Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 56
They were approaching a crossroads, the first she’d seen that night. Heavy mist hung over the road, obscuring the path ahead. Clusters of tall trees grew at the X where the roads met, and empty iron cages swung from the branches. Emma shivered. The cages were big enough to hold a human being.
She glanced toward Julian. He sat alert on Widowmaker, his dark hair hidden by the hood of Fergus’s cloak. She could see only a sliver of his skin, like the moon overhead. “Music,” he said in a low voice, drawing his horse up beside hers. “Probably a revel coming up.”
He was right. They passed the crossroads, and the thick mist parted immediately. The music grew louder, pipes and fiddles and sweet flutelike instruments Emma didn’t recognize. The field north of the road was dominated by a massive pavilion draped with silk and hung with the broken-crown banner of the Unseelie King.
Wildly dancing figures surrounded the pavilion. Most seemed naked, or nearly so, dressed in diaphanous rags. It wasn’t much of a dance—they appeared to be mostly writhing together, giggling and splashing in and out of a massive pool of water ringed with silvery rocks. White mist rose off the water, obscuring but not covering a number of half-naked bodies.
Emma blushed, mostly because Julian was there, and looked away. The girls—they had to be sisters—on the bay mare behind her giggled, toying with the ribbons at their throats.
“Prince Oban’s revel,” said one. “It could be no other.”
Her sister looked wistful. “Would that we could go, but the Queen would not approve.”
Emma glanced back toward the revel. She had listened to Mark speak of faerie revels before as if they were more than massive wild parties. They were a way of calling down wild magic, he’d said. They had a terrifying undercurrent, a barely leashed power. Looking out at the field, Emma couldn’t help but feel as if some of the laughing faces she saw were actually screaming in agony.
“Up ahead,” said Julian, snapping her out of her reverie. “It’s the Unseelie Court’s tower.”
Emma looked, and for a moment, a dizzying memory assaulted her: the mural on Julian’s bedroom wall showing a castle surrounded by thorned hedges. Ahead of them a dark gray tower rose out of the hills and shadows. Only the top of the tower was visible. Growing up all around it, their sharp spikes visible even from this distance, was a massive wall of thorns.
* * *
“Well, that’s that,” Helen said in a curiously flat voice. She sat down at the head of the library table. Aline frowned and put her hand on Helen’s back. “They’re gone.”
Dru tried to catch Jaime’s eye, but he wasn’t looking at her. He’d glanced curiously at Kit and Ty and was now fastening up the straps of his pack.
“You can’t go,” she said to him a bit desperately. “You must be so tired—”
“I’m all right.” He still didn’t look at her. Dru felt wretched. She hadn’t meant to lie to Jaime. She’d just never mentioned her age, because she’d been afraid he’d think she was a stupid kid. And then Mark had yelled at him about it.
“No, Dru is right.” Helen smiled with some effort. “Let us at least give you dinner.”
Jaime hesitated. He stood twisting the ties of his pack irresolutely as Kit and Ty pushed past him, and Ty said something about going up on the roof. Kit waved and the two of them slipped out of the library. Back to their private world, Dru thought. Ty would never let her in—he’d never let anyone take Livvy’s place.
Not that Dru wanted to do that. She just wanted to be friends with her brother. Like Helen just wants to be friends with you, said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.
“Aline’s a really good cook,” she said instead. Aline rolled her eyes, but Dru ignored her. Jaime was really skinny—skinnier than he had been when she’d seen him in London. He must be hungry. Maybe if she could get him to stay, she could explain—
There was a noise like a soft explosion. Dru gave a small shriek, and an envelope fell from the ceiling and landed on the table. A faint wisp of smoke hung in the air.
“It’s addressed to you, babe,” Helen said, handing the envelope to Aline. “‘Aline Penhallow, Head of the Institute.’”
Frowning, Aline ripped the envelope open. Her face tightened. She read aloud:
Aline Penhallow:
Pursuant to the most recent Council meeting held in Alicante, the Registry of Downworlders is now enforced. Heads of Institutes and Conclaves, it is your responsibility to make sure that the Downworlders in your region are registered and given identification numbers. You will be receiving a stamp to use in registration, in ink that will show up only in witchlight.
Downworlders must be ready to show their marked documents at any time. Records of all registrations must be handed over to the Office of the Inquisitor. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges or recall to Alicante. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. In these troubled times, all must be held accountable. Thank you for your understanding.
