by Elle Cross
Hard lesson learned. Fae nobles may think you’re special and appreciate your unique gifts. Just make sure you’re not too remarkable. An invitation to stay doesn’t always include an invitation to leave. Always make sure there’s an out-clause in any dealings with fae.
In my case, Bramb promised me power if I served him, and to sweeten the deal, he said that I could leave the Court of Thorns at any time under my own power. I accepted his terms, and the words of binding scrawled over my skin before I finished uttering, “Yes, my king.”
What I didn’t see was that I’d be under his power for as long as I served him. I trapped myself because I was careless.
Words. So simple, and yet so powerful, especially when the King of Thorns chose to wield them.
The new eldritch script on my skin pulses with fresh light. I’m being summoned. Acanthe’s words writ are just as cold and alien against my skin as her touch.
A thunderous banging on my door demands my attention before I can decipher the script’s meaning. “Enter,” I call out.
“You barred the door, you dumb fuck.”
“And what? You can’t get around a simple shield spell?” I put every bit of sleepless derision into my voice as I open the door to a pissed off pooka. I give him a toothy grin. “Can I help you?”
“The queen requires your presence in the throne room.”
I let every ounce of my disdain drip across my face. “Tell her my schedule’s all full, and I’ll be working in the library if she wants to find me.” I slam the door in his face and proceed to get ready. I may regret my actions later, but damn, these little victories feel good.
Chapter Five
Raze
As my guards pace outside my room, I vault from the window. I twist the shadows around me to slow my fall and land in the outer bailey.
I hear the nicker of horses and head toward the sound. The stables should be located across the outer court from what serves as the library. I move with purpose toward my destination under the cover of shadows. The few servants I encounter don’t see me. Instead, their gazes pass through me, and I hurry by them.
It’s comforting that the castle hasn’t changed much over the years, other than the addition of simple amenities like the bathroom in my quarters. Perhaps it, too, is waiting until after the coronation ceremony to recognize its queen and shift to please its sovereign.
While the Court of Thorns waits, I will work to get my freedom. After all, this is the best time to escape through the siege tunnels that run beneath the castle. In times of turmoil, they are vehicles of hope. In the peace of the past millennia, they served as a hunting ground for a bored sadist.
King Bramb created a portal key so that he could walk among the interstitial spaces of his creation unseen and unharmed as he watched his prey die slow deaths in his labyrinth. That’s what I need to find. The portal key...or a way to make another one.
So long as the next official ruler of the Court of Thorns remains undetermined, I have a chance to walk out of the maze of tunnels unscathed. Otherwise, the maze has a tendency to shift and keep people who are not its sovereign trapped within its walls.
I cross the outer court where King Bramb’s iron sculptures are displayed. Oxidized black with protruding spikes, they look like denuded trees that have survived a forest fire. Metal workers are scarce in Inara—not many fae can stand its touch—which make these creations highly prized.
Bramb saw himself as a kind of curator of rare arts.
This collection in particular showcases the twisted bodies of Bramb’s fallen enemies. Dragged kicking and screaming, they were dipped in a vat of liquid metal, then left to twist and harden into an eternal scream. Unfortunate souls forever bound in pain and torment.
Being immortal is as much a curse as it is a blessing.
Sometimes I wonder if he loved his sculpture garden even more than his endlings, rare beasts he hunted to extinction, save for one remaining animal. It was the best way to ensure everything in his collection was one of a kind.
I suspect he did the same thing with me, for in all my years of service to Bramb, traveling the realms beyond this one, I never encountered anything like me. Then again, I’m not certain the universe could contain two of my kind.
Either way, I stopped looking a while ago. What would it solve for me, other than to confirm that I might actually be the last of my people? How does that Earth realm saying go? Ignorance is the better part of valor. Or was that bliss?
Regardless, ignorance isn't going to save me now.
Darting around a group of stablehands, I enter the royal storehouse. I’m betting Acanthe hasn’t bothered to change it yet. Aside from the usual provisions stockpiled to support the castle, in the past it was also filled with Bramb’s most prized possession of all: Information.
Hopefully I’ll be able to find something useful among the curiosities.
I saw great works of technology in my travels many years ago. Even in Acanthe's home realm, Earth, there were oddities that other royals liked to collect. Metal boxes called mobile phones and bigger ones called televisions.
We have something similar to that in seeing stones, but they don’t have all the interesting wires and metals the creations from Earth do.
All of those artifacts were housed in a cabinet of curiosities, a display for any visitors who stopped by. They showed that the king had enough power to travel to different realms and take parts of their technology, their metal—so often dangerous to fae—back to his court without being weakened.
I swipe my finger over the cool surface of one of the mobile devices. It lights up and asks for a passcode. I don't have one, so I let it read my face. It opens its secrets up to me and I smirk. This isn't any different from other forms of power, aside from the fact that this is low-level spell-casting. I put the device down.
The best part of this makeshift library is that any imaginable book that I may need is at my disposal--if only I can find it. Unfortunately, I don’t know where to start. It’s not like the king kept a card catalog to organize his treasure.
