Modern Faerie Tales

by Holly Black

  “And what if I told you that you had already proven it to my satisfaction? Come, tarry a time with us. There is honey wine and crisp, red apples. Sit by my side again.”

  Kaye bit her own lip, hard. The pain helped her accept that he was not hers, would never be hers. And if it was much too late to pretend that didn’t hurt, she could at least shove it down so deeply inside her that he would never know.

  Roiben stared at Silarial with a mixture of longing and scorn. “You must forgive me,” Roiben said, “but the smell of apples makes me want to retch. And I have much left to do.”

  The Queen looked shocked, then angry. Roiben seemed to watch those emotions flit across her face impassively.

  “Then you had best make haste,” the Queen said.

  Roiben nodded and bowed. Kaye almost forgot to.

  When they were a few paces away, the white-haired woman caught Roiben’s arm, pulling him to face her, laughing.

  “Roiben!” It was the woman who had gasped before. Her hair was to her knees, some of it swept up into heavy braids on her head. She wore the costume of one of the Queen’s handmaidens.

  “I was worried about you,” she said, again, the smile wobbling on her face. “The things I had heard—”

  “All true, no doubt,” Roiben said, a touch lightly. He ran his fingers through the girl’s tresses, and Kaye shivered sympathetically, knowing how those fingers felt. “Your hair is so long.”

  “I haven’t cut it since you left.” The woman turned to Kaye. “I heard my brother barely introduce you to the Queen. My question is—is Roiben trying to protect us from you or you from us?”

  Kaye laughed, surprised.

  “Ethine,” Roiben said, nodding to one and then the other, “Kaye.”

  The woman’s tinkling laughter was like breaking glass. “You’ve discarded your courtly airs.”

  “So I have been told,” Roiben said.

  Ethine reached up among the branches of the apple tree and broke off a single flower.

  “All that matters is that you are now home,” she said, tucking the flower behind his ear. Kaye noticed the slight flinch when Ethine touched him and wondered whether his reaction had hurt her.

  “This is no longer my home,” Roiben said.

  “Of course it is. Where else would you go?” Her eyes traveled to Kaye, questioning for the first time. “She hurt you, I know that, but you will forgive her in time. You always forgive her.”

  “Not this time,” he said.

  “What did they do to you?” Ethine looked horrified.

  “Whatever has been done to me, whatever I have done . . . as surely as blood soaks my hands, and it does, the stain of it touches even the hems of the Queen of Elfland.”

  “Don’t speak so. You loved her once.”

  “I love her still, more’s the pity.”

  Kaye turned away. She didn’t want to hear any more. It had nothing to do with her.

  She stalked off toward the car. One of the human children was on his toes, reaching for an apple just out of his grasp. He was wearing a green tunic, tied at his hips with a silk cord.

  “Hello,” Kaye said.

  “Hi.” The boy grinned up at her imploringly, and she plucked the fruit. It came free from the branch with a snap.

  “Where’s your mother?” Kaye asked, shining the apple on her coat.

  He scowled at her, one lock of dark brown hair covering his eye. “Gimme.”

  “Did you always live with faeries?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, eyes on the apple.

  “For how long?” she asked.

  He reached out one chubby hand, and she gave him the apple. He took a bite immediately. She waited while he chewed, but as soon as he had gulped down one bite, he started gnawing on it again. Then, as if he just remembered her, he looked up guiltily. He shrugged and mumbled through a full mouth. “Always.”

  “Thanks.” Kaye ruffled the chestnut hair. There was no point in asking him anything. He knew about as much as she did. Then, she turned back to him. “Hey, do you know a little girl called Kaye?”

  He wrinkled up his face in an exaggeration of thinking, then he pointed toward one of the blankets. “Uh-huh. Prolly over there.”

  She felt as dizzy as if she’d been hanging upside down. Her fingers were like ice.

  Leaving the boy to his apple, she walked among the cloth blankets, stopping each little girl she passed, no matter what they looked like. “Is your name Kaye, sweetie?”

