The First Chill of Autumn

 

 

It was late afternoon, and an unusually bright piece of sunshine had filtered through the clouds to play on Dion’s bedspread. Summer in Llassar, as Aerwn said, simply meant that there was a little sunshine in the rain. That the sunshine had stretched out just a little longer each day over the last ten years or so was seen as a happy coincidence with the high population of Seelie Fae who had made Llassar their home.

Aerwn, like the sunshine, was at present stretched out on top of Dion’s bed. Unlike the sunshine, she was a lively, unsettling presence. Her tall, lissom figure was thrown out at ease and perfectly relaxed but her speech fluttered here and there with baffling logic. So like and yet unlike Dion, her hair was just as black and curling, but where Dion’s hair was kept long Aerwn had many years since rebelled by cutting hers short in a mop of curls. The biggest difference, thought Dion, as she changed out of morning dress between two court sessions, was the fiery, fierce, energetic life to Aerwn. Beside her, Dion was cold, stupid, and silent; too afraid of showing more feeling than she ought, to show as much as she should, and too careful of her expressions to touch anyone with real warmth of feeling. Aerwn may have her faults in too hasty speech and impatience, but she was more alive than Dion.

Dion twisted her mouth in dissatisfaction as she smoothed her skirts straight, and swept over to her dressing mirror.

“You know, you’re the only girl I know who doesn’t dress in front of her mirror,” said Aerwn. She was tossing grapes in the air and catching them with her mouth.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with your tutor?” countered Dion, a little flustered by the sudden attack. The twins had had their seventeenth birthday a few days ago, and although it made scant difference to Aerwn, it had meant a great deal more work for Dion. Her Court sessions were for the purpose of honorifically declaring her as the heir of Llassar, and tomorrow the coronal tour around Llassar would begin. She had been the Princess Heir since birth, but today her adult status and Heirship were to be ceremonially declared. There was a great deal to do and prepare for. “I’m sure you’re meant to be with your tutor.”

“We had a difference of opinion.”

“Oh, Aerwn, not again!”

“I don’t particularly like being lied to. He’s a silver-tongued little twerp who thinks he’s a lot more important than he is.”

Dion huffed a little sigh and tried not to let it ruin the line of her shoulders. She needed her shoulders loose for face #51—regal attentiveness—which would be her default expression for the next few days. “Mother is going to be annoyed that you’ve left early again.”

“I think it’s his sense of entitlement that irks me the most, though,” pursued Aerwn. “He positively reeks of it! I can see him looking down his beautifully narrow nose at me. Now, I’m no snob, Di, but if anyone should be looking down on anyone, it’s me!”

Dion noticed the furrowed brow of her reflection and hastily smoothed it. “Aerwn, you’re always saying people are lying to you. Mother is talking about having you seen to by Doctor Whishte. She’s worried.”

“Oh, they’ve already tried that,” said Aerwn, her face suddenly as white as her shirt-sleeves. “It didn’t take. And I’m always saying people are lying to me because they are. I should have been more careful at first. Now they lie to me just for fun, about stupid little things.”

Dion took in another silent sigh. “Why do you always think people are lying to you?”

“If it comes to that, why do you always think everyone is telling you the truth?” said Aerwn. “You’re so horribly honest, Di! I know it’s hard to believe, but people lie. Humans lie. The Fae lie. Even Mother and Father lie.”

“They don’t– why– who do you think they’re lying to?”

Aerwn’s mouth, so similar to Dion’s, quirked downwards. “Themselves, mostly. But to us, too.”

“I don’t have time to talk about this now,” said Dion.

“Of course you don’t,” said her sister. She flicked her feet over the end of the bed and stood in one quick, angry motion. “And you’re off around the country tomorrow, so there won’t be any time to talk about it later, either. I suppose I’d better leave you to it. I wouldn’t want to make you late.”

“Aerwn,” said Dion hopelessly.

From the door, her sister said: “While you’re bouncing about the countryside in a fat Crown coach, try to remember what it was like before the Fae. Also, I love you.”

 

Two weeks later, Dion was heartily cursing her fat Crown coach. It was big and warm, and far too wide for the narrow Llassarian country roads that it had to travel. The front axle, taking exception to one too many ditches in conjunction with one too many lumps in the road, had splintered and broken as they rounded the latest corner. The axles would once have been iron and far less likely to break, but now that the Fae were so prevalent in Llassar metallurgy was generally frowned upon and only barely legal. The Fae didn’t care for iron. They didn’t care much for any type of metal, as a matter of fact.

Dion, tossed forward into the lap of her personal maid, heard the shattering of one of the inner glass lanterns as the coach ground to a halt, and tried to pull herself back into her seat with as much dignity as she could muster. Oddly enough, none of the other four people in the coach attempted to help her. It wasn’t until Dion was once again perched perilously upon her tilting seat that she realised why. All of them were asleep or unconscious, their heads drooping against their chests and their limbs loose and lax.

Her guards were at the coach doors on either side in a moment. “Your highness, are you injured?”

“D-don’t open the doors!” Dion cried, her tongue tripping over the words in her haste; but she was too late. The doors opened together; and together, her two outer guards slumped forward until they were half in and half out of the coach.

Dion tumbled out of the coach over the prone bodies of her guards, quick and breathless, and ran for the first cover she could find with her skirts bunched around her knees. That first cover was a shallow ditch covered by the fine, drooping foliage of a feather-willow. She rolled into it, her heart beating hard in her ears, and waited for the ambush to descend upon her coach.

It never came. Crouched in a trembling heap with roots digging into her knees and palms, Dion quietly threw up on the grass. Then, when she was feeling well enough to force back her anxiety, she began to gather herself into some semblance of capable thinking. Something in the coach had set her retinue to sleep: the broken lantern, she guessed. It wasn’t magical in origin, or both she and the Fae would have noticed. It had seemed logical that an attack would occur once they were all asleep. The question was, thought Dion, mechanically rubbing her palms up and down her forearms to try and rid herself of the trembling, why hadn’t it happened? And why hadn’t she fallen asleep as well? She set a quick trace of magic rippling over her body, but found nothing amiss that she could recognise.

Dion left her shelter and approached the coach again cautiously, trailing grass and dirt. Her travel wrap was wafting on the cool breeze, one corner of it caught in the hinge of the door. It must have wedged there when she leapt from the coach. It was threaded through with a rather carefully designed spell of her own making: when wrapped around her face during travel, it filtered out dust, unpleasant odours, and most chemicals that could be used to overcome an unwary human. Fae, who were largely unaffected by chemicals that rendered humans unconscious, had hitherto refused her offers of spelled equipment. After this trip, Dion was rather certain that she wouldn’t have to insist.

She reached out to catch the end of her wrap. Had it been up when the accident happened? She thought it had been. Now that she wasn’t feeling too ill to concentrate, she detected a certain soreness to her neck. She must have half-strangled herself when she left the coach.

Dion examined the thin weave a little more closely, and found that the filtering spell had been completely burned out. Not only that, the weave itself had bubbled in tiny, melted patches of fabric. Whatever had set her retinue to sleep, it was certainly airborne: it had completely burned out the spell.

More carefully now, Dion went on to examine her retinue. Medicinal magic wasn’t a branch of magic that she had much studied: it required a knowledge of the human body, inside and out, that she simply hadn’t had time to gain. More worryingly, her magic was coming up against something distinctly metallic in each member of her retinue’s chests. Still, they didn’t seem to be in danger of dying, merely sleeping for rather a long time. If she were to go for help, it was unlikely that they would worsen in the mean-time.

Dion took some time to shift the coach from the road to the cover of the willows. It took more than a little magical effort, but a royal coach would likely attract some attention, and not all of it pleasant. Someone, and for some reason, had already attacked. Until she could return with help, it seemed sensible to keep it out of sight. The horses, she took further from the road, following the line of willows until she found water. She left them with a slight suggestion of magic that would disincline them to wander from the stream, and went to the coach.

