a Male Faerie of Modest Nobility,
Who May or May Not Be Important to This Tale,
Except That He Happened to Be in the Right Place
at the Right Time
You can often tell a bad day by its smell, and this one stank. Yet Binks crinkled his nose in delight; he’d won a feisty game of clovers that had gotten him through the castle gates, and today he was attending the royal christening of the baby Aurora, an event to which only an elite few were invited, and where only the most delectable of crumbling cakes, juicy bird meats, lemony fishes, and pungent wines would be served.
Binks was mostly here for the wines. Barrels from previous centuries would be excavated from Deluce’s famous cliffside cellars and served in achingly tall goblets. Perhaps a round or two of card games, as well—klaberjass, say, or latterlu—would leave his pockets full of gold and his luck at an all-time high. He could never be sure which fed which—the luck needed to win at gambling, or the gambling needed to acquire more luck.
Binks noticed he was not the only faerie in attendance. Right away he recognized Claudine, the gourmand, with her bright white-blond hair and plump cheeks. She had little power but seemed to have maintained political influence simply by knowing everyone in the kingdom, for she never missed a party, as far as Binks could tell. Claudine’s tithe was, generally, taste; she went around collecting more and more of it—and of course, enjoying it—and the evidence showed in the red of her cheeks and bulge of her ever more prominent behind.
When it was Claudine’s turn to bless the child, he watched as she approached the cradle, offering the quietly mewling baby a sweetness of temper and beauty of face, in exchange for the child’s voice.
King Henri and his wife, Queen Amélie, looked at each other in surprise, and Binks knew he wasn’t the only one who had forgotten this predilection of Claudine’s. Though she mostly collected taste, she was also proud of her singing voice and desired to maintain it. Her voice had been the very thing that used to garner her invitations at the highest level of court. It was rare for a faerie to have more than one tithe, and Binks suspected she was showing off.
He watched as Queen Amélie nodded at King Henri, who stepped forward and announced: “Very well. A princess of sweetness and beauty should have little need of a voice. In fact, more daughters ought to make such an exchange, I’m sure.”
Claudine granted her gift and reclaimed her spot, humming softly to herself, even as the baby girl inside the cradle went eerily silent.
Next was the faerie Almandine, whom Binks couldn’t quite place until she separated herself from the crowd. She was willowy and seemed to flow rather than walk. She was a known sensualist. It was said her entire estate had been transformed into a replica of ancient Roman baths and that she spent most hours of most days bathing in the nude and accepting new lovers, both human and faerie, both male and female, into her private quarters.
“My gift,” said Almandine, her eyes trained smugly on the child, “is a dancer’s elegance and grace. And the price I seek is the girl’s sense of touch.”
Once again the king and queen put their heads together to discuss the offer before finally agreeing to this exchange as well. “Surely it will save her from ever feeling pain,” the queen said, gazing fondly down at the quiet, tightly wrapped bundle that was her daughter.
And so Almandine granted her gift and accepted her payment. Binks wondered whether the rumors of her lust were true, and if so, whether she’d be interested in his company later in the evening. But before his thoughts had a chance to unfold from there—and indeed, before Violette, the third faerie, had a chance to grant a final gift—the heavy double doors blew open with a slam.
Binks got a direct view of Malfleur, queen of the LaMorte Territories, as she stormed into the hall, Vultures flapping in her wake. The scar over her left eyelid glared white against her pale skin, accenting her exquisite, angled beauty rather than marring it.
He was not, it must be said, altogether surprised by her appearance. Everyone knew Malfleur was obsessed with youth, and what could be more appealing than the youth of a princess possessed both of wealth and beauty? Everyone knew that in exchange for the military protection her army offered, she’d tithed away the youth from many a female in her own kingdom, leaving them shriveled and old.
Malfleur kneeled down beside the cradle. “My dear Princess Aurora,” she began in a voice deceptive in its softness.
“No!” the king interrupted her. “We will give up much, but we will not stand for the loss of her youth. You were not invited, Malfleur. Please see yourself out.”
Malfleur looked up at him placidly, then cocked her head. Even from several yards away, Binks could practically feel the clever cogs in her mind spinning and throwing off hot sparks.
“Of course,” she said, standing and bowing. “I cannot ask a tithe without granting something in return.”
The queen too stood. “We do not want your gift, Malfleur.”
For just a moment, Malfleur’s eyes snapped thin like a cat’s. “Well, that makes things easier. Gifts come at a cost, but curses come for free.”
