Pyke gathered himself to act. As he did so, an awful, menacing rattling noise emanated from the tail end of his new form, and all the brigands save Dagan turned to look down.
“Holy Ash—!”
“A monster?”
One of the bandits, who wore a face-shrouding scarf, hurled a makeshift throwing axe, little more than a woodsman’s tool with a shortened handle. The projectile passed harmlessly through a haze of black mist which was steadily coalescing into the shape of a large snake.
“Steel doesn’ hurt it!” gasped the one who’d thrown the weapon.
A second bandit leapt forward and, exhibiting more courage than sense in Pyke’s cold opinion, stabbed downward with a short spear. The mists of the serpentine construct parted for the weapon, producing a faint tickling sensation.
Moving by will and instinct alone, Pyke lashed out, his finger-length fangs materializing at the last moment. They sank through his assailant’s sleeve and into her arm, and the bandit screamed as the skin of her face and hands withered. By the time she struggled free of the snake’s daggerlike teeth, she looked as though she’d aged three decades in a matter of seconds.
A monotone hum rose from among the fog-bound trees as the Serpent’s Tongue responded to the flow of power. As the sound faded away, a sensation of vitality surged through Pyke.
“It’s a fiend! Run!” The bandits turned to flee as though unified by a single fear-stricken mind, leaving behind their winded compatriot who was struggling to rise. Jenna’s horse, catching their terror, galloped away with a frightened whinny.
Ignoring the brigands as they scattered, Pyke reoriented himself, using the snake’s predatory senses to identify Dagan’s massive silhouette among the chaotic shadows. The serpent surged over the thrashing legs of the last remaining bandit as the man crawled to his feet and stumbled into the fog.
Jenna’s blue eyes widened as she noticed the snake-creature gliding toward her. Dagan, however, was still focused so fully on his torment of Jenna that he failed to notice the danger until it was far too late.
Pyke’s proxy sank its fangs into the man’s calf. Dagan howled in agony, dropping Jenna and leaping away from the unexpected pain… but Pyke had no trouble hanging on. As the bandit leader flailed with his knife, failing to connect with the snake wrapping itself around his legs, the same eerie humming sound grew once again in the distance.
Off to the right of the Old Road, the Serpent’s Tongue vibrated and buzzed in Pyke’s motionless hands. The sound intensified and increased in pitch, resembling an impossibly loud tuning fork whose sharp tone pierced the fog like a knife. The searing note overwhelmed its surroundings until the Road itself reverberated with its volume. Jenna cried out in pain as an unbearable pressure hammered against her defenseless ears. Her voice, though, was lost under the terrible ringing which thrummed in the air and the earth and the stones…!
Then, silence: Dagan moved no more; the snake was nowhere to be found; and the only living being left on the Old Road was Jenna.
Chapter 2
Atop a pedestal in a dark, secret chamber, a book lay open under a dome of crystal.
The book was the only object here which seemed entirely real… or perhaps, by its very nature, it made all else around it seem less so. A deep stillness cloaked the full library shelves which lined the walls of the adjoining room. It clung to the wooden floors, to the plinths, and to the objects displayed atop them. Amid this stillness, each of the book’s gilt-edged leaves drew the eye with the vibrancy and latent dynamism of a coiled spring, as though its pages were poised to leap into motion and shatter the suffocating quiet of this hidden place.
This tome had never been read by living eyes. It held a story which possessed true power. Contained within its pages were heartbreak, cataclysm, and a tale which despite its consequence was incomplete, for the last ten pages were blank.
The book was open to the fifth and sixth pages before its premature end. These pages were filled with a precise, flowing script of sigils in black ink. The words in Old Ancient described a scene which had been lost to history, and then to legend, and then to the cold grasp of the grave: for none who yet drew breath still told of that day.
