by Ken Altabef
A smattering of yellowed parchments lay among the mess, scribbled with astrological sigils and anatomical diagrams that were totally incomprehensible to James. These work notes were not what he was looking for. Perhaps Trask’s personal papers might contain some bit of information that could help, some mention of a Transylvanian relative or associate, perhaps even a Belgian national, who might be willing to intervene on behalf of the beleaguered alchemist. Trask had been heir to a fortune. Perhaps there was sufficient money back home for a bribe of some sort.
James opened a large standing cabinet. Among the oddities inside he found a stuffed parakeet, a series of pewter vessels containing mysterious oily liniments, a rhinoceros horn twisted into an ominous shape, various potions and powders labelled in a shaky hand including distillations from the liver and lungs of an Egyptian viper, an old dried-out wasp’s nest, a box of gallstones, a handful of pebbles that had been passed in somebody’s urine, hairballs coughed up out of lungs, several lodestones, and a tray of spider’s eyes.
He grabbed some papers which appeared to be personal correspondence. Bound in a little sheaf with a piece of pink ribbon, these looked—but wait!—what’s that there?
A thin glass tube containing silvery fluid with a slightly luminous glow. There was something about that fluid…
James held the tube up to the light and he saw it shift slightly against the glass. It seemed to be moving all on its own. But there was something else, something even more miraculous, a dull murmur, a noxious buzzing sound. He heard the sound in his head rather than his ears, just as he’d heard Arabelle’s call in the night. But he hadn’t taken the pains or concentration to open his mind. It was simply there. And it was emanating from the glowing fluid.
This was the stuff, the element Trask had been seeking to extract from the Changed Men. This was the Wild Tyme.
The buzzing resolved into a voice; distant and weak, but it was definitely speaking to him.
“Changeling!” it said. “My dear changeling child!”
James knew that voice. He’d heard it a decade ago as a boy of ten, when he’d seen the Chrysalid appear in the night sky over Grayson Hall. The Chrysalid, that horrific entity from another plane that had turned the Changed Men into half-faeries by gifting them with the Wild Tyme. The Chrysalid, which was said to have created the faery race eons ago, in a long-forgotten ancient age. The monster which had claimed, on that bizarre night ten years ago, that it was in fact James and Nora’s mother.
“Mine!” it said.
James was immersed once again in the wild sensations the Chrysalid had engendered that night. The cavern was suddenly painted in such strange colors, vivid pastels so wet and bright they dripped before his eyes. He smelled wildly fragrant hues, saw flashing lights, terrifying and wonderful.
A jagged hole, bordered by a rim of bubbling static, appeared in the ceiling of Trask’s laboratory. The cavern’s ceiling was replaced by open sky, ablaze with wild lights that flashed yellow, then white and crimson. James smelled cardamom, mint, and burnt ochre, all at once. The seething aperture led into another dimension. On the other side, just waiting to cross over, was a being so alien and frightening it had made young Nora scream. He had seen it clearly that night as well. The Chrysalid was made of eyes, hundreds of eyes, all different sizes and colors but most definitely alive with intelligence. He held up a hand to blot out the vision and noticed his skin had turned a dark purple, his fingernails black and sharp, his flesh hard and grained like wood.
“My child! Dance with me!” The voice became louder and stronger, almost thunderous. It caused his head to ache.
The tear in the sky throbbed and bulged ominously as the Chrysalid threatened to burst forth. He did not want to see it again.
“Fly with me!”
“No!” he shouted and pulled away, forcibly shutting off the connection. He took a sharp breath, inhaling the stale chemical stink of the laboratory. There was no sky overhead. There was no monster with a thousand eyes. It had all been just a vision.
He held the glass tube in his hand, the luminous fluid still buzzing softly in his head. No wonder the Changed Men were half insane.
James stored the tube back inside the cabinet and shut the door panel.
His hands were shaking. They were not purple, but normal pink flesh.
He still heard the creature’s murmuring, though dulled within the confines of the cabinet. He stepped across to the far end of the room with the feeling of once again having escaped extreme personal risk.
If nothing else, he now knew what he must do to save the Changed Men.
Chapter 33
Dresdemona took a moment to size up the guard standing at the front of the barracks. Simms was his name. That was all she knew of him, all she cared to know, and more than enough information. He was doe-eyed, hair cut short, with a sloppy day’s growth on his face. He looked to be mid-thirties, lazily built and half-asleep most of the time.
He wore an English fighting sword slung low on his hip. The brass handle gleamed on all the accent points, a sign of long use. How long had he been training with the weapon? Ten years? Twenty? She chuckled at the thought. Pox had been sword-fighting for a hundred years. This baby-faced lieutenant wouldn’t last five minutes against Pox.
She approached Simms. She did not smile. The dress she’d chosen to wear was not the slightest bit provocative—a prim, peasant frock in a dull off-white color, buttoned all the way up to her collarbone. No need to do more than that, nor be too obvious about it. Sometimes a taste of honey was worth more than the whole pot.