  But when she saw herself, she knew. Kaye could manage nothing more than staring as the girl—far, far too young to be Kaye in any reasonable world—picked a weed and, wrapping the stem carefully, flung the head in the direction of a pretty faerie lady who laughed.

  All the questions Kaye wanted to ask choked her. She turned on her heel and stomped back to Roiben and Ethine, grabbing his arm hard.

  “We have to go now,” she shouted, furious and trembling. “Corny could be dead.”

  Ethine was wide-eyed as Roiben swallowed whatever he might have said and nodded. Kaye turned on her heel, stalking back to the car, leaving Roiben to follow her.

  14

  In the hills giant oaks

  fall upon their knees

  You can touch parts

  You have no right to—

  —KAY RYAN, “CROWN”

  She didn’t make it to the car.

  “Kaye, stop. Just stop.” Roiben’s voice came from close behind her.

  She paused, looking through the trees at the minivans and the highway beyond. Anything to not look backward at the Seelie Court and the ageless children and Roiben.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m angry. You’re screwing around while we have stuff to do.” His calm was only making her angrier.

  “Well, that’s finished.” He didn’t sound sorry exactly, his voice hovering on the edge of sarcasm.

  Her face was hot. “Why are you here?”

  There was a pause. “Apparently to be scolded by everyone.”

  “No . . . why are you still here? With me?”

  His voice was quiet. She could not see his face unless she turned and she would not turn. “Shall I go, then?”

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She simply felt overloaded.

  “Everything I do . . . ,” she started and her voice hitched. “Shit, we don’t have time for this.”

  “Kaye—”

  “No.” She started pacing. “We have to go. Right now.”

  “If you cannot calm yourself, you’ll do Cornelius little good.”

  She stopped pacing and held up her hands, fingers splayed wide. “I’m the reason his sister is dead.”

  He stopped her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She refused to meet his eyes, and abruptly he jerked her forward, pulling her body against his. Her muscles stiffened, but he tightened his hold wordlessly. After a moment, she subsided, her breath rushing from her in a long, shuddering sigh. Long fingers stroked her hair. He smelled of honey and sweat and the detergent her grandmother used.

  She rubbed her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes against the thoughts that were gibbering in her head, whispering bids for attention.

  “I’m here because you are kind and lovely and terribly, terribly brave,” he said, voice pitched low. “And because I want to be.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes. He smiled and rested his chin on the top of her head, sliding his hand over her back.

  “You do?”

  He laughed. “Verily. Do you doubt it?”

  “Oh,” she said, mind unable to catch up with the stunning joy that she felt. Joy, that was, for the moment, enough to push the other sorrows aside. Because it was true, somehow, he was here with her, and not with the Seelie Queen. He was helping her, even though she was a mess and made an even bigger mess. “Oh.”

  His hands made long even strokes, from beneath the wings at her shoulder blades to the small of her back. “And that pleases you?”

  “What?”
She tilted her head up again, scowling. “Of course it does. Are you kidding?”

  He drew back to look at her for a moment, searching her face. “Good,” he sighed, and pressed her head once more to his chest, stroking her hair as he closed his eyes. “Good.”

  They stood like that for a long moment. Finally he pulled back from the embrace. “Thankfully,” he said, “we don’t need the car to get into the Unseelie Court. Walk with me.”

  The tree was gnarled and huge, its knobbed and gored trunk giving it the impression of sagging under its own weight. The bark was thin and chipped, flaking off like dry skin. At its base, there was a gaping hole where the roots split.

  Lutie buzzed up from the hole. “No guards,” she said, settling her small self in the tangle of Kaye’s hair.

  “And this leads where?” Kaye was trying to control her trembling, trying not to let on just how not ready for this she was.

  “Through to the kitchens,” Roiben replied, inching his body, feet first, through the gaps in the tree. Finally, his head disappeared into the dark, strands of silver catching on the splintered bark. She heard a clatter as he dropped down to the floor.

