Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  She purred softly as he worked and Meadowlark felt her muscles begin to relax, the tension draining away. After a short while, he turned away.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Sorry ma’am.”

  Meadowlark took Pox’s dagger from where he’d hidden it under the pillow, turned back to the Dark Queen and slit her throat.

  Dresdemona’s last words, coming as a pathetic bloody gurgle, were, “What? HOW?”

  Meadowlark did not feel the need to explain. He simply wanted to watch her die.

  The banshees came crashing around the screen, each on the verge of uttering their lethal scream.

  “Now now, ladies,” he said. “What’s done is done and can’t be undone, hmmm? You’re duty-bound to protect the boy and it can’t possibly be in his best interests to lose both of his parents in the same night. Am I right?”

  Chapter 63

  Theodora woke to a kiss on her forehead. She opened her eyes.

  “Meadowlark?”

  “The one and only,” he smiled. He seemed a vision out of the past, his dark hair in curls around his shoulders, wearing his favorite red, crushed-velvet jacket trimmed with silver braid.

  She sat up, puzzled for a moment. “You escaped? However did you manage it?”

  “It was quite easy, after she was dead.”

  “Who’s dead? Dresdemona’s dead?”

  “Um-hmm. I had to wait quite a while for my chance, but opportunity did not find me wanting. I was rather hoping Moonshadow would take care of things on her end, but…Well, if I could’ve done it sooner I would’ve.”

  “But how?”

  “Ah, that’s just what she asked,” he noted. “I slit her throat, when she wasn’t looking.”

  “You just killed her? Just like that?”

  “I did. All’s fair, you see.”

  “But—but you couldn’t hurt her. You told me you couldn’t, even if you wanted.”

  “That would be true, if I were under her control.” Meadowlark smiled coyly.

  “But you were under her control. I saw. On Midsummer’s Eve… in front of everybody. I think she just wanted to use you to make me jealous. But you were under her control.”

  “False face must hide what the false heart doth know. She never had me, not for a second.”

  Theodora couldn’t believe it. “You pretended? You pretended all that time? You suffered—I don’t even want to know what you suffered—and it was all a sham? You are a tricksy bastard, Meadow.”

  “I am.”

  She noticed the tip of one of his ears had gone missing. He had suffered much more than he would have her know. “But I still don’t understand. How is it possible? Why didn’t her magic affect you this time, like it did before?”

  Meadowlark fluttered a hand in front of his nose as if waving away a particularly bad odor. “Her little trick is based on the sense of smell. A few years ago, I met with her sister—”

  “Dresdemona’s sister?”

  “Adopted. Her sister…” He paused for effect then continued, “Black Annis.”

  “No!”

  “Oh yes. Annis knew Dresdemona way back when, a long time agone. They were really quite close, until Dresdemona fouled everything up, killed her whole family and drove her mad. Annis knew all her secrets, or at least some of them. And, you know, a pinch of deadly nightshade, a little sprig of mandrake, a few hot coals and—let’s just say I haven’t smelled the honeysuckle, or anything else, ever since.”

  Theodora didn’t quite get it.

  Meadowlark sniffed the air. “Is that a rose or ragweed? I can’t tell! She burned out the inside of my nose. I can’t smell a thing.”

  Theodora shook her head. “Tricksy bastard!”

  “Yes, but I’m your tricksy bastard, if you’ll still have me.”

  She could stand it no longer. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard.

  “And, you know,” he said, “I have a child…”

  “I know.”

  He snapped his fingers as if just remembering something. “And a crown, too. Since I defeated Dresdemona in combat—"

  “You call that combat?”

  “I do. I certainly do. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, by Winter Court rules I am now King of Everbright! King Meadowlark the First. Haha!”

  Theodora considered he might just be right about that. “I should watch my back if I were you,” she said. “Pox would probably like to stick a knife in it.”

  “Ha! That overgrown lout’s tried to kill me twice already. And I fought him to a standstill both times!”

  “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely true. I may have employed somewhat unconventional tactics but that’s just my style. Who’s the top dog now? Me! I’m the King. And, I’m thinking that could make you Queene Clarimonde, if you’d like.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sounds more than a little pretentious, doesn’t it? And I’m fairly certain King Georgie wouldn’t like it.”

  “To hell with him.”

  Theodora sighed. If it were only going to be that easy…

  EPILOGUE

  Robert Hodges stood in the second balcony of the Menagerie, a shabbily dressed man among a crowd of other shabbily dressed patrons too frugal to afford a full seat below. He was actually not as poor as all that—he owned three berths in the Port of London and rented them at a marginal rate to the Grayson family. He could have purchased a fully-seated ticket in the pit, but then she might have noticed. She might have felt that little tingle which alerted her that another faery was near. She might have looked his way. He could not afford that.

  Nora had center-stage at the moment, starring in a production of The Mistress of the Inn. Pinky Longbottom, in the role of Baron Ripafratta, pranced and sashayed before her, attempting his comic seduction of Mirandolina, the mistress of the inn. Her comic timing had improved dramatically of late, perhaps having benefitted from close association with the hilarious Longbottom. She batted her eyelashes coquettishly at the baron and laughed at his ridiculous hijinks. Hodges didn’t think anyone in the audience could tell she’d had her heart broken just recently. Yes, she had become quite a good actress.

  He’d seen enough. He thought about pushing his way out through the crowd but again, that might draw her attention. Threadneedle came here several nights a week to watch her perform, using one of the many identities he maintained in the city.