Simms’ sleepy eyes grew wider as he took in her copper-toned skin with its slight metallic gleam, her long, flowing black hair, her subtly pointed ears. He was practically drooling. She didn’t need to use any scent magic on him, nor a fancy dress. All she needed was a smile.
“Good morning, officer,” she smiled.
He tipped his hat so far back it nearly fell off his head. “Morning, ma’am.”
Before he could bubblingly add anything else she complimented him on his fine uniform, flicking a stray bit of fluff from his collar, letting her long, slender fingers linger just a moment at the skin of his neck.
“It’s much too hot to be standing so long in the sun,” she said. “Perhaps I could go and fetch you a cool drink?”
“That—that’d be very nice I’m sure.”
“Why don’t you come with?” She winked at him.
He stared at her as if he couldn’t be sure what had just happened. “Couldn’t leave me post, ma’am.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t take long,” she said pleasantly, “I’ll finish you quick.” She brushed a nonexistent bit of fluff from his trousers. Undisguised panic lit his eyes.
“Couldn’t do that, ma’am.” He lowered his voice. “You being what you are… men get whipped for that around here.”
“Whipped?”
“Five lashes, first offense.”
“Whoever would make such a silly rule?”
“Captain.”
“Captain Abercrombie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just the man I’ve come to see. Is he in?”
Simms nodded dumbly. As she stepped past him she threw back a sibilant whisper, “Maybe next time.”
The interior of the barracks was neither large nor grandiose. It smelled of rough men and sweaty necks. Its walls were bare wood plastered with notices on fraying sheets of paper. Several men without jackets loitered in one of the doorways—the sleeping quarters she guessed—and gawked as she went by.
“The Captain?” she asked with a serious face and imposing tone. She had wasted enough time already.
A few unsteady fingers directed her to the room at the far end of the hall.
She didn’t bother to knock.
The captain was seated behind his desk. He wore an unassuming white work shirt, sleeves rolled all the way up over his burly forearms. An inky quill poised at his fingertips like a poisoned dart.
&nbs
p; “What’s this? Who gave you leave to come in here?”
Dresdemona put a suitably intimidated look on her face. “I’m sorry. I just thought… I don’t know. I wanted to…”
He stabbed the quill into the blotter. “You wanted to what?”
“I just wanted to say ‘thank you.’ ”
Abercrombie’s severe expression softened somewhat. “I can’t accept ‘til I know what it’s for.”
Dresdemona stepped closer. “When we came here, my group, we were armed. An ugly incident could have broken out. But your men did not raise the alarm. So I wanted to thank you for your forbearance in the matter.”
“Why were you armed?”
“It isn’t safe travelling out on the road. Not everyone is so tolerant of us, even these days. We sometimes need to defend ourselves, as best we can. That’s not an issue now. Now that we’re here and have capable men like you for protection. I feel quite safe in your hands.” She supplied a seductive twist to the last three words, in your hands, while staring admiringly at his oversized mitts.
“Where exactly did you travel from?”
“Down south. We wander. We’ve been without a home for a long time. Till now.” She offered a tentative smile but he did not return it.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve heard rumors that you, young lady, might be the one—the very faery that impersonated Queen Charlotte. That one’s called Dresdemona, I think.”
“Me? My name is Dryxlla. It always has been. Come to think of it, the two names do sound similar I guess. Maybe that caused the confusion?”
“So you’re not the one they call the Dark Queen?”
Dresdemona shrugged, thinking perhaps she should’ve changed her hair color. “I’m not the queen of anything.” But my son will be king, she thought. King of all the faeries.
Abercrombie pressed further, “You are in charge of those people? The ones called the Winter Court?”
“Informally yes. But we’re just a wandering band, nothing more.”
“A standing army is forbidden here. There will be no drills and no weapons carried. I won’t stand for it.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.” She put a seductive spin on that one too, whatever you say, but it hardly seemed to have any effect. “I just wanted to offer our services.”
“For what exactly?”
“For anything you need.” She sucked her lower lip slightly. “Anything.” She felt so little spark from him. She wished she hadn’t dressed so plainly after all.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a dismissive flick of one ink-stained wrist. A dismissive flip! She could hardly believe it.
She thought she might have to try again later, perhaps taking on the glamour of a pretty-faced young boy, but Abercrombie didn’t seem the type.
So much for subtlety. She unbuttoned the top of her blouse, allowing a bit of cleavage to show.
“And on a personal note. If there’s anything you need, personally, well, I wouldn’t mind supplying that as well.”
Not even a smile.
Dresdemona would waste no more time with preliminaries. She summoned the gladdrun. She hadn’t used the scent magic for some time but she called forth the combination of saffron, damp rust and cardamom without difficulty and aimed it squarely at the Captain. Though there was no actual scent in the room, his nostrils flared abruptly, clearly registering the odd smell. He sniffed this way and that, seeking the source of the strange perfume. When he found himself unable to locate it, he squinted suspiciously at Dresdemona.
His eyes settled on the bit of cleavage she had exposed earlier, and then he laughed.
“Button yourself up. I do not appreciate,” he said solemnly, “your clumsy efforts to seduce me. I am a decorated officer of His Majesty’s light cavalry.”