  Kaye kicked her boots against the entrance, feeling wood give way. It chipped off as she pushed in further, burying her legs to the knees. Then, on her back, wriggling forward like a snake, she pushed herself through. It was a long drop, and she bit back a yelp as she landed.

  The tunnel was hot and cloudy with steam. Beads of moisture dotted Roiben’s face, and his hair looked damp and heavy when he combed it back with one hand. He cocked his head to the left, and she moved ahead of him through the billowing steam.

  The kitchen was a huge room with a firepit in the center of it and no visible ventilation system. Faeries scuttled around in the smoke with large pots, piles of skinned rats, little cakes, baskets of silver apples, and rolled casks of wine. The reek of blood assailed her. It stained the walls and the floor, boiled in the pots and dripped over the plates of raw meat. Roiben walked behind Kaye, his hand on the small of her back, pushing when he wanted them to move and clutching her coat to signal her to stop.

  They crept into the room, staying close to the wall. A withered old faerie sat on a nearby stool, skinny legs dangling off the side, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as he painted black apples a shiny, nail-lacquer red. His white hair stuck up in wild tufts, and he periodically adjusted his small spectacles as they slipped down his nose.

  Next to the apple-painter, a huge green man with small horns on his bald head and fangs protruding over a fat upper lip wielded a cleaver over a collection of oddly shaped animal corpses, hacking them into stew-size chunks. Tattoos of roses and thorns ran up both of the man’s beefy arms.

  Kaye crept as quietly as any time she had snuck in late to the house, as any time she’d left a store with full pockets. She concentrated on her feet, bowing her head slightly and walking slowly and quietly through the doorway.

  Soon the narrow hallway sloped down and opened into a larger passageway, this one floored with grayish marble and studded with huge, carved pillars. The ceiling dripped with stalactites. Kaye could hear people up ahead, shoes clicking like beetles on the stone floor.

  Roiben pushed them both against the back of the pillar. He drew his sword from the sheath and held it against his chest. She found the dagger he’d given her earlier and clenched the handle desperately.

  But the footfalls turned down another corridor.

  They crept along like that until they came to a set of black double doors.

  “What’s in there?” Kaye asked.

  “Wine and the aging thereof,” he whispered back.

  The room was all stone, stinking of yeast, casks lining the walls and glass bottles filled with infusions of various flowers. There were rose petals, violet petals, whole heads of marigolds, nettles floating like organic spaceships, and other herbs she could not identify.

  “What are those?” she whispered. There was no one in the room.

  “Wormwood, yarrow, cowslip, gillyflowers, agrimony, fennel—”

  “I bet you drink a lot of herbal tea,” she said.

  He did not smile as he directed her toward the smaller of the two doors in the room. She wondered if he even realized it was a joke.

  “Laundry,” he said.

  The next room was filled with as much or more steam than the kitchens. It wafted in through small vents in the ceiling. In the room were several large tubs filled with soapy water. One pale woman with dark eyes was wringing out a white cloth while another was stirring the contents of a tub with a crooked stick. A man with long arms and a hunched back was adding some granules to the mix, making the water hiss.

  It was a small space, and Kaye cast a glance at Roiben. There was no way they could get through the room without anyone seeing them.

  “Maigret,” Roiben said, grinning as he opened his arms wide.

  One of the laundry women looked up, her grin showing she was missing a tooth. “Our knight!” She limped over and gave him a highly ordinary hug. Across the room, the man and woman looked up from their duties and smiled too. “You’re one I thought sure never to see again.”

  “I’m looking for a boy,” Roiben said. “Human. With your new King.”

  The woman made a disgusted sound. “That one . . . King indeed! Yes, there’s a boy about, but I can’t tell you more than that. I’ve learned better than to draw the eye of Gentry.”

  Roiben smiled wryly. “And I as well.”