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd. No one had heard of a faerie casting a curse in their lifetime. Long ago, a faerie curse would have been considered very frightening indeed, but now people eyed one another and mumbled skeptically. Surely no one, not even the last living faerie queen, had the power to enact a curse of any real consequence. But the gall to even suggest it was enough to shock everyone, and Binks noticed that Queen Amélie had begun to weep in panic. For whether the curse would come true or not mattered less than the fact that their daughter’s reputation was about to be sullied.
No one would marry a princess with a curse, rumored or real.
But it was too late. Malfleur reached into the cradle and lifted the child. “Aurora will grow up to be just as beautiful, graceful, and good-natured as her parents—and the world—could possibly wish. So beautiful that all who lay eyes on her will adore her, and her sweetness and obedience will bring great joy into her parents’ lives. She will be the treasure of Deluce. That is, until she reaches the prime of her youth. On her sixteenth birthday, she will do harm to herself. No . . . no.”
Malfleur looked up from the child and turned to face the crowd of nobles and faeries watching in horror. She seemed to be thinking quickly as her eyes flashed light and dark. “Though it was many, many years ago, some of you may recall the evil of the Night Faerie, Belcoeur, from whom I saved you all. And yet here you stand now, ungrateful. Oblivious to all that I’ve done for you. Well, this curse is in the name of Belcoeur, who was ever so fond of spinning. When Aurora turns sixteen, she won’t just hurt herself—she’ll prick a finger on a beautiful, rare spindle, and she will die.”
The pronouncement lingered in the air for a few seconds, harsh as the snapped string of a vielle, and then the queen of Deluce let out a sob and clung to her husband’s robes.
Malfleur went on, directing her speech now at everyone in the room. “Aurora’s death will be a reminder to all who choose to ignore my wishes, to all those who have forgotten my greatness, forgotten what I have done for you, and the little I have asked in return.”
With that, she placed the pretty, silent baby back into her cradle and left.
Binks swallowed. He did not like the taint of bad luck in this room. There would be no foreign wines uncasked now, he was sure of it.
It took several moments of silence before Violette, who stood in a corner, stroking her vibrant red hair in a long wave over her shoulder, finally put away the small hand mirror she kept close to her heart and approached the queen, who was now weeping softly into her husband’s shoulder.
“As we all know, it is neither easy nor advisable to reverse a faerie curse,” Violette drawled. “Many dangers can befall those who attempt this challenge. But I am willing to give it a try, for the right price.”
“Please, please help us,” the queen said, dabbing at her eyes.
The king took a step closer to Violette. “Tell us what you need,” he said. “We’ll give you anything—anything you ask.”
Violette licked her lips and looked around the room. “In exchange for amending Malfleur’s curse, I ask for the light in your daughter’s eyes. I ask for her sight.”
Queen Amélie once again grasped the king’s robes, shaking her head. “We’ve already allowed too much to be taken,” she whispered.
“We don’t have any choice,” the king muttered.
The queen picked up the baby and held her to her chest. “I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much. We’ve gone too far.” Then she looked up, wild-eyed, at the crowd, and her jaw opened slightly. Binks felt himself standing straighter.
“Violette,” the queen went on slowly. “We will give you the sight of . . . of the king’s daughter.” Her voice was calculating. “But first, tell us how you will help us.”
Violette smiled narrowly. “On her sixteenth birthday, the princess Aurora will indeed prick her finger on a spindle—but.” She held up a hand before the room could break into more murmuring. “She will not die. Instead, she will enter a sleep so deep, that only . . .” She paused, frowning, evidently at a loss, and trying to invent something convincing. “Only true love may awaken her.”
The queen looked at King Henri with hope written on her face, even as Binks heard Almandine snort and caught Claudine rolling her eyes at the phrase “true love.”
“And now, for my price,” Violette said with a satisfied little purr.
The queen handed the baby to the king. Standing tall, she shouted into the crowd, “Where is Isabelle? Bring forth Isabelle.”
The crowd parted, and a small child Binks had never seen before stumbled out, as though shoved, blinking nervously at all of the adults surrounding her. The girl had a mess of tangled dark curls and was wearing some sort of raglike garment that only poorly resembled a dress. Binks couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose.
“What is this?” Violette asked.
“This,” the king said, looking first at his wife and then at the faerie, “is my other daughter. The queen promised you the sight of the king’s daughter, but . . .” He returned Violette’s narrow smile. “She did not specify which.”