like Meriam’s nervous shadow, she trailed the witch up the stone staircase..

  Her room, as Meriam had vehemently specified, was the second on the left. After the door slammed behind her, Lilac dropped her knapsack and rushed across the room to the crackling fireplace, kicking off her mud-soaked flats. She undid her leather belt and let it fall to the floor, where she left it. Too cold and tired to do much else, she undressed and hung her dripping clothes on the laundry rope suspended in front of the hearth.

  With her bare backside warming near the flames, she crossed her arms and soaked in her temporary sleeping quarters. The red sheets on the bed in the middle of the room were still askew from the last visitor, Merle. Certainly, Meriam wouldn’t bother with fixing up the room for someone like her.

  If they only knew.

  A straw mattress topped with a stained coverlet sat to the left of the door, and on the other side of the bed near the window was a bedside table with a rusting candelabra on it. Beside the pile of logs stacked beside her, a large wooden tub rested beneath two taps protruding from the wall. Lilac rubbed her eyes. These were illegally bewitched—they had to be. Her parents had acquired plumbing in the castle only a year or two ago. Most bourgeoisie homes still lacked primitive plumbing systems.

  A towel and half-used bar of Marseille soap were placed on the floor beside the tub. It was far from what she was used to, but it would do for the night, and that was all that mattered.

  She reached out and hesitantly turned the left tap, half expecting some sort of concotion—maybe blood—to start flowing. Lilac jerked her hand back and held her breath.

  Just water, so far as she could tell. Marveling at the sight, she held one hand beneath the faucet and used the other to fiddle with the taps until the water was just right. She drew herself a steaming bath and added three drops from her lavender oil pipet, just how she’d liked it at home. As her muscles tensed then relaxed in the near-scalding water, she savored the feeling of the caked grime disintegrating off her legs. Soon, she allowed her mind to drift, floating idly to the barkeep downstairs.

  The public news of her Darkling Tongue at age ten had left any outlook for her future completely dismal. Her love life, sadly, was no exception. She hadn’t had much experience with boys her age after her ability was discovered, and she’d been much too young to show interest in them before. It was safe to assume that her potential suitors and wayward admirers were as disgruntled as the rest of the kingdom, due to the sudden ceasing of random gifts after the fact.

  There once was a handsome servant boy who’d caught her eye when she was fourteen, but his mother, a destitute seamstress from Paris, forbade him from speaking to her. Being turned down by a servant’s family had upset Lilac as much as it’d traumatized her. She supposed she should be grateful that she also didn’t hear from Sinclair Le Tallec and his parents often after her tenth birthday; funnily enough, it was her affliction that encouraged this, as opposed to her shoving the tart in his face. From her birthday on, the most interaction she’d had with the young marquis were a greeting letters on Christmases and Easters, and bouquets on her birthday, to which she never replied.

  But the stranger downstairs had made her feel something different. A sickening, nervous outward attraction she should never, ever feel for a commoner—according to the rules. The same rules that had convinced everyone she’d one day take Sinclair’s hand in marriage.

  The kingdom—her parents included—remained under the impression she’d wed Sinclair upon or at some point following her coronation. With her Darkling Tongue and everything else at the forefront of her concern, she’d allowed them to believe whatever they’d wanted—even if he was the last man on earth she wanted to touch, let alone marry. Fortunately for her, there were no official stipulations regarding this ludicrous expectation; it was merely unheard of in th
e centuries of Breton tradition for a woman to take the throne without a king jure uxoris or king consort to rule beside her. Unfortunately for her, Sinclair was son to the second most powerful man in the kingdom, meaning their matrimony would grant him a jure uxoris reign: to rule and govern with matched power as she, the rightful heiress by blood.

  No thank you.

  With the way society regarded women property of their husbands, Sinclair would then, in a way, wield even more jurisdiction over her land and people. Lilac shuddered at the notion.

  She could give her first time to Garin, she thought wickedly. How tempting. She smirked, trickling the warm water over her décolletage. That’d show them, and their ridiculous rules.

  After ensuring the suds were rinsed from her hair, she crawled out and towel dried by the fire. A moment later, a knock came at the door. Lilac paused, hesitant.

  They found her.

  She gritted her teeth, stopping herself from replying. Had it been her father’s men, her voice would give her away immediately.

  Then again, if it were the king’s guard, they wouldn’t bother with knocking.

  “Yes?” she called, pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger to keep her voice from wavering.

  “Oh, why do I even bother?” Meriam’s piercing tone floated through the wooden door.

  Lilac hastily wrapped the towel around her body, tying it at her bosom. As she peeked the door open just a hair, the innkeeper stood there with a neatly folded pile of tan bedsheets resting in her arms. Relieved, Lilac swung the door all the way open and accepted the bundle. Before she could say thank you, the witch turned heel back down the hallway without another word. The sounds of clinking glasses and incessant chatter drifted up from downstairs.

  “Thanks,” Lilac whispered after her. At least the witch didn’t entirely hate her.