Horace Dearborn
NB: As reflects our new policy of accountability, all Institute heads should be advised that the traitors Diego Rosales, Divya Joshi, and Rayan Maduabuchi are awaiting conviction in the Gard for aiding in the escape of a wanted Downworlder. As soon as the Mortal Sword is reforged, they will stand trial.
There was a crash. Jaime had dropped his pack. Drusilla moved to pick it up, but he’d already seized it.
“That bastard Dearborn,” he said through white lips. “My brother is not a traitor. He is painfully honest, good—” He looked around at the stricken faces surrounding him. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “None of you know him.”
Helen began to rise to her feet. “Jaime—”
He bolted from the library. A second later, Dru tore after him.
He was fast, but he didn’t know the house or the way the front door stuck. Dru caught up to him as he struggled to yank it open.
“Jaime!” she cried.
He held up a hand. “Stop. I must go, Drusilla. It’s my brother, you understand?”
“I know. But please be careful.” She fumbled at her belt and held something out to him. Her hand was shaking. “Take your dagger. You need it more than I do.”
He stared down at the blade she held; he’d given it to her, left it in her room at the London Institute when he’d gone. A gold hunting dagger carved with roses.
Gently, he took hold of her hand, closing her fingers over the dagger. “It is yours. A gift,” he said.
Her voice sounded small. “Does that mean we’re still friends?”
His fleeting smile was sad. He pulled at the door handle and this time it opened; Jaime slipped through it, past her, and vanished into the shadows.
“Dru? Are you all right?”
She turned around, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Helen—and it was Helen, her sister standing on the bottom step of the main staircase, looking at her with troubled eyes.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in a shaking voice. “I know you think it’s stupid, but he was my first real friend—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid!” Helen crossed the room to Dru in swift strides.
Dru’s throat hurt almost too much for her to speak. “I feel like people keep leaving,” she whispered.
This close up, Helen looked even more thin and pretty and she smelled like orange blossoms. But for the first time, she didn’t seem remote, like a distant star. She seemed distressed and worried and very much present. There was even an ink stain on her sleeve.
“I know how you feel,” Helen went on. “I missed you so much while I was on Wrangel Island I couldn’t breathe. I kept thinking about everything I was missing, and how I’d miss you getting older, all the little things, and when I saw you in the Council Hall I kept thinking . . .”
Dru braced herself.
“. . . how beautiful you’d gotten. You look so much like Mom.” Helen sniffled. “I used to watch her getting ready to go out. She was so glamorous, she had such style . . . all I can ever think to wear is jeans and a shirt.”
She glanced toward Julian. He sat alert on Widowmaker, his dark hair hidden by the hood of Fergus’s cloak. She could see only a sliver of his skin, like the moon overhead. “Music,” he said in a low voice, drawing his horse up beside hers. “Probably a revel coming up.”
He was right. They passed the crossroads, and the thick mist parted immediately. The music grew louder, pipes and fiddles and sweet flutelike instruments Emma didn’t recognize. The field north of the road was dominated by a massive pavilion draped with silk and hung with the broken-crown banner of the Unseelie King.
Wildly dancing figures surrounded the pavilion. Most seemed naked, or nearly so, dressed in diaphanous rags. It wasn’t much of a dance—they appeared to be mostly writhing together, giggling and splashing in and out of a massive pool of water ringed with silvery rocks. White mist rose off the water, obscuring but not covering a number of half-naked bodies.
Emma blushed, mostly because Julian was there, and looked away. The girls—they had to be sisters—on the bay mare behind her giggled, toying with the ribbons at their throats.
“Prince Oban’s revel,” said one. “It could be no other.”
Her sister looked wistful. “Would that we could go, but the Queen would not approve.”
Emma glanced back toward the revel. She had listened to Mark speak of faerie revels before as if they were more than massive wild parties. They were a way of calling down wild magic, he’d said. They had a terrifying undercurrent, a barely leashed power. Looking out at the field, Emma couldn’t help but feel as if some of the laughing faces she saw were actually screaming in agony.
“Up ahead,” said Julian, snapping her out of her reverie. “It’s the Unseelie Court’s tower.”
Emma looked, and for a moment, a dizzying memory assaulted her: the mural on Julian’s bedroom wall showing a castle surrounded by thorned hedges. Ahead of them a dark gray tower rose out of the hills and shadows. Only the top of the tower was visible. Growing up all around it, their sharp spikes visible even from this distance, was a massive wall of thorns.
* * *
“Well, that’s that,” Helen said in a curiously flat voice. She sat down at the head of the library table. Aline frowned and put her hand on Helen’s back. “They’re gone.”