The four thousand, one hundredth cycle of the Fae Queen’s rule. The Grand Hall in the Royal Metropolis, Capital of the Fae Monarchy
The Gala of Excellence was the event of the century, both figuratively and in the sense that it was held only once every hundred cycles. No Fae worth their story would miss it: nowhere else did there occur such a preponderance of legendary figures; no other function was so rife with the heady Glamours which accompanied the Twining of tales; and at no other time could one so readily approach the Fae Queen and seek her favour.
A grand hall of impossible size was the venue for the Gala, its black marble floors covering the same amount of land as a small city. Every tile of those floors was polished to a mirror finish which reflected everything in the hall: the ceiling of a million turning gears made of bright blue lapis lazuli, so far away as to seem like a false sky; the walls of gold-chased granite carved with intricate reliefs depicting the greatest of the Fae Queen’s countless legends; and the sphere of blazing heat and light which rested at the hall’s highest point. This last was nothing less than the heart of a dying star, which the Queen herself had leashed with mighty Glamours, dragged from the heavens, and caged here.
No building so vast as this hall could have existed, save by the grace of the magical technology which held up its walls and ceiling. Thousands of finely attired Fae in guises of nobility spun across a dance floor which took up half of the available space. The dancers moved gracefully to the music of a harp played by a Fae with six delicate arms and a cloth-of-gold dress. Hundreds of freshly-cut roses made of living silver were strewn about this musician’s feet: offerings left by those hoping to merit a Twining with her tale. But these offerings were to no avail, for the harpist’s devotion to nothing else but her music and Her Capricious Majesty the Fae Queen was as much a part of her legend as was her love for silver roses.
The vast double doors of the city-sized hall flew open, and through them strode a man in a black mask resembling the face of a crow or raven. His cloak billowed out behind him in a nonexistent breeze, and the three-piece tuxedo he wore was the deep black of the night sky, complete with tiny jewels which twinkled like stars. Upon his head rested a hat whose wide brim swept back like the wings of a black swan. Atop the headgear rested a glowing sphere of white crystal filled with the perfect and unmistakable purity of starlight.
The music did not cease for this disruption, nor did the dancers break their stride… but many hundreds of pairs of eyes belonging to those nearest the doors sized up the new arrival before returning to at least the appearance of studious disinterest. After all, it was just as poor form to completely ignore a newcomer as it was to give a dramatic entrance more interest than it was due.
The night-clad Fae didn’t pause any more than the onlookers had. Rather than set his sights on one of the many attractions which surrounded the expansive dance floor, he passed them by, moving with purpose. The vast array of tables laden with fantastic and exotic foods seemed to tempt him not at all. He ignored the clusters of socialites whose eyes twinkled with crystallized wit as they exchanged compliments, barbs, and gossip. Unswerving he travelled past a town-sized cluster of workshops which teemed with skilled Fae artisans crafting exquisite and unbreakable glasswork, fashioning steam-powered machines capable of transforming lead into gold, arranging clockwork into impossible and arcane geometries, and forging metal and stranger materials into blades which would never dull in ten thousand cycles. He did not pause at the edge of an amphitheatre set aside for oratory, wherein the most famous Fae philosophers in all the Spellbound World graced an audience of prospective students with their wisdom.
Whispers were already circulating amongst the crowd by the time the newcomer completed his half-hour journey across the hall and approached the h
eart of the event: the Royal Pavilion. This was a gazebo of gigantic proportions, its canopy resting on four living, centuries-old trees grown to gargantuan size by the Queen’s coaxing. A hundred metres above, the crowns of these trees twined together into a verdant roof, mixing the boughs of oak and alder, aspen and willow into a brilliant display which gave the sensation of entering a forest clearing. On the floor beneath this canopy rose hundreds of steps forming a pyramidal dais. To stand atop it was to be raised above everyone else in this hall. Here, on this meadowy hilltop covered with wildflowers, loomed the tall spun-crystal throne of the Fae Queen.