What I need is a way to host a bunch of royals here, while also being able to kill them in such a way that the hospitality laws don’t backfire on us.
After all, who would willingly go to a court where they would be at the mercy of their host's ability to kill them and absorb their power?
But information like that is obscure, written on random scraps of paper or old diaries as wizards tinker in their labs. Wouldn’t it be nice if in all the eons, one of them would have labeled their work: Really useful magic.
I sigh and get on with my search.
Acanthe has given this task to me; in all her years here, King Bramb never let her become educated. Imagine, an illiterate queen—one with all the knowledge to return home, if only she knew how to find it.
Of course, now Acanthe has decided to remain here and play ruler after all. Though I wonder how much of that is Acanthe herself and how much is because of the alien chill that I see behind her eyes.
What is the thing that resides inside her? Is it what I think it is? She still hasn't revealed her secret, so I will have to find out here, among the books.
Thanks to the geas she placed on me, I can't directly fight her. And she’s already proved that she can bend my body to serve her in whatever manner she chooses. Maybe that’s the angle I need to push.
I roam idly through the books, trailing my finger along their spines as I think.
Acanthe is at her most dangerous when she is cold and distant.
But when she gave in to the need to have her hands all over me, grind her body against mine, and taste me, she was once again the girl I knew. Heated. Present. When she directed my mouth between her legs, it was all her.
Despite the horror and revulsion that Acanthe feels toward the fae, she still finds us attractive. The lust inside her is equal to her hatred, and she was able to exercise both with me last night. She’s still human enough to want to be desired, and that means she can still be mind-fuc
ked by fae glamour and spells.
It’s exactly that bit of humanity—her most base and primal needs—that I need to leverage if I am to survive long enough to escape.
Frustrated that nothing obvious jumps out at me, I open my senses to the strange magic present in the storehouse, listening for any lingering secrets that might have been spoken here—secrets that could hint at where Bramb kept a portal key.
My search pulls me toward a large grimoire displayed in the darker recesses of the store house on an elaborate lectern. I leaf through a few pages; all are blank.
“Reveal yourself,” I command it.
Nothing happens. An elaborate feather pen rests in an inkwell built into the lectern. I lift it up, studying the liquid. A drop falls from the pen and onto the page. It spreads across the surface and then disappears.
Curious now, I use the pen to drop more ink onto the paper. Each black dot spreads until they all meet and grow into one large blob that again sinks into the page.
I scrawl out a triangle with three runes on each corner. A simple illumination spell. The ink fades as it did before, but this time, a shower of sparks bursts from the page before fizzling out. The spell came to life before my eyes without me having to exercise my will.
Magic isn’t free. There is always a price for its use.
I test out a different spell this time, drawing out the runes for fire. As soon as the ink dries, it disappears again. Then a plume of blue flame flickers over the page. It shines brilliantly, but when I reach my hand out, I don’t feel any heat.
I let the fire lick my fingertips, and there is nothing there.
What kind of magic is this?
As I glance around the room, my eyes land on the handheld device I saw earlier. When I was on Earth, humans always carried those things around. They said that the devices contained a wealth information at their fingertips.
Funny how their most treasured information revolved around pet pictures and naked bodies.
I look back at the huge, blank book and wonder. Could it be that easy?
Plucking the feather pen from its well once more, I scribble down the first question I can think of and wait for a response.
A three-dimensional layout of the dungeon tunnels appears before me as an astral projection above the book. I spin it and it turns on its axis. I can zoom in and out.
Well, I’ll be. One of the main tunnels starts in the dungeon. Right at my old cell, in fact.
The knot in my stomach begins to relax. Maybe there is a way I can find the answers I seek after all. I commit the layout to memory.
Knowledge is power, indeed.
I ask my next question. It takes less than a minute for a response. Though guesting laws are sacred and must always be honored, matters of state, like a funeral or coronation, are considered political. And when a visit falls under the umbrella of politics, the guesting laws can be ignored. To wage war against state visitors is one thing. To harm guests, which could cause repercussions against you and your House, is another.
This is exactly the type of slippery word play that the fae nobles like to flex. It would be a fair bit of poetic justice if they get caught in it.
Excited by the prospect of getting all the answers I seek, I write the one burning question I have.
Who controls Acanthe?
I wait for the answer to show itself, but the words on the page are gibberish. Letters are inverted, words misspelled. I ask it again, and again the letters from my question will not hold together.
When I ask a mundane question next, and it is answered immediately, my suspicions are confirmed.
Whatever is riding Acanthe, it doesn’t want to be found out.
I notice the endlings in the stables are restless as I go back to my room.
The pookas are having a time wrangling the black unicorn in its pen. It kicks its sharpened hooves, aiming for vital organs. Pookas, being part horse, are agile despite their bulk, and manage to keep from being gored.
They are able to calm him, the last of his kind. The brownies of the servant class braid his mane and tail, careful not to make it too tight.
"What's the occasion?" I call out to the lead.
The pooka’s eyes flash crimson before dulling to a dirty brown. "The queen saw fit to ready the stallion, and so we here we are."
His voice is as dull as his eyes.