Dru tried to catch Jaime’s eye, but he wasn’t looking at her. He’d glanced curiously at Kit and Ty and was now fastening up the straps of his pack.
“You can’t go,” she said to him a bit desperately. “You must be so tired—”
“I’m all right.” He still didn’t look at her. Dru felt wretched. She hadn’t meant to lie to Jaime. She’d just never mentioned her age, because she’d been afraid he’d think she was a stupid kid. And then Mark had yelled at him about it.
“No, Dru is right.” Helen smiled with some effort. “Let us at least give you dinner.”
Jaime hesitated. He stood twisting the ties of his pack irresolutely as Kit and Ty pushed past him, and Ty said something about going up on the roof. Kit waved and the two of them slipped out of the library. Back to their private world, Dru thought. Ty would never let her in—he’d never let anyone take Livvy’s place.
Not that Dru wanted to do that. She just wanted to be friends with her brother. Like Helen just wants to be friends with you, said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.
“Aline’s a really good cook,” she said instead. Aline rolled her eyes, but Dru ignored her. Jaime was really skinny—skinnier than he had been when she’d seen him in London. He must be hungry. Maybe if she could get him to stay, she could explain—
There was a noise like a soft explosion. Dru gave a small shriek, and an envelope fell from the ceiling and landed on the table. A faint wisp of smoke hung in the air.
“It’s addressed to you, babe,” Helen said, handing the envelope to Aline. “‘Aline Penhallow, Head of the Institute.’”
Frowning, Aline ripped the envelope open. Her face tightened. She read aloud:
Aline Penhallow:
Pursuant to the most recent Council meeting held in Alicante, the Registry of Downworlders is now enforced. Heads of Institutes and Conclaves, it is your responsibility to make sure that the Downworlders in your region are registered and given identification numbers. You will be receiving a stamp to use in registration, in ink that will show up only in witchlight.
Downworlders must be ready to show their marked documents at any time. Records of all registrations must be handed over to the Office of the Inquisitor. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges or recall to Alicante. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. In these troubled times, all must be held accountable. Thank you for your understanding.
Horace Dearborn
NB: As reflects our new policy of accountability, all Institute heads should be advised that the traitors Diego Rosales, Divya Joshi, and Rayan Maduabuchi are awaiting conviction in the Gard for aiding in the escape of a wanted Downworlder. As soon as the Mortal Sword is reforged, they will stand trial.
There was a crash. Jaime had dropped his pack. Drusilla moved to pick it up, but he’d already seized it.
“That bastard Dearborn,” he said through white lips. “My brother is not a traitor. He is painfully honest, good—” He looked around at the stricken faces surrounding him. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “None of you know him.”
Helen began to rise to her feet. “Jaime—”
He bolted from the library. A second later, Dru tore after him.
He was fast, but he didn’t know the house or the way the front door stuck. Dru caught up to him as he struggled to yank it open.
“Jaime!” she cried.
He held up a hand. “Stop. I must go, Drusilla. It’s my brother, you understand?”
“I know. But please be careful.” She fumbled at her belt and held something out to him. Her hand was shaking. “Take your dagger. You need it more than I do.”
He stared down at the blade she held; he’d given it to her, left it in her room at the London Institute when he’d gone. A gold hunting dagger carved with roses.
Gently, he took hold of her hand, closing her fingers over the dagger. “It is yours. A gift,” he said.
Her voice sounded small. “Does that mean we’re still friends?”
His fleeting smile was sad. He pulled at the door handle and this time it opened; Jaime slipped through it, past her, and vanished into the shadows.
“Dru? Are you all right?”
She turned around, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Helen—and it was Helen, her sister standing on the bottom step of the main staircase, looking at her with troubled eyes.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in a shaking voice. “I know you think it’s stupid, but he was my first real friend—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid!” Helen crossed the room to Dru in swift strides.
Dru’s throat hurt almost too much for her to speak. “I feel like people keep leaving,” she whispered.
This close up, Helen looked even more thin and pretty and she smelled like orange blossoms. But for the first time, she didn’t seem remote, like a distant star. She seemed distressed and worried and very much present. There was even an ink stain on her sleeve.
“I know how you feel,” Helen went on. “I missed you so much while I was on Wrangel Island I couldn’t breathe. I kept thinking about everything I was missing, and how I’d miss you getting older, all the little things, and when I saw you in the Council Hall I kept thinking . . .”
Dru braced herself.
“. . . how beautiful you’d gotten. You look so much like Mom.” Helen sniffled. “I used to watch her getting ready to go out. She was so glamorous, she had such style . . . all I can ever think to wear is jeans and a shirt.”