Her retinue and the horses taken care of, the first order of the day was to make herself look less princessly. Dion shut the Heir’s Circlet of State in the carriage’s lockbox, hoping the magics that protected it would be enough; but there was still the matter of her ridiculously long black curls and rather ostentatious overdress with its royal insignia. Her height she could do nothing about, but the rest could be hidden. Dion had a wild, almost exited urge to cut off her hair, but she thought better of it very quickly. Mother and Father would be appalled; besides, it was the easiest thing in the world to plait it in one great rope down her back. She could cover the whole with her plainest scarf by passing it over her head and wrapping it around the plait at the back. She’d seen some of the girls in Bithywis—the last town they had visited—doing the same. Her overdress would have to come off, of course: she had a neat, warm jerkin and underskirt beneath, and even if her full sleeves where white muslin, it was unlikely they’d remain white for long in the dusty road. By the time she was done, Dion thought rather hopefully that she might pass muster as one of the town girls. She would have to be careful not to speak too much. Bithywis was close enough to Harlech to have much the same speech patterns, but there was still something of the countrified air to the local speech that she would have trouble emulating.

I’ll just have to mumble, she thought, with a tiny smile. Tutor Iceflame had spent many harsh hours with Dion, trying to break her of that very habit. Perhaps it would come in handy here in Bithywis. At any rate, it would be much wiser to pretend as far as possible until she could find someone official enough to present with her Royal Seal. Help would come swiftly enough after that.

She followed the road back for some way—further, in fact, than she thought they had come—and it was getting on for evening by the time she saw the wall of Bithywis again. It was a welcome sight: she felt imperilled and exposed on the road where anyone could see her. Aerwn wouldn’t have been afraid, Dion thought uncomfortably; but she couldn’t help the skittering feeling that would run up and down her neck every time she heard horse-hooves or footsteps turn onto the King’s highway behind her. None of the other travellers seemed similarly troubled; they walked quickly and overtook Dion easily, their eyes on the road before them. At first she smiled shyly at them, but when none of them acknowledged her by so much as the flicker of an eyelash she began to feel that she was making herself noticeable, and turned her own eyes to the road. She did notice, however, that no matter how dissimilar the travellers were, each of them had a length of decorative chain about their necks, from which hung one of two types of disc: silver or copper. The only travellers who didn’t have such discs, in fact, were Fae travellers. Was it some sort of fad? wondered Dion. If so, it was not a particularly fetching one.

Dion approached the main gates of Bithywis at much the same time as a wagon and a few other travellers. Her fellow travellers showed their discs and were allowed through, which prompted a slight panic of knowledge within Dion: they were identification chips, no doubt. Whatever the reason Bithywis’ officials had thought it necessary to demand identification upon entry, it didn’t matter: Dion had none.

She had stopped just outside the gate, lurking behind the wagon and conveniently out of sight of the two guards to think it through—should she push on, or try to brazen it out?—when a musical but masculine voice said: “You’re perturbed, sweeting.”

Fae, Dion knew, even before turning. He was a froth of sable and diamond Faery magic behind her. What she didn’t expect was for him to be wearing a guard’s uniform akin to that of the Fae ahead. She pushed down her dismay: there was nothing for it, she would have to try and bluff it out.

“I uh, forgot my...” she gestured vaguely at her neck, “...you know.”

The Fae gave her a curious smile that made her think he didn’t believe her in the slightest, but he said: “With me, then, sweeting: I’ll get you through safe.”

“Thank you,” said Dion, with real gratitude. She was somewhat taken aback when the Fae swept her beneath his cloak and wrapped his arm around her waist, thus drawing her forward and through the gate. Dion was left with her head out of the cloak, very close to the Fae’s own, and when the guards’ eyes lingered on her, smirking, she flushed hot and red. One of the wagoneers gave her a sympathetic look, but firmly grasped the arm of his young companion, who had started to rise from the seat beside him. Fortunately, they were soon beyond the leers of the guards, but just as Dion was beginning to expect the Fae to release her into the wide, main street of Bithywis, he irresistibly bore her down one small, winding road– and then another that twisted even more worrisomely.

“Thank you!” she said, with something of a gasp. “But this is far enough. I can manage from here.”

“We can’t have you out on the main streets with no marker,” said the Fae chidingly. “This way, sweeting!”

Dion, who had begun to resist in good earnest, was borne around the next corner in hands that seemed to have assumed the consistency of steel. She was thrown against a brick wall with a teeth-shaking jar, and the Fae stood back to observe her with amused eyes. They were in a suffocatingly pokey dead end, and the only way out was filled entirely by the Fae.

“Now, sweeting,” he said. “I’ve been nice to you. It’s your turn to be nice to me.”

“L-let me pass,” said Dion, refusing to clutch at her aching shoulder, which had met the wall first. “You’re p-presuming on your uniform, sir.”

“So proud!” said the Fae, in wondering tones. “It’s no good throwing back your shoulders, sweeting; I can see your pretty lips trembling. I’m much nicer than the Watch House, you know. They’re rough and really quite rude there.”

Her voice scratchy and choked, Dion said: “You’ll r-regret it if you don’t let me go.” There was a buzzing in her ears that threatened to swallow her, and a crease in her chin was trying to make her cry. But behind it all there was the hot, full sensation of magic building, hidden and potent.

The Fae didn’t seem to see it: perhaps he was used to Fae magic, or perhaps she was merely doing a very good job of hiding it. He said: “We’ll start with a kiss first, I think. Don’t kick me, sweeting, or I assure you that it will be much more...unpleasant...for you.”

He moved forward as he spoke, with a swift, snake-like movement of his arm for her waist; and Dion, snake-like herself, struck. The Fae was thrown violently back into the next street as a bolt of raw magic punched into his chest, his purple eyes blank and wide. She saw recognition and deadly determination in those eyes as he tried to rise again, and called the stones to hold him. He sank into the street immediately, flailing in panic, and although Dion knew that a Fae wouldn’t escape the clutches of stone very easily, she ran for her life, her breath ragged in her throat.

She managed to halt her mad, panting progression just before she burst into the main street again. Wriggling into a small, walled garden where the gap between gate and brick wall was just a little too big to prevent visitors, she tucked herself behind a tree and tried to think. There was something very wrong in Bithywis. Tokens of citizenship hadn’t been seen in centuries, and Dion was very well aware that no laws had been passed to that effect, either. There had been a bill, quite a long time ago, requiring aliens and non-citizens to carry a mark of their status, but this was something quite different. All the humans she had seen were clearly Llassarian stock: they were tall, either pale or ruddy with their white skin, and hair inclined to curling. There was no reason for any of them to be displaying a non-resident marker.

Dion stayed where she was, cold and unsure, until the light of the evening began to fade. She would have liked to think that it was for purely strategical reasons—she would be harder to see after dark—but she was quite well aware that it was simply because she was afraid. When she did finally slither back under the garden gate, it was with a carefully constructed glamour in place, despite the cover of darkness. That glamour, as uncomfortable as it made her feel, was the glamour of a Fae. She hadn’t seen any Fae wearing the markers, and while she wasn’t yet willing to consider why that was, it seemed safer to glamour as if she was from Faery. People were less willing to accost Fae. Even lesser Fae had a formidable amount of magic and were dangerous targets, no matter how foolhardy the assailant. As Dion walked the main street of Bithywis, her eyes darting from side to side in fear that the Fae guard would still appear, it seemed that she was not the only one who considered the night streets safer for Fae. In her carefully casual stroll along the cobbled road, Dion saw many Fae, bright and dark, glittering and dangerous, laughing and enjoying the night. Of humans, she had not a single sight. Were the streets of Bithywis so dangerous that none but Fae dared to walk them? And if so, why had she not seen official paperwork– requests for succour and help from the Crown? Dion knew her mother and father would have sent special troops to assist if they were needed.