I've wondered about the method behind the madness of Acanthe's victims. Aside from the initial slaughter, she didn't attack the servants and the lesser fae. The more twisted they were, the more she left them alone.
Interesting.
"He doesn't seem to like you," I say, for no reason other than to see what the guard will do.
"He likes no one," he answers mildly.
I swing my legs over the enclosure, splashing mud as I land. The guards that get hit look at me in disgust.
The guard with the lead keeps a tight hold on his charge. The black unicorn whinnies, curling its lip back to reveal his sharpened teeth. He wasn't made to be in a cage, this wild thing. I can relate.
"Let him go," I say.
The pooka finally does, backing away with his arms raised at his sides. As if to say, What happens next is on you, not me.
I don't pay attention to him, focused only on the unicorn, who is now gearing to attack. His eyes roll back and smoke wafts from his nostrils. Sharp hooves find purchase in the mud.
The guards back away, even the leader. Those who shifted into horses to appease the unicorn shift back into their base, two-legged form and flee the enclosure.
The unicorn lowers its head, horn aligned with my torso. I crouch slowly, lowering my center of gravity.
There is a moment in which we just look at each other. Then from one breath to the next, the stallion makes his move.
He roars toward me at breakneck speed. I roll before he can trample me. The enclosure forces him to pull up short and it takes him too long to turn and double back.
I'm already running.
When he lowers his head to gore me with his horn, I grip its base and swing my legs so that I vault over his mass and land squarely on his body. I angle myself so I don't tear my balls off in the process.
I dig my hands into his mane and pull.
The stallion rears, but I hold on, pulling his head back until it’s practically touching his spine.
He gives me a few half-hearted bucks, but his heart isn’t in it anymore. The stallion is done for now.
I slide off his back, patting his shoulder while the brownies lead him away to finish his grooming. Before I can leave the stables, a clarion trump, clear and shrill, sounds into the air.
A crier from one of the watchtowers announces the queen’s return as the castle gates open.
Acanthe's hunting party returns. Redcaps, eyes bright and shining with sated bloodlust, sit astride skeletal steeds. That can’t be comfortable.
Blood drips from their namesake caps, following trails of gore along their sharp profiles. Whatever they hunted, they were successful. Every now and again, they lick their black tongues along their stained lips as if trying to catch any runoff.
Acanthe herself is balanced on the shoulder of a Jack-In-Irons the size of an elephant. He’s crunching something between his teeth. I narrow my gaze, and what looks like a pixie’s wing is stuck in the corner of his mouth. He licks that last shimmering bit and swallows loudly.
The Jack lowers himself, his chains jangling together like macabre jewelry. Once he’s on his knees, Acanthe alights onto the ground with the help of the redcaps in her party.
Acanthe strides with a confidence I’ve never seen in her. For one thing, her eyes aren’t downcast. They seem to take everything in, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. For another, she’s armed. A flame sword rests in its scabbard at her hip. The undulating blade would give even a novice fighter an upperhand in battle.
Despite her fierce demeanor, the queen’s complexion has a ghostly pallor to it. More faded, rather than merely pale.
Perhaps it’s her white silk riding dress that makes her look so ashen.
Still, there’s no mistaking the delicate bruising underneath her eyes or the white and gray streaks in her raven-black hair. Woven among her braids, they at least look purposefully artful.
"That didn't take long," Acanthe says to the stable hand by way of greeting. She nods to the unicorn being petted and groomed by the brownies. She appraises me next. “You weren’t at breakfast, Lord Raze. You would have done well in our hunting party.”
I cast a cool glance to the redcaps, swaggering with the glut of power that came from their bloody conquest. “I’m sure I would have. And, I would have ensured I brought back a trophy. But then, if I’d gone, I wouldn’t have been able to find the answer you seek regarding your coronation.”
For a long moment, she studies me, and I work not to squirm under her gaze. “Do you just like it in the mud, Lord Raze? Shall I rename you for a pig?"
The shift in topic caught me unaware. She seeks to keep me unbalanced. I don’t rise to her bait. “I’m not here to impress, Your Majesty. I am what I am. If you don’t like who I am, you can always let me go.” I lean in closer, in a mock semblance of intimacy, and whisper loudly, “Though something tells me you like the way I am. Every last bit of me.”
Her pale cheeks flush pink and her eyes fill with black rage. “You’re proud of yourself? Of what you are? Of what you’ve let yourself become? All your power and what did that get you? A thousand years in the oubliette. Forgotten like so much garbage. Waste.” She sneers the last bit.
“Hey, I may be trash, but you were the one who picked me up out of the dung heap, lady. The way I figure it, you need me more than I need you.” I make a show of looking down my body, back over her guards, and then to her. And because I just can’t seem to help myself, I keep going. “How’s this whole ruling thing working for you? Are you getting what you want out of it? Is it everything you ever hoped and dreamed it would be? Are you proud of all your life choices?”
Her face clouds over with the banked fury of a gathering storm. She was the king’s captive for countless ages, taken at the peak of her young life. Specially selected because she was fragile in every way and could be broken apart and put back together into the king’s chosen creation. And I was the one who stole her and delivered her to her captor.