The onlookers’ whispers grew mocking. It was practically suicide to approach the Pavilion as an unknown Fae with no story to speak of. The Queen’s legend was so vast, so glorious, that only deep hubris could possess a newcomer to think he could be a memorable part of it. Only two things could result: rejection; or a banal future as one of the monarch’s many nameless, adoring hangers-on. The Fae Queen, in her kindness, was known for granting the former to the vast majority of her would-be suitors.
As though unaware of the rising whispers of the gathered Fae, the night-clad newcomer began the climb to the dais. Her Capricious Majesty Melianne held court atop this lofty height, her presence larger than life, her glory greater than the hundred grandest stories present in this hall combined. Her acts were legend even among legends, and although her beauty was unparalleled, the woven Glamour of her appearance was the least notable and least mentioned of her works. She was the fashioner of a thousand sapient races, not one of which had ever died out. The forests she graced with her attention were the most hauntingly enchanted in all the Spellbound World. Forty-one centuries ago, she had fashioned her empire and the Fae Alliance by the force of her self and story alone.
She had persevered in defiance of the ways of her predecessors, who had known with certainty that legends were finite and there must always be ruthless competition to capture the imaginations of Fae and mortal alike. Those predecessors’ very names were now lost to history through her most terrible curse of forgetting, for Queen Melianne had done the impossible: by her subtle might, she had learned the art of causing her foes to be forgotten; by her infinite social acumen, she had woven an alliance of Fae who believed that by the Twining of tales and the embracing of co-operation, stories could endure forever and expand infinitely.
As the night-clad Fae reached the Pavilion’s plateau, the Queen stood. The hall became silent, for none would dare risk interrupting Her Capricious Majesty should she choose to speak. Her gossamer robe, shimmering with the colours of the rainbow, blended into the carpet of wildflowers which grew across the plateau. It was impossible to tell her height thanks to the way her presence bent perspective: all that was certain was that she captured every onlooker’s attention. So vibrant and central to the scene was she that, though the newcomer was tall in his own right, she seemed to tower over him just as much as she did over her hundred nameless companions who lounged amongst the flowers or curled contentedly around the base of her throne.
“Who stands before me?” she asked, and the grace in her voice was carried on a beatific Glamour which evoked a unified sigh of bliss from the thousands of watching Fae. To hear the Queen speak was to know joy, for that was a part of her legend, and all of those present aspired to the experience of being addressed directly by Her Capricious Majesty. So many lesser Fae had sacrificed their entire selves merely to hear a kind word from the Queen that the story of such sacrifice was no longer unique enough to tempt.
“Who stands before thee?” echoed the man, and his mask fell free from his face to reveal behind it a mirror. “Thy love.”
A few gasps of disbelief came from the crowd. Was this an insult? This one’s hubris knew no bounds! The Fae court awaited the Queen’s judgment of this one’s impropriety. Would she be merciful and send him away, banished forever from the Gala? Or welcome him with a smile into her bower within the Pavilion, never again to be seen doing anything but wait after her pleasure? Perhaps, most deliciously, his brazen presumptuousness would spur the Queen to smite him from memory, so that his actions could never be mentioned in the same breath as her legend. The onlookers savoured that possibility: were it to occur, they would remember only that someone had awakened the Queen’s wrath. Tantalizing, the opportunity to theorize about the lost description and forgotten acts of the one who had ceased to be!
But it was to be none of these which occurred. The Queen worked her mouth wordlessly, then tore the mirror from the man’s face to look upon him, the sleeve of her gossamer robe hiding his features from the crowds below.
None present— none at all— were prepared for the Queen to sweep the newcomer up in a tender embrace which lasted nigh two minutes. The passionate kiss the two shared in the moment following their embrace was merciful in its brevity, for it sent ripples of heart-searing envy through the crowd. The wail of anguished jealousy the kiss evoked from every Fae in the hall was transformed by the arcane beauty of the moment, reshaped into music like the song of the sweet-voiced Lelaosh, the Queen’s most treasured wingèd beings.