The town hall was closed when Dion approached it; and, made wary by her encounter with the Fae guard, she couldn’t bring herself to approach the Watch House for help, Royal Seal or no. That being the case, thought Dion a little desperately, the best thing to do was to find somewhere safe for the night, and get off the street. It was no doubt her fear speaking, but she seemed to hear footsteps behind her that slowed when she slowed, and stopped when she stopped. When Dion looked over her shoulder she couldn’t see anyone following her, but the feeling of being watched didn’t abate. She retraced her steps to the lower main street, where she’d first passed by alehouses and inns, and chose the smallest, most modestly lit inn. Its windows were low to the cobbled streets and Dion descended four stairs to gain entrance, which pleased her insofar as she was capable of pleasure at the time. Casual passers-by were unlikely to take any notice of her sitting at one of the taphouse tables when her head was somewhere in the region of their ankles. Dion didn’t particularly feel like eating, but she knew from past experience that as little as she might feel like eating in unpleasant circumstances, it was always advisable to eat anyway. She had to duck her head to enter but once inside the ceiling was high enough not to feel as though it was crushing her.

Dion knew too much about being unnoticed to try and skulk in the shadows. Instead, she kept her light Fae glamour and sat at one of the window booths, wearing face #30– polite, distant unconcern. She ordered a small meal and when it arrived she ate it methodically, despite the leaden way it sat in her stomach. Her neck ached with stifling the urge to look around every few moments, and after her meal arrived, she used the window as a glass to see what was happening around her. Thanks to her Fae glamour, no one had given her more than a passing glance. Dion, automatically eating food that had no savour or taste, was free to be bewildered by her thoughts and impressions, and soon forgot to look in the glass at all.

What had happened in Bithywis? It was a completely different proposition from the town she had driven through and stopped in briefly to be presented with a ceremonial birthday present. Where were the beautifully decorated shop-fronts; the air of festivity; the bunting in royal colours? Where had the humans gone? So far Dion had seen only Fae. In fact, there was an air of alienness to the whole town, a creeping sort of feeling that crawled up her neck and scratched at her scalp. It wasn’t just the Fae guard who had accosted her, it was in the very bricks and awnings and even in the sparkling cleanliness of the alehouse around her. Everything sparkled a bit too bright; everything was a bit too reflective. There was a cold, distant kind of handsomeness even to the fire, which didn’t manage to warm her as it should have.

A door opened and closed, bringing with it a swift draught of cool night air. Dion shivered in her window-booth, and felt something warm and sinewy slide around her shoulders. A shock of numbing confusion seized her, but when she opened her mouth in a shriek of protest it was immediately and forcibly silenced by the pressure of lips against her own. Dion found herself thrust against the window and unable to move; her arms pinned to her sides by two iron-like ones in green, her ankles pinched painfully against the corner by a leather boot, and her head trapped immovably between the booth corner and person who was kissing her. There was nothing she could do, in fact, except be kissed.

In the midst of her panic, Dion’s first thought was, What would Aerwn do? Unfortunately, the single answer that question inspired was that Aerwn would kiss the stranger back, so Dion went with the second, which was to bite down as hard as she could bring herself to do on the stranger’s lower lip. She tasted blood, terrified and elated at once, and the stranger released a gasp of slightly ale-scented breath. Then he purred a lascivious “Ow!” in Dion’s frightened and astonished ear, and added: “Do that again and I’ll tell everyone in the house about that clever glamour you’re wearing. Don’t scream.”

“Get off!” panted Dion, her cheeks hot and red. There was a buzzing of magic in her fingers but she didn’t dare let it loose while she was so surrounded by other patrons. “I won’t scream, get off, get off!”

He pulled back without quite moving far enough away, and Dion found that she was being laughed at by a pair of very bright blue eyes in an almost stunningly handsome face. Her face went even redder, and she said chokingly: “Go away!”

“Oh, cherry, but then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy your beautiful colour!” he said.

Dion self-consciously wiped blood from her mouth, aware that the stranger was still watching her with laughing eyes and a curling smile. He didn’t seem to feel the need to wipe the blood from his lips, and Dion, averting her eyes, said again: “Please go away.”

“Well, now,” he said, “if you hadn’t started to scream when I sat down beside you, I wouldn’t have had to kiss you.”

“I didn’t want you to sit next to me!” gasped Dion, needled into looking up again.

“Don’t be like that, cherry,” he said. “I was curious to know why a human girl is wearing a Fae glamour, and it didn’t seem likely that you’d want attention drawn to it. If you hadn’t squeaked when I put my arm around you, I wouldn’t have had to silence you. Fae don’t notice an interlude, but they do dislike shrieking.”

“We’re not having an interlude!” said Dion, flushing even deeper red than before. She hadn’t been imagining that someone was following her.

“Are we not?” he asked, licking the blood from his lips salaciously.

“Don’t do that!”

He laughed softly and infectiously. “You’re just too much fun to tease, cherry. What are you doing out and about without your owner? I’ll not inform on you, mind.”

Dion gaped at him, even more bereft of words than his kiss had made her. At last, she said in a hiss: “No one owns me! What has happened in Bithywis?”

The stranger stared down at her, frowning; then put his arm around her again and ducked his head.

“No!” said Dion, a furious heat of magic rising in the hand that shoved against his chest.

He hissed and pulled away, but said: “All right, cherry, I’m not going to kiss you again. Tilt your chin up and smile at me, then lean your head into my shoulder. And keep your voice down.”

Dion, flexing her fingers and safe in the knowledge that she was prepared to attack if need be, did as she was told. She found herself shielded from the rest of the room by the stranger’s shoulders.

“We’re going to talk very, very quietly,” he said. “You’re as green as a new bean, think on! Where are you from? What’s your name?”

“I’m D–” Dion caught herself up just in time, and finished lamely: “Di. I’m Di. I’m from beyond Llassar.”

“Well, Di from beyond Llassar, I’m Padraig. It’s a happy thing you fell in with me, or you might have fallen in with trouble.”

Dion was rather certain that she’d fallen into enough trouble with Padraig but didn’t quite like to say so. Instead, she said: “What’s going on here? Has the town been overtaken?”

She already knew it hadn’t been overtaken: the Fae guard had been easy and practised in his assault, as if he had done it many times before, and his uniform was that of Llassarian guards. Padraig himself spoke as if this...this madness was nothing new.

“Ah, it’s a history lesson you’re wanting, is it?” said Padraig, his eyes glittering in the reflected light from the windows. “Well, then; it started with the opening of the rifts. Would you be knowing of those?”

“Everyone knows about the rifts,” she said, brushing the back of one hand against her cheeks. They still felt hot and stiff.

“I didn’t like to assume,” he said, with a slight gleam of white teeth. “Well now, it wasn’t long before Fae found the rifts and began to come through. They claimed they were running from a great evil, a group of Elder Fae—powerful, ancient beings—known as the Guardians. Fae they are, just barely, but they have none of the same weaknesses as lesser Fae. Neither silver nor cold iron affect them a jot. Such a formidable people could be conveniently fashioned into an excuse to invade the world of men. There have always been Fae who slipped through and lived in the human world, but this was a different matter.”

“They sent ambassadors,” said Dion, dismissing the implication that heavily laced Padraig’s flow of words.

“Aye, ambassadors were sent and accepted; treaties were signed and sealed. There was a steady flow of outcast Fae through and around us, and we were sent our portion as the Crown decreed. Houses were built, a portion of the town’s water and stock-land was set aside, and the Fae were among us.”

“Didn’t the local population welcome them?” It wouldn’t surprise Dion: there were some towns who had protested and written great, official letters to the Crown declaring their unwillingness to take in the outcasts. Fae had been given the cold shoulder and made to feel unwelcome– a great shame on the people of Llassar, whom she had expected to behave with greater generosity and freeness of acceptance.