No, thought Dresdemona, there’s something more than military discipline holding him back. Denying temptation was one thing, but this man felt nothing for her, not the slightest stirring in his loins.
“You’re not a man,” she said.
“If you are referring to the wounds I suffered serving under General Burgoyne, you are mostly correct. I’ve sacrificed more than a little of myself to French grapeshot in service to my country. But then again, I get along very well without them.”
“A man can be brought to climax many different ways,” she said. “In fact it’s easily accomplished with just one finger, inserted in just the right spot. Let me show you.”
Abercrombie chucked again, although there was very little joy in it. “A faery will give a thirsty man a cup, only to find he is drinking sand. Or acid. Get out!”
Rage welled up in Dresdemona’s soul. She did not know what to do. She didn’t take orders from this man, who smugly assumed he had the upper hand just because he’d left his balls on a French battlefield.
“Out!”
“Philistine!” she raged, and turned on her heel to go.
Chapter 34
After his encounter with the Wild Tyme, James felt a sudden urge to look at the sky. He wanted to know it was still blue. He needed to know there was no gaping hole where reality blurred into a polychromatic buzz with a menacing creature peeking down. It was silly, he knew, but he just couldn’t help it. He had the feeling of a chill running up and down his spine and it just wouldn’t go away.
He emerged from Barrow Downes into a sunny day, the sky an azure expanse housing a panorama of puffy white clouds. Life at Everbright went on as scheduled. Workers hammered and sawed and grumbled and cursed under their breath. Faeries raced back and forth, fetching goods to bring to the marketplace.
James felt the calming hand of reality settle down over him and his panic subsided. Once a week, traders from the neighboring towns came to the faery market to ply their wares. As a result, faery goods slowly dispersed out across the English countryside. Faery-made fireworks, thistlewine, tinctures of hartstongue to spur creativity and moonwort for potency, exotic perfumes, charms, aphrodisiacs, love potions. In exchange for tableware, furniture, jewelry and oil paintings, the faeries traded rare specialty fruits such as candyfruit, roseberries and sugarbane. In the past the faeries had purchased goods with tricksy coins that often reverted to worthless nutcases and pebbles once the faery had gone away. But now, due to the success of Everbright’s farms, the fey had actual currency at their disposal. Coin of the realm stamped with the face of King George himself. Trust was coming back.
What was that? James thought he saw a familiar silhouette among the patrons crowding the stalls and bargaining tables. Could it be?
He stood transfixed. He dare not move lest he dispel the scene before him. But he kept his eyes fixed on the woman with the golden hair. Slowly she turned, laughing at some comment made by the jeweler’s apprentice. Her profile made his heart pound in his chest.
Arabelle.
James pushed his way through the crowd, earning expressions of faery rage in the form of an elbow in the ribs or a barked shin. He didn’t care. He had to reach Arabelle.
When he arrived at the jeweler’s stall she was already gone. Which way? He nudged people right and left but didn’t see her anywhere.
“The faery woman with the white skin?” he said to the vendor. “She was just here.”
“Didn’t buy anything, but you might. I have some fine rings and these bracelets inset with gemstones…” The jeweler’s grimy hand drifted across his wares.
“Where did she go?” demanded James.
“This is rare…white gold…”
James swatted the jewelry palette, scattering rings and charms. “Where?”
“Hey, don’t get sore!” The vendor indicated a stall to the left. James saw her now, trying on a fine silk scarf as a head wrap. He realized his mistake; he’d been looking for her hair but it had been covered.
He rushed over to the stall.
“Arabelle!”
“Yes?” She turned and he got his first good look at a face he had not seen in two years, the face of the woman he loved with all
his heart. Skin as smooth and pure as alabaster with a purple crescent on each cheek, tender lips he had kissed so many times, soulful deep blue eyes.
“You’re back!” he said.
“I am.” She looked awkwardly at him. “But everything’s changed. I don’t remember any of this,” she said, indicating the market and the town, “I just remember down below.”
“It’s new. Faeries love change, right?”
“I suppose. Do you think this looks well on me?” She positioned the scarf across her forehead.
“It’s fine.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s too fancy. Not for me.” She handed the scarf back, thanking the woman at the table. “Good day,” she said to James.
“Good day? That’s all?”
She turned away.
“And you’re just going to walk away? Just like that? Don’t you think we should—we need to talk.”
She paid him no mind. He wasn’t going to let her just walk away. He stepped after her, reaching for her arm, and gently turned her around.
“Excuse me!” she said.
Come right out with it, he thought. Just get it over with. “Arabelle, I love you.”
She twisted slowly out of his grip. “Love at first sight? A human conceit. Not for me.”
Something was very wrong here. She looked the same but acting so strangely, as if she didn’t know him at all.
“Let me ask you one question,” he said desperately. “Please.”
“Quickly, if you please.”
“How long have you lived in Deepgrave?”
“All my life. Well, ever since I was taken, but that was more than twenty years ago. I was six.”
“Taken from Barrow Downes as a child?”