As her night-clad suitor knelt to return the mirror and the raven mask to his face, the Fae Queen turned to the crowd with a smile which could scarcely be withstood, its terrible glory outshining the blazing sun-radiance above. Taking the newcomer’s hand and raising him back to his feet, she announced: “Behold: my first and cherished Royal Consort.”
In the century which followed, there would be only one greater source of chaos in the Fae Courts than this most unexpected announcement: that source was to be the complete disappearance of the Queen on the eve of the next Gala.
Pyke opened his eyes to a ringing in his ears; to the sight of the now-silent rod of black metal still held motionless in his hands; and to a sensation of having witnessed something undefinable. He could put two and two together, of course: his use of the Serpent’s Tongue always brought with it something new. In his mind’s eye was a book lying open atop a pedestal, covered by a hemisphere of clear crystal. This was all that was left of a vision, or perhaps of a memory.
Pyke took a few shaky steps forward, his legs slow to respond like those of a man awakening from a dream. On the Old Road ahead of him, Jenna gasped and recoiled from the unknown footfalls amongst the dead leaves. She scrambled to her feet, snatching up Dagan’s fallen knife and holding it up between herself and Pyke.
“Wait,” Pyke called out. “I’m no highwayman.”
Jenna paused, squinting into the fog. “Who are you, then? Show yourself.”
“I go by Pyke.” Emerging onto the Old Road some five metres from Jenna, he stowed away the Serpent’s Tongue and extended his hands palm-out to show he was unarmed.
Jenna’s voice shook only a little. “Stay where you are.” At this distance, Pyke could estimate her height at just over five feet, a few inches shorter than himself. Her blue eyes had a sharp intensity to them, and her auburn hair was braided down the back of her neck.
“Lower the hood of your cloak.”
“As you wish.” Avoiding sudden movements, Pyke did as Jenna demanded. He knew from experience that after his use of the Serpent’s Tongue, he must appear in better health than before. His eyes weren’t as sunken, and the dark circles were gone from around them. He doubted that would matter, for the chill grey-blue of his irises would be enough to confirm anyone’s fears about his nature.
Jenna gasped, a reaction Pyke was used to. But as he went to raise his hood again, she stepped forward and caught his wrist. “Your eyes… they’re exactly the same colour as the snake’s. Was… was that you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Jenna let her hands fall to her sides, and dropped the knife with a muted clang against the paving stones.
There was a long silence, during which the narrow space between the two was filled only with the swirls and eddies of the drifting fog. Then Jenna spoke up again. “You saved my life.”
“I need information.
Tell me everything you know about the Last Spellbound House.”
Jenna seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the request, but her blink of confusion was languorous, a sign Pyke took to mean her reflexes weren’t functioning properly. “I… okay. I just… I just need a moment. Please?”
Pyke sighed and stepped back to put a little more distance between himself and Jenna, then sat cross-legged. He wished he knew how to handle this situation. His training with his guild had dealt with conflict, business, and pragmatism, not feelings.
“I’ll take that as a yes, I suppose.” Jenna wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as another chill gust of wind swept in from the north. “B-bastards took my c-coat.”
Pyke began to remove his jacket from underneath his cloak.
“Wait— no, I d-didn’t mean…” Jenna objected, but Pyke was already shoving the coat into her hands. “You’ll f-freeze.”
“I’ve never been bothered by the cold.”
Jenna watched Pyke, clutching the warm bundle close to her chest. If she was waiting for him to start shivering, too, it never came to pass.
“You r-really are an Oddity. Even your s-s-skin doesn’t so much as c-collect into goosebumps,” she observed between shivers, pulling the garment on.
“You seem strangely unbothered by that.”.
“I, um… all this kind of puts things in perspective.” Fastening the coat’s buttons, Jenna stepped closer to Pyke, and turned about to subside into a sitting position next to him. “All my usual fears seem... far away, somehow.”
“You’re in shock.”
“Maybe so.” And Jenna continued to sit there in silence, staring into the fog.
The Last Spellbound House: A Steampunk Dark Fantasy Thriller Page 3