“Oh, aye,” said Padraig, the ghost of a smile hovering about his mouth. “We welcomed them. Had a parade, mark you! We tossed flowers and sang, and saw them look down our noses at the display.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to be arrogant,” Dion said uncomfortably. This was the sort of talk that Aerwn used to come out with. Already off-balance with Padraig, she began to feel as though she’d got herself into dreadful company. “They’re used to such beautiful, magical things in Faery: our art and accomplishments must seem so– so earthy to them.”

Dion was almost certain that Padraig’s lip curled for the briefest moment. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he was one of the dissenters her parents had always cautioned her of: someone not to be spoken to, someone who could not be argued with, someone who would always pull a well-meaning advisor down to his level. The fingers of her other hand began to warm with the cautious growth of magic.

“Aye, perhaps so,” he said dryly. “And yet, one day we went about our lives in peace, a Llassarian town of mingled humans and Fae outcasts. The next we woke to find that we were slaves, our rights taken away and our king and queen either powerless or unwilling to stop it. We stood against it, but the law was changing and we found ourselves on the wrong side of it.”

Dion had the sensation of being stuck in a dream. Of all the high-flown rhetoric to use! Slaves and outlaws?

“And worse, in Shinpo and Montalier,” he added significantly. “Or have you forgotten the atrocities committed in our neighbouring countries, Di from beyond?”

“Those are the violent Fae,” she protested. “The Unseelie, who love to make trouble, and the desperate! They don’t speak for the rest of the Fae, and the rest of the Fae don’t accord with them.”

“Violence or not, it makes no odds,” said Padraig. There was an impatience and an air of exasperation to his voice that stung Dion: she wasn’t being unreasonable, neither was she lacking in intelligence. “You’ll have it that the horrors these Fae perpetrate is the end in itself: something the deranged enjoy, and the desperate engage in unwillingly. It’s not. It’s a means to an end. What almost all Fae have in common is the desire to rule both the human and the Fae worlds according to their own will.”

Dion tried to protest at the absurdity of it, but he ignored her. “Some of them accomplish that through law, and accord, and friendly means that mask their intent until it’s too late. Some of them think it beneath them to treat with the humans and are assured of their right to take what they will, when they will. Thus we have towns and countries taken over by force.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Dion said, when she got her breath back. “How can you think such a thing?”

“Think it! I live it! Who are you, Di from beyond, to tell me that my experiences are ridiculous?”

Dion, flustered, said: “I didn’t! I said–”

“We live under the thumb of the Fae in Bithywis,” said Padraig. “As do they in the Shinpoan villages that were taken by force. There humans may not take to the streets without their owners or their token of self-ownership. They’re forced to keep to curfew, and to line up in the streets for their daily ration of food. We do the same here. Should we be grateful that our overthrow came by way of deceitful smiles instead of honest violence?”

“I don’t believe you,” Dion said quietly, her face as white as her muslin sleeves. “Humans forced to wear a sign of their humanity? To apply for a ration of food? The king and queen would never allow it!”

Padraig said softly: “That’s the way of it, is it? Follow me, then, cherry. You’ll see soon enough.”

“I’m n-not going anywhere with you!”

“Must I threaten you again, cherry?”

Dion withdrew into herself as far as she was able, hunching away from Padraig’s surrounding warmth. “T-tell them if you must,” she said, and made a stiff effort to raise her chin. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Padraig looked down at her sharply, and said with unexpected gentleness: “Who hurt you, cherry? Tell me who he is and I’ll make him pay for it.”

“I already made him pay,” said Dion, in a tight, proud voice. “And you did worse, anyway.”

“I did? What, that chaste kiss?”

“It wasn’t at all chaste!” Dion said. Her voice was shaking again, she knew. “And you had n-no business forcing it on me, even if it was!”

Was that a slight touch of red high in his cheeks? There was certainly a deep line between his brows. “I’ve badly bungled the thing,” he said. “I was expecting you to be a wee bit different, think on. Sure, I thought you’d hit me! I’d not have kissed you like that if I’d known– ach, I shouldn’t have done it at all. Forgive me, cherry. It was badly done.”

“Oh,” said Dion. She looked at him properly this time, and couldn’t see a trace of guile to his eyes. She sat a little straighter and said at last: “All right. I forgive you.”

A smile lit Padraig’s face at once. “You’re such a lovely, soft thing,” he said. “Can I kiss you again?”

“N-no!” said Dion, thrown off balance once more.

“Now I really am curious,” he said, his eyes still bright and interested. “What did you do to your attacker, cherry?”

“Threw him across the street,” said Dion. “Imprisoned him in the cobbles.”

She flushed as Padraig hissed appreciatively, his mouth pursed. “Aye, I knew I’d like you, Di from beyond! Come with me. I swear I’ll not touch you again.”

He rose as he spoke and Dion rose with him without really thinking about it. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we can have a sociable drink or two and a bit of a chat,” said Padraig. “It’s a bonny night and ’twould be a shame to spend it all in the one place.”

He pulled Dion’s hand through his arm as though they were a couple on an outing, and Dion, who hadn’t quite dismissed the magic that was gathered at her fingertips, still let it simmer below the skin. As they left the inn together, he looked her up and down very frankly, making her blush again, and said: “You’re a pleasant companion, to be sure!”

“Your accent isn’t Llassarian,” said Dion, by way of trying to keep her composure. She wished the night wasn’t quite so well-lit with moonlight: it was harder to assume an Expression when she could feel the warmth of blood in her cheeks and know that it was visible.

“Well-spotted,” said Padraig, not at all thrown. “You could say that I’m from beyond as well: my parents weren’t Llassarian and I seem to have taken their trick of speaking. Well now, Di from beyond, in your walkings about earlier, did you happen to take note of the signs?”

“It was you following me!”

Padraig grinned, his eyes dancing. “Would I be doing such a thing? Did I not see a beautiful young thing who seemed to have lost her way, and out of the goodness of my heart attend her until she reached safe haven?”

“You– why did you follow me?”

“I told you, cherry. I was curious to know why such a beautiful young thing was out alone after dark– and wearing a Fae glamour, no less! I’m still anxious to know about that glamour, mind: I’ve not seen its equal. It could almost have fooled even me.”

Dion frowned. How had Padraig seen through her glamour? There was barely a touch of magic to him: a tiny spark that was so small she couldn’t even tell what kind of magic it was. He could be funnelling the miniscule flare into anything from charm to insight, but nothing more than that, and barely that. She was still wondering about it when she realised that they had paused before a notice in one of the shop windows. It was lettered in Fae cursive, beautiful and sprawling, and she had seen much the same thing in each window without taking notice of the fact.

She read it without meaning to—almost without comprehending it—and her eyes flitted on to the next few posted notices in shocked silence.

“There now,” said Padraig. “Do you read the Fae script, cherry?”

“Yes,” said Dion, through a closed throat. She was very familiar with the curved script and its once-foreign words. This particular sign read: No human custom. Fae only. Scratchily, she said: “Perhaps they were having difficulties with human customers.”

Padraig’s smile was lazy. “Aye, and I suppose every second business has the same problem? Walk with me, cherry. Look to the storefronts.”

“I see them,” she said. Worse, she had seen the other flyers in the shop window– the ones that offered sale of services: two young humans 1xm, 1xf, useful for manual labour and some skilled applications or simply middle-aged human available: high millinery skills, fully broken in. She could feel the shivering start the way it always did: the sickness, the numbness, the nightmare heaviness of it all.

“You’re trembling, cherry,” said Padraig, frowning. “Are you cold?”

“No,” said Dion, through numb lips. “Don’t worry about it. It won’t stop anyway. Where are we going?”

She was aware of his eyes on her for quite some time before he said: “Not far now. No, no, this way: we want something Seelie and grand.”