  He’d heard about recent events in Everbright, the death of Moonshadow and the defeat of Dresdemona at Meadowlark’s hands. Meadowlark? He never would have guessed it. When he’d walked away from Everbright he expected that Moonshadow, Meadowlark and Theodora would all die themselves, in a futile attempt to topple the Dark Queen. Apparently he had underestimated the mettle of his friends. In any case, he was sure they would take him back; he was a very useful man after all. But there was very little for him there. He preferred to keep a distance from the Grayson family for now.

  When he’d walked away he thought he would never see Dresdemona again, so it made little difference to him now that she was dead. She’d been the only woman he had ever truly loved. Ambitious, ruthless, deadly and, yes, fiercely loving in her way. In the early days at least. He’d had her for a short while and then been forced away, his heart smashed to bits. A hundred years his love had lived on in exile. A hundred years he’d been a man playing one role after another, seeking one lover after another, and finding no fulfillment within himself in return. He’d thought he could never be whole again, until he saw her on the balcony of the West Tower. And then he thought, for a foolish moment or two, that he had a chance. And now she was gone. But that did not matter, the chance had already died—if only she could have taken the chance he’d offered. If only she had walked away from Everbright and into his arms. She could have been sitting beside him right now.

  Well, he thought. I fell in love with the wrong woman. And now ‘if only’ sits beside me. And always will. He could never love Nora the same way. If only he
and Dresdemona hadn’t shared that final kiss in the orchard. Now his soul bore her mark again, and would for a long time to come. Nora would know. She’d know everything. She would never understand. It was better this way. Better for her.

  Vicar Desmos hated the north country. It’s rocky slopes, the unpaved cattle trails that served as roads, the thick-headed townsfolk and the damn mosquitoes. He slapped the side of his neck. He could not see past the line of his jaw but was certain the little pests kept landing there, ready to bite and suck.

  “The turn off is just to the left,” said Doakes.

  “Thank the Lord.”

  Doakes gave his mare’s flank a little kick and she trotted along the dirt track that led to the gate of the Grayson estate. Desmos prodded his colt and followed along. He wasn’t used to riding all day and his back was aching to beat the band. At the gatehouse, Doakes swung easily down from his mount. Desmos moved much more slowly, fighting every painful twinge as he turned in the saddle and lifted his leg. His companion introduced himself as a ‘Prime and Special Agent’ of His Majesty’s Army. Desmos still didn’t understand what that meant. Doakes wore no redcoat uniform, just a plain black overcoat and waistcoat that any Puritan would have envied and a black leather tri-corn hat. But the ramrod straight attitude of his bearing and the high state of shine on his boots betrayed some military connection at the least.

  The gateman ushered them to the front door of Grayson Hall. Desmos noted the poor conditions of the grounds. The lawn had been maintained just at the limits of respectability, signifying a house that had seen much better days. The gardens at the front of the house however, were a shambles. The flowering plants there had withered and died but still been left in their boxes, the hedges given free rein to promulgate into unkempt brambles.

  The valet showed them into the grand dining room, where Lord Eric Grayson sat at his table. Doakes made their introductions and Grayson bade his guests to sit. He called for a tea service.

  Eric Grayson struck Desmos as the unfriendly sort, who never chanced a smile. Clearly he had no interest in visitors nor anything they might have to say and, despite the call for tea, would be glad to see them off at the earliest convenience.

  Doakes did not beat around the bush.

  “We’ve come here to talk to you about the faeries, about Everbright.”

  Grayson’s sour mood soured even further. Forget about a smile; now they faced an undisguised sneer. “I don’t have anything to do with faeries. Not anymore.”

  “Your wife lives there. From what we hear, she’s just about running the place now.”

  “The Lady Grayson and I are estranged, sir. I haven’t spoken with that woman in several months and hope never to do so again.”

  “I see,” said Doakes, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully.

  “Faeries have caused me only disgrace and misfortune,” continued Grayson. “They have stolen my children and corrupted my wife.” He glanced up at a portrait on the wall and shouted, quite inexplicably, “Not now!”

  Doakes was taken aback. He glanced up at the portrait. “Your father, sir?”

  “Grandfather. He never misses an opportunity to remind me that he warned me about Theodora over and over again.”

  “Warned you?” asked Doakes. “From what I understand, Griffin Grayson died long before you met your wife.”

  Grayson scowled once more at the portrait, then cast a level eye straight at Doakes. “My grandfather was murdered by faeries. You can hear his howls of torment late at night sometimes, out on the moors.”

  “I see,” Doakes said.

  “They killed my brother too,” Grayson added. “Drove him insane.”

  “Agreed. You have no reason to love faeries,” said Doakes. “And that suits us just as well. I have not come here to implore you to aid them, but to serve the needs of the Crown. And I see now that Sir Grenville’s judgement was not in error. You are the perfect man for the job.”

  Doakes shot a look at the Vicar. Desmos realized it was his turn to speak.

  “The faeries are dangerous, sir, as I am sure you are aware,” said Desmos. “But what you don’t realize is that they have some sort of a weapon there at Everbright. A weapon that poses a danger to the entire continent.”

  Grayson did not seem impressed.

  “It’s a sword,” explained Desmos. “It’s called Arondight, a sword that dates back to the Round Table. But more than a sword. It’s believed Arondight can lay waste an entire army.”

  That, at least, got a rise out of the Lord. He was no fool.

  “A thing like that, can’t be left in the hands of blights and enemies of the state,” said Doakes.

  Desmos’ heart went out to Lord Grayson. It was easy to see how deeply tormented he was by the entire situation.

  But another thought came to him as well. The pastor could not help imagining himself holding Arondight high, the Vicar of the Sword.

  “Let me be clear,” said Doakes. “We want you to go to Everbright, Lord Grayson. We want you to use your influence with your wife in whatever way possible and yes, to seduce her if necessary, and we want you to bring King George this sword.”

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  Praise for “Il Teatro Oscuro”:

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