  “They’re looking for you, you know.”

  He nodded. “I made a rather spectacular end to my service here.”

  The old laundress cackled and bid them farewell. Roiben opened a small door and they emerged into a hallway of shimmering mica.

  “How do you know they won’t tell anyone they saw us?”

  “Maigret thinks she owes me a debt.” He shrugged.

  “Is something wrong with her feet?”

  “She disappointed one of the Unseelie Gentry. He had iron shoes heated red-hot before he made her dance in them.”

  Kaye shuddered. “Does that have something to do with the debt she thinks she owes you?”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed.

  “What about through there?”

  “There’s the library, the music room, the conservatory, and the chess room.”

  “Chess room?”

  “Yes, chess was well loved by the Queen. They gamble with it like mortals gamble with cards. She once used it to win a consort, as I recall.”

  “Corny loves chess—he was on the chess team in high school.”

  “We must go through the library to get there.” He hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’ve seen no guards. Not at the entrance and not even here.”

  “What if that means we’re just doing really, really well?”

  “Of a surety, it means something.”

  The door to the library was mammoth and elegant, clearly different from the plainer doors in the lower chambers. It was dark wood, banded with copper, carved with a language she could not read. Roiben pushed the door, and it opened.

  Bookshelves were arranged in a maze, so tall that it was impossible to see across the room to whatever exit there was. The shelves themselves were intricately carved with faces of gargoyles and other strange beasts, and there was the overwhelming scent of turned earth. Whenever Kaye looked in one direction, something seemed to shift in the corner of her eye. The books themselves were in such varied sizes that she wondered who read them all. As they walked, she tried to scan the titles, but they were all in strange languages.

  As they turned a corner, she saw a shape slide between the shadows. It was slender and vaguely human.

  “Roiben,” she whispered.

  “The keepers of secrets,” he said, not looking back. “They will tell no one of our passing.”

  Kaye shuddered. She wondered what was written in the tomes that lined the shelves of the library if t
he idea was to keep secrets. Were the shapes custodians or guardians or scribes?

  As they came to a crossroads in the bookshelves, she saw another dark shape, this one with long, pale hair that started too high on its forehead and large, glittering black eyes. It slipped into the shadows as easily and soundlessly as the first one.

  Kaye was very glad when they came to a small, oval door that opened easily to Roiben’s touch.

  Heavy draperies hung on the wall of the chess room. The entire floor was inlaid with black-and-white tiles, and five-foot pieces loomed on the edges of the room. Corny was sleeping on the floor, his body overlapping two chess squares.

  “Cornelius?” Roiben knelt down and shook Corny by his shoulder.

  He looked up. His eyes were vague and unfocused and he was a mass of bruises, but even worse was the satiated smile he turned up at them. His face looked aged somehow, and there was a tuft of white in his hair.

  “Hello,” he slurred, “you’re Kaye’s Robin.”

  Kaye dropped to her knees. “You’re okay now,” she said, more to herself than to him, reverently smoothing back damp strands of hair. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “Kaye,” Roiben said tonelessly.

  She turned. Nephamael was stepping into the room, from behind the draperies on the far wall. His hand stroked the marble mane of the black knight chessman.

  “Greetings,” Nephamael said. “You will pardon my humor if I say that you have been the proverbial thorn in my side.”

  “I rather think you owe me,” Roiben said. “It was I that got you the crown.”

  “From that point of view, it’s a shame that life is so often unfair, Rath Roiben Rye.”

  “No!” Kaye gasped. It couldn’t be. Roiben had been so far away from the others when she’d used his name. She had barely been able to hear herself. He’d killed all the knights close by, all the ones that could have heard.

  “No one else knows it,” Nephamael said as though reading her thoughts. “I killed the hob after I got it from him.”

  “Spike,” Kaye breathed. It wasn’t a question.

  “Rath Roiben Rye, by the power of your true name, I order you to never harm me, and to obey me both immediately and implicitly.”