So saying, he steered Dion away from a modest, quiet establishment that she had instinctively moved toward, and swept her onward until they were on the cusp of a great, golden facade. Dion, her eyes dazzled, took in the light of a conjured sun that slowly rose and sank across the front wall, casting an almost daylight aspect on the street below. Like all the most beautiful of Seelie things, the warmth of it didn’t quite reach her skin, let alone the cold, inner part of her that fed her shivering fits. Padraig slid his arm around her waist, his short cloak draping over her shoulders as well, and when Dion twitched herself away he murmured: “Best they not see you trembling, cherry.”

Still, he didn’t try to put his arm around her again until she came closer, and she let the last of her built-up magic sink back down.

They approached the tap counter, much to Dion’s foreboding. There were many other patrons also lounging at their ease by the counter; some Unseelie, but more Seelie. Padraig threw himself into a seat, nodding casually at the golden Fae closest to them, and pulled Dion in close against him, her shivering covered by his cloak and growing a little less in his warmth. He ordered drinks for both of them and said, “Well met,” to the Seelie Fae, who returned the greeting languorously.

“Beautiful night, to be sure.”

“Inasmuch as night can be said to be beautiful,” shrugged the Seelie, with a faint lift of his lip. “The human world has many attractions, but this passion for dreary darkness is not one of them.”

“Darkness has its charms,” said Padraig.

The Seelie Fae laughed. “For those with the taste for it. I am for the sunshine.”

“Aye, I thought the days were a smidgen longer than they had been,” said Padraig incomprehensibly. “What news of Illisr? I had heard they were tending to the dark, but it’s been some time since I heard tell of them.”

“Is it so?” the golden Fae’s brows rose. “You’ve missed a great deal. Illisr is over-run this last year—plunged into darkness—and Shinpo is half-spent as well, cut at the ankles and floundering. It’s said the royal family was taken in the night a day ago: Shinpoans are fighting a separated battle across the country, unable to rally enough to make a convincing effort.”

“That’s news indeed,” said Padraig, lifting his tankard. He seemed to be drinking, but Dion, used to giving herself a few moments to prepare her reactions, was aware that he was surprised and dismayed at the news. What did Padraig care for Illisr and Shinpo? The news had affected him in a personal way, and not merely as an unfortunate piece of news.

“Such a pity!” sighed the golden Fae. “Illisr has such a wealth of art and commodity: to see it attacked in such a way is dreadful. And Shinpo! Such spices! Such delicate fabrics!”

Dion wasn’t unaware of the unrest the surrounded the Fae incursion of the human world. Like her parents she had considered the peril the Fae were fleeing as passport enough to the help and succour of Llassar; but not every country surrounding them had thought so. Montalier and Shinpo had both declined to take Fae into their cities, and Illisr had taken them only conditionally. Some of the more powerful Fae, taking exception to the exclusion, had begun to wage violent and insidious warfare against them, fighting for their less powerful Seelie and Unseelie brethren. Her father had refused to allow her to visit those countries, his righteous anger aroused against their selfish outlook and unwillingness to help, but Dion received enough information of the three countries during her tutored schooling to feel that she had a good idea of what was happening around the world. It was unfortunate, of course, that Montalier, Shinpo, and Illisr were experiencing such violence, but their policy had brought a vast measure of it upon themselves. The Fae were desperate, and had acted desperately.

This Seelie Fae was refreshingly moderate. Dion felt an almost crushing relief: she had seen and heard such things today that had made her despair of Bithywis and almost, but not quite, of Llassar itself.

“Barbarians!” said the Seelie Fae, his golden voice disgusted. “Using brute force and magic to overcome prejudice! There are more civilised ways of bringing the world into alignment. Witness what has been done so successfully in Llassar: a Fae-led country where Fae and humans live side by side, with everyone in their place and the proper distinguishing of rank.”

Dion felt a sinking in her heart; a quivering deep in her soul.

“Aye,” said Padraig, his voice soft and dangerous. “And what distinguishing would that be, my pretty Fae?”

The Seelie Fae looked faintly surprised. “The Fae are superior to humans in every conceivable way—your own blood and lineage must tell you so!—in every aspect of mind, magic, judgement and physical prowess. Their laws are inferior, their abilities more so: it was a happiness to them when we took the reins of government in Llassar.”

“You’d best tell them that,” said Padraig, with a sharp kind of bitterness. “To be sure, they seem to have forgotten!”

“I see it’s no use talking to you,” the Seelie Fae said, his thin nostrils flared. “Your kind ought to be outlawed as well.”

“No doubt your kind will see to that quickly enough,” Padraig said, his teeth showing in a humourless grin. “We’d best go, cherry. I think we’ve outworn our welcome.”

Dion stumbled through the door with him; and she thought, amidst all the bravado and affected unconcern, that Padraig wasn’t quite steady himself. When they were away from the cold light of the Seelie establishment’s conjured sun, he said softly: “I’m sorry, cherry. But you had to know, think on.”

“Yes,” said Dion. Some time between sitting down and leaving the inn she had begun to shake worse than ever, and she could feel the familiar, deathly weariness creeping up her limbs. “I need– I have to rest now.”

“This way, then,” said Padraig. He must have seen her chin rise and her shoulders straighten, because he didn’t try to put his arm around her again. “I’ve somewhere safe to stash you.”

Dion knew the rest of the night in a blurred nightmare. Padraig took her somewhere that smelled of fire and iron and put her to sleep on a small, truckle-bed in one corner of a darkened room. He would have stayed and talked—she even thought he was about to sit beside her and pull her close—but Dion, shivering beneath the blanket and as sick with anxiety and wrong as she had ever been, said: “I’ll be better tomorrow.”

He might have said something else to her, but Dion had lost consciousness by then. She slept deeply and entirely uselessly, and awoke the next day with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. Padraig was already awake, adding the scents of tea and toast to those of fire and iron. He glanced over at her when she sat up, and she was thankful to note that though he obviously saw the heaviness of her eyes, the shaking had stopped.

“You’d best eat,” he said. “I’ve a feeling you need the energy. You’re a mite delicate, I think.”

“No, just stupid,” said Dion, very much aware of the wedge of desolation sitting squarely in her stomach. “I’ve been like it since I was a child. I don’t...react...well. It’s not very comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Padraig, flipping a piece of bread on the toasting fork. “Is there nothing that can give you relief?”

“Yes,” said Dion, without thinking about it; and then: “No,” because she wasn’t inclined to mention Barric. “Sometimes I can pretend it isn’t there for long enough to hide it, but it makes me so tired.”

“That must be inconvenient for a princess,” said Padraig.

Dion, with a buzz of shock, looked up and met his eyes. She mechanically took the plate and teacup that he proffered and said: “When– how did you know?”

“Ah, I’ve known from the beginning,” he said. He sat down beside her, very much at his ease, a teacup clasped loosely between his fingers. “A friend of mine said you’d be here yesterday and asked me to look out for you. She seemed to think you needed to see a few things.”

“Aerwn!” said Dion. She drew in a deep breath, slowly and shakily. “Oh, Aerwn! What did they do to her? And I thought– they said– oh! Poor Aerwn!”

“Ah, she’s a tough nut enough,” said Padraig easily. “Takes a lot to rattle that one.”

“You didn’t see her after she came back from Doctor Whishte,” said Dion unhappily. “I thought she was lying! She lied so much!”

“Aye,” said Padraig. “I told her it would backfire on her, but she was ever a determined little beast.”

Dion, finishing a tasteless morsel of toast, said: “I have to get back as quickly as possible.”

“You’ve much to see: a week or two won’t make a difference,” he said. “Except to your people, mind. They need to see that you’re willing to help.”

“I see,” said Dion. There was evidently a purpose and plan in place that had been so for some time. She owed it to Aerwn—not to mention the human Llassarians—to see the venture out. At length, she said: “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Your honesty. I didn’t believe you and you told me the truth anyway. Thank you.”

Padraig’s face lit with a smile. “Oh aye, I’ll always tell you the truth, your highness.”

“You might as well stick with Di,” said Dion, flushing a little. “You’ve saved my life, after all.

“Well now,” said Padraig. “Isn’t this a pleasant thing! Will you be going back to the coach?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dion said. “Will the Fae be awake again?”

“Not likely,” said Padraig. He was grinning. “I used vaporised iron: it takes a good deal of heat, but it knocks them out until their lungs can be pumped.”

Dion frowned down into her cooling tea. “Vaporised iron is poisonous to humans, isn’t it?”

“Aren’t you the clever one! Indeed it is: I was told you would have a spell on your person to protect against such things.”

“What if I hadn’t been wearing my travel wrap?” asked Dion, in fascination. “You would have been responsible for murdering the heir to Llassar’s throne!”

“Killing, at the very worst!” protested Padraig. “And involuntary killing, too! I’d scarcely see a decade of prison food.”

“It was in the lanterns, wasn’t it? Iron in the casings and something to make the Fae-lights overheat–”

“Indeed it was. Where did you learn about vapourised metals in a Fae-tutored schoolroom?”

“That wasn’t in the schoolroom,” said Dion, going pink at Padraig’s distinctly admiring tones. “I used to visit the library a lot. I always had questions that the tutor didn’t answer and I didn’t like to cause a fuss.”

“What did they do when they found out?”

Dion blinked a little. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that anyone had found out, but now that she came to think of it, a little while after her fourteenth birthday there had been a fire in the royal library. At the time she had believed the story that someone had merely been too careless with a lantern.

“There was a fire,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “They said someone knocked over one of the lanterns. Only– only we didn’t have lanterns in the library. It was all Fae lighting by then. I wasn’t allowed in the library for months after that, and when I did get back in, half the books were missing.” The Song of the Broken Sword was one of those that was missing. Dion had never been so foolhardy as to climb the shelves again, but she knew it was gone because the Forbidden Books section was the worst damaged of the lot, and there was a charred, gaping hole where once The Song of the Broken Sword had been shelved.

“Aye, that has the scent of the Fae all over it,” said Padraig. “They like to do things indirectly when they can: they enjoy playing with their humans.”

Dion said quietly: “I suppose we should feel ourselves fortunate that the Fae who came to Llassar took over by stealth rather than by violence. The end result has been the same, but at least here there hasn’t been such great loss of life.”

“Stealth? No. By legislation and trickery and manipulation of feeling. Our deaths may not have been so violent, but they have been as numerous. Not all of us welcomed the Fae taking over our towns, and there was some struggle.”

“What happened?”

Padraig shifted his teacup between his hands. “We were slaughtered quickly, quietly, and entirely legally– with the full support of the Crown. Once the Fae were in such numbers that their votes counted for more than the rest of us, and once there were enough in the court to hold sway with the king and queen, our laws changed more quickly than we could keep up with. Some of us found ourselves on the wrong side of the law without meaning it; others of us thought it worth-while to become rebels and fight to save our families from slavery to the Fae.”

“Were there no petitions made to the king and queen?” Dion had never seen any such. If there had been such, they could never have reached the king and queen– they would have been quick to avenge the wrongs of their people, even if those wrongs were perpetrated by the Fae.

“Oh, aye– once and again we sent messengers. First they were stopped on the roads, and when we sought to ally ourselves with the towns around us and send our distress together, it was outlawed.”

“On what grounds?” cried Dion, nearly beside herself. Her parents couldn’t be aware of this! And yet, how could they have been unaware? “To outlaw a citizen’s right to petition with the Crown? How could such a thing happen?”

“Citizens still have the right to petition the Crown,” Padraig said, with grim amusement. “Slaves, now; slaves have no such rights.”

“Slavery was never a part of Llassar,” Dion said, her throat tight. “Those signs I saw in the shop windows– has every human in Bithywis been enslaved?”

“Not so much enslaved as reassigned. The Fae are of the mind that humans are a bare step up from the animals, and that they need masters to keep them safe and in order.”

“That Fae,” said Dion, and she heard the tremble of anger in her voice that was almost a sob. She had never thought she could hate, but the tar of it in her throat almost choked her. “What did he mean about your lineage?”

Padraig shrugged. “Seelie Fae like to prick and cut where they can. He was trying to remind me of my place in this society of his.”

“Why don’t you have a token?”

“Ah, I’m a different thing altogether,” said Padraig. “I don’t fit into their little boxes so they leave me alone. Are you finished? There’s something downstairs you’ll be wanting to see.”

The smell of soot and melted iron grew stronger as Padraig led Dion downstairs, but it wasn’t until they left the house, stepping briefly through a narrow alley and straight into another door, that she realised why. They were in a forge. Dion, who had grown to recognise such places almost as sacrilegious, found that her first reaction was still shock, even though she knew better. She would have asked why they were in a forge, but she could already feel the magic emanating from the hammer and anvil that were close by the fire. They were potent, metallic sources of dusky magic, bound with a scarlet something that Dion thought might be a destiny cord. Whatever they were, the hammer and anvil were important.

Dion said: “How? How did you infuse iron with magic?”

“With some difficulty,” admitted Padraig. “But it’s not exactly iron, in a manner of speaking. It’s more what you’d call an alloy. They call it steel: a bit of carbon in it, and the magic holds just fine.”

“But that’s Fae magic!”

“Aye, so it is,” Padraig said, with a curious smile. “It’s what you might call an alloy, too.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dion said in fascination. “It’s so intricate and complicated!”

“Aye, but I’m a complicated fellow,” said Padraig complacently. When Dion didn’t answer, caught up in studying one of the most intricate webbings of magic that she had ever seen, he added: “See now, you’re meant to giggle and flirt with me when I say a thing like that.”

Dion was surprised into glancing at him. He winked at her, which made her look away again in confusion. She said hastily: “You’re Coinnach’s son, aren’t you?”

“Ah, so there was a bit of teaching done! I am. We’re partners in this world-saving venture.”

“It will be a pity for these to be used up,” said Dion, running her fingers over the anvil.

“Aye,” said Padraig; and there was that odd smile again. “And ’twill be a pity for–”

“For me to die?” said Dion, when he stopped short. “There’s always Aerwn. Llassar won’t be left wanting.”

“You know you’re to die?” said Padraig, visibly startled. “Who would be telling you such a thing?”

“I’ve known since I was seven,” Dion said. He was still looking at her fixedly, and she knew why. She said, with a flush: “It’s all right. I’m not going to collapse again.”

“Now there’s a curious thing,” he said, gazing at her with such an affectionate sadness that it was hard to meet his eyes. “Sure, Aerwn did tell me you were the better twin. Last night you were all but incapacitated when you saw the evil that had come on your people. Today you tell me you are to die without the slightest quiver in your voice.”

“I’ve had a long time to get used to it,” said Dion quietly. “And it’s different. I know what I have to do. But with the Fae–” she trailed off in despair. “This, all of this: it’s our fault, the whole royal family of Llassar. We did this. My blindness– my parents’– well, I don’t know. But we allowed it. We even welcomed it. I can’t see how that can ever be repaired.”

“Well now, that’s what we’ll be doing, isn’t it? You and I, saving the world. We’ll have a bonny time of it, Di from beyond.”

 

They crept quietly from town to town over the next two weeks, working their way carefully toward Harlech. Padraig seemed to be known in every town, and in every town there were signs of quiet, careful organisation that chilled Dion to the bone. It was almost as terrible to consider as the icy grip of the Fae that held the country in thrall. It promised that, barring quick, decisive change, Things Would Be Done. Fae and Llassarians would be at war; and worse, the royal family would be on the wrong side.

During the day they travelled and talked. By night they stayed in a series of homes that welcomed them under cover of darkness and sent them away before the dawn broke. It made Dion wonder exactly how well known Padraig was around Llassar, and exactly what would happen were they to draw the attention of any of the increasing numbers of Fae guards she saw as they got closer to Harlech. Her uneasiness was only doubled by the presence of two very visible reminders of their quest: Padraig’s anvil, made small by some extension of its enchantment, hung from his neck by a chain while his hammer swung from his belt. As obvious as they were to Dion, she was constantly fearful of the Fae discovering them.

With every Fae guard, every insult, every instance of brutality and wrong to Llassarian humans that she saw, Dion grew sicker and angrier. By the time they reached Harlech in the cool of late afternoon two weeks later, she was by no means prepared to sneak in by darkness and return to the castle by stealth.

“Aye, well, who can blame you?” said Padraig, with half a smile. “Here is where my journey ends, then.”

“But–” But I wanted to present you to my parents. That was no good. “My parents will want–”

“Your parents will want to hang me from the closest gibbet,” said Padraig. “And the Fae will want to– well, they’re an unpleasant lot. Here is where we kiss and part, cherry.”

Much to Dion’s embarrassment, he did kiss her. This time he gave her ample time to pull away if she wished, and to her further embarrassment, Dion didn’t do so. In an effort to hide her confusion, she said: “Will you go back to Bithywis?”

“I think not,” said Padraig, with an amused smile at her red cheeks. “I’ll be around for a while. If you need me, tell Aerwn to get a message to me.”

He was gone in an instant, melting into the streets at the very moment the gate guards saw Dion. They snapped to attention, their Fae eyes wide and worried, and Dion set her shoulders. It was time to go to battle.

 

Dion entered the Court of Affairs at a good time: the king and queen were presiding over the citizens’ complaints—of which, she was very well aware, there were seldom any—and it was the easiest thing in the world to join the line of three other citizens. The citizens were all Fae, she noticed with a bitter smile. They all hesitated, but as the entire court came to attention Fae reluctantly moved aside, and Dion swept before her parents in all her travel-weariness and dirt. She was a little sorry not to see Aerwn attending, but then, Aerwn rarely did attend; something that no longer surprised Dion.

“Daughter!” said the queen gladly. “We are glad to see you home safely! We received news that you had lengthened your tour.”

“Yes,” said Dion, and heard the tremble in her voice. “Yes. I did.”

“I see you have news,” said the king in indulgent but slightly reproving tones. “We will be glad to hear it, but this is not the place.”

“No,” Dion said. Her voice was louder, and though it was rough around the edges it didn’t tremble this time. She saw the Fae around the court moving in a watchful, worried flow of movement, a breeze of unease sweeping through them. “No, this is exactly the place. As a citizen of Llassar, I bring a complaint to the Crown, and as heir to the Crown, I bring with me the complaint of my people.”

Tutor Halfhelm, her instructor in foreign affairs, hurried up to her, exclaiming: “You are fatigued, your highness! Surely a moment can be taken to sit down and refresh yourself. You are disordered and confused!”

“Stay away from me!” said Dion, in such a savage tone that Halfhelm stopped at once. “I will not rest while my people are unrepresented.”

“My dear!” said the queen, her face dismayed. “You’re weeping! You must sit down! We can meet again after you’ve rested: we’ll speak in private.”

Dion, aware of the furious tears rolling down her cheeks but unable to do anything about them, said: “We’ll speak in public, and now. My carriage broke down outside Bithywis two weeks ago. My Fae attendants were rendered unconscious and I was left to walk back to Bithywis alone. I spent a night and a day there unknown, and saw humans enslaved while their Fae masters live on the best of the land.”

The king stood, white and wrathful. “My daughter attacked and nothing of it discovered?”

The captain of the guard, a smooth, beautiful Fae in glossy leather armour, stepped forward. “Your Majesty, there was the question of a ransom demanded,” she said, bowing. The grace of the action couldn’t hide its insolence in Dion’s eyes. “The Princess’s abduction was discovered a bare week and a half ago, and it was thought best to return her to your majesties without worrying the queen or further disordering Princess Aerwn.”

“I wasn’t kidnapped,” said Dion. Beside the captain’s assured, melodious tones, her voice sounded small and weak. “There was an attack, but I escaped. It isn’t important.”

“We received a ransom demand,” said the captain; politely, smilingly insistent. She approached Dion with a measured tread, so powerfully smiling and polite that Dion felt almost physically battered. “An anti-Fae group, your Majesties. They are well known for aggression toward Fae citizens. Undoubtedly the princess has been frightened to within an inch of her life and is repressing these unpleasant memories with something easier to understand.”

“Let the girl speak!” said a sharp, whip-crack of a voice. It belonged to Duc Owain ap Rees, and Dion found herself spurred into life again. “Are the Fae so afraid of one young girl?”

“You forget yourself, ap Rees,” said the king dangerously; but he sat down. “Speak, daughter. What is this foolishness?”

“Look at her!” exploded Tutor Halfhelm. “She’s beside herself with fatigue! She needs to rest!”

“This comes of being held captive for two weeks,” said Tutor Iceflame coldly. “On a weak mind, pressure and repetition produce every kind of evil. She has been brainwashed, your Majesty. I must take some of the blame for also having neglected to tell you the true state of affairs. Please believe me that I was with the captain, working constantly to find and free the princess.”

“I am not beside myself and I am not brainwashed,” said Dion, her voice cracking. “I am angry. My people have been reduced to chattel and enslaved to the very Fae we welcomed with open arms! I have seen it with my own eyes. Humans tagged like cattle and forced to queue in the streets for their daily food. Fae who feel themselves free to assault and offend where it pleases them.”

There was a growl of anger around the room, but Dion, looking for a moment into Duc Owain ap Rees’ stern, approving eyes, took fresh courage. “Human Llassarians have appealed to the courts and directly to the Crown but have been denied or prevented.”

“Daughter, you are beside yourself,” said the king. There was a sternness in his face, too; and Dion felt the first awful chill of knowledge. She swayed where she stood, and heard him say through a buzzing in her ears: “The human Llassarians have been weak and resentful. They have provoked and attacked until it was necessary to curb them. Their unsteadiness would have led to anarchy and death throughout Llassar. Do not think of them as under enslavement but under a benevolent guide for their own good. It is only through the wisdom of the Fae that Llassar will become great. Do not let me hear you speak in this manner again. Daughter though you may be, if you align yourself with the enemies of the Crown, you will suffer punishment with them.”

A roar of approbation rose around the room and Dion sank to her knees, shivering, the world narrowing around her in a smothering darkness. She tried and failed to stand until an arm caught her around the waist, lifting her to her feet once again. The Duc ap Rees was beside her, his sinewy old arms bearing her up and lending strength.

“No,” she said quietly. “Duc–”

“It’s my honour to serve, your Majesty,” he said. A few of the nearer Fae, hearing the title of address, hissed, but he ignored them with a stony face. In her ear, he said: “Finish your piece and shoulder the consequences. You are not alone.”

Dion, raising her spinning head, said: “If the king and queen refuse to do what must be done to free our people, I will do it myself. The Fae will not have our land as they have the land of our neighbours.”

There was a murmur among the Fae, soft at first, then louder. “Treason,” it said; and then shouted: “Treason!”

The king rose again, this time with great heaviness. “Dion ferch Alawn, do you challenge the Crown?”

“No,” said Dion. “I remind it of its duty to its people. I warn it that unless the Fae are removed and the Llassarian people free again, it will suffer dearly.”

“The Fae are under our protection, daughter,” said the king. “Do not speak against them.”

“Treason!” came the many-voiced howl again. Dion saw the beautiful faces around her in their cold, satisfied fury. She had fallen, and they had won. “Treason to the Crown!”

“Dion ferch Alawn, you are charged with treason to the Crown,” said her father. Dion looked to her mother and saw on her face a resolute kind of sorrow—an almost peaceful resignation—and gave herself up for lost. “In the presence of this court you have spoken threats to the Crown and treason against the Fae. You will be imprisoned overnight and executed tomorrow at noon.”

 

Dion was shut into the small, bricked holding room behind the Court of Affairs for an interminable time before she was hauled away to be locked up for the night. The carpeted halls didn’t feel quite real beneath her feet as she was hurried along, nor did the lit fireplace in her newly acquired prison take away from the chill in the air.

She still seemed to hear the hisses and shouts of the Fae (or was that just the buzzing in her ears?); still seemed to feel the bruises around her elbows from the Fae guards who had torn her away from Duc Owain ap Rees as he roared and fought like a madman. She hadn’t seen what happened to him. Dion crouched by the fire, her shaking fingers digging into the material of her overskirt and making holes in the material as her thoughts reeled over and over. She tried to tell herself that Owain was still alive, still safe, but the uncertainty of it ate away at her in imagination and sickness until she stumbled into the bathroom and lost the contents of her stomach in the bare bathroom.

When she returned to the main room, shivering and light-headed but able to make herself think again, Dion found it as rich and bare as the bathroom. It was one of the guest rooms, hurriedly stripped of anything useful for escape. The windows were bound with iron on the outside, as were all the windows this low in the castle, but the inner-facing glass had been bound with magic. In fact, the walls had all been threaded with binding magic, too; the strongest and most insidious of magic. Dion, gazing at it, recognised the work of her Instructor of Magic, and knew that she would lack the strength to break it until she was better rested.

If she looked through the keyhole of the locked door she knew she would only see the uniformed backs of the two Fae guards who had borne her grimly along with cruel fingers even though she didn’t resist. It was no use trying to escape that way, either. Instead, Dion walked the floorb until the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep. She trembled bodily, weary and frightened. She was used to feeling uncertain and afraid, but there had always been the certainty of her mother and father, and of her position as Princess and Heir. Dion had always been certain that, destined to die as she was, she would yet be Queen first.

Instead, she was to die the death of a traitor. Worse, she could no longer cling to the hope that her parents were ensorcelled: she could see them before her eyes even now, not a scrap of magic in or around them. Fervour and sincerity in their eyes as they betrayed their own people and delighted in the alien Fae. Absolute righteousness in every line of their faces as they condemned her to prison, and after that to death.

Dion clasped her arms around herself and rocked in a desperation of regret. Her destiny to save the human world from the Fae had been nullified: her training, her magic, Barric’s work– all in vain. Dion would have been certain just yesterday morning that nothing could happen to her; or at least, not until the fullness of time when, as Queen, she would give her life to seal up the land. And Aerwn? What of Aerwn? Who would look after her– who would believe her? Dion had seen the joyous satisfaction in the eyes of the court at her downfall, and she wondered how long it would be before her parents declared a Faery heir.

A time of darkness came over Dion, and when she recognised light and feeling again, she was crumpled on the rug before a dying fire. Her whole body was shaking in huge waves that sapped the strength from her limbs and added weight to the dreadful weariness that had overcome her. Into the silence of the room, her heart beat loud in a parody of heavy footfalls, beating a certain path of death and destruction for her people.

It was some time before Dion recognised that there really were approaching footsteps outside the door of her prison. There was a swift, precise scuffle on the other side of the door: the shifting of feet, two short, surprised grunts, and two soft thuds. Dion raised heavy eyes to the door but couldn’t seem to gather together her leaden limbs. She would have liked at least to stiffen her spine, but everything was too fuzzy and soft, and Dion simply watched the door open without being able to do more than wonder dully if she was about to be taken to judgement. But it wasn’t her Fae guards who appeared through the door: it was Barric, amazingly real and stunningly present.

“Barric,” she said, catching her breath. “You’re here. And here. Is it time to die?”

“It’s time to go,” said Barric. He picked her up gently, one arm supporting her knees and the other cradling her shoulders.

Dion’s head lolled into his shoulder, her teeth chattering as convulsively as the rest of her. She said, with an effort: “Owain? The Duc? Have to get him safe–”

“The Duc is safe and well,” said Barric. “A few bruises, nothing more. You and he still have a friend or two in the Court.”

He kicked the door aside, stepping over the two fallen Fae guards, and Dion saw them briefly over his shoulder, pale and unconscious– or were they dead? She couldn’t bring herself to feel anything for them, but she found that she was crying anyway. Barric hefted her slightly and Dion lost sight of the Fae, her sight curtailed to the single reality of his collar.

They passed through light and dark, sometimes walking, sometimes running. Soon Dion felt herself being carried below stairs and perhaps below ground, the air cool and dark around her. So Aerwn had been right: there were tunnels below the castle. Dion was aware of the world around her as in a dream, and in that dream, she heard Padraig’s voice saying sharply: “Is she injured? Cherry, are you well?”

“Back, whelp,” growled Barric.

Dion protested: “No! Padraig? Padraig, you’re safe!”

“Of course, cherry!” he said, and Dion caught a glimpse of his laughing eyes over Barric’s shoulder. “And I brought someone with me. Aren’t I a darling?”

Aerwn was beside him, bouncing as she walked and kicking stones ahead of her without regard to noise. “Di, I heard all about it! Oh, what I wouldn’t have given to see you shouting at them all!”

“I didn’t shout,” said Dion, rousing herself to gaze wonderingly at the rough-hewn stone ceiling that curved away over their heads.

“No, no, of course not. You talked to them in that furious little gruff voice that terrifies the life out of me, all the while with tears of rage pouring down your face.”

Dion, lacking the energy or the need to protest what was, after all, largely true, simply said: “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Oh, and he didn’t bring me,” Aerwn said, outpacing Barric with her energetic walk until Dion had to turn her head to see her sister. Padraig followed, still smiling at Dion, and Aerwn jerked her thumb at him. “I brought him.”

Barric’s eyes flickered toward her. “Get it?”

Aerwn’s eyes sparkled back at him. “Got it!”

“What have you got?” asked Dion.

“The first shard, of course!” said her sister. “Don’t tell me he didn’t tell you about the shards! This one’s been in the castle gardens for years with a little something to discourage Fae from getting too close.”

“He told me,” said Dion, blinking deep and long. There was a sharp, twisting feeling in her stomach that she didn’t recognise. To Barric’s collar, she said: “Were you teaching Aerwn, too?”

Barric glanced down at her, his scar pulling. “No. Only you.”

“I had my own imaginary friend,” said Aerwn. She threw an arm around Padraig’s shoulders in a friendly fashion. “Padraig kept me company and showed me around. We had a few close scrapes, didn’t we?”

Dion wasn’t sure if that was any better than Aerwn being taught by Barric. When had she become so jealous of Aerwn?

“Just a few,” said Padraig, with a rueful grin; but Dion thought she caught an apologetic look from him. She felt the shivers coming on again and tucked her head exhaustedly back into Barric’s shoulder, trying to ignore Aerwn’s entirely bright, entirely healthy presence.

Barric said: “You’re underfoot. Go check the way.”

“Which one of us?” demanded Aerwn, by no means pleased to be summarily sent off.

“Both,” grunted Barric. Padraig didn’t look any more pleased than Aerwn, but he followed her anyway, and they soon disappeared into the gloomy passage. Barric said softly: “Sleep if you can. You’ll need your energy.”

Dion said wearily: “I’m sorry. I hoped when the time came– I hoped I wouldn’t be so weak.”

Barric shrugged his huge shoulders. “Your strength lies within.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Dion, and found that there were tears slipping down her face again. “If you’d been able to talk to me about it earlier– if Aerwn had been able to confide in me– if I hadn’t been so blind–”

She saw his scar jump, but not with a smile. “You trusted; and your honesty makes you see honesty in others. Loyalty and sense of honour are not to be ashamed of.”

“Both of them were misplaced,” said Dion quietly, and with bitterness. “Llassar will be well off with Aerwn as queen.”

“Aerwn will be a good queen,” said Barric. “Perhaps. In time. But Llassar can’t be saved without you.”

Dion said: “And Padraig’s hammer and anvil,” and let her head fall against his shoulder. A stubborn, clinging thought was nudging at her, and she gave voice to it. “I want– I want to see the Duc.”

“Peace,” said Barric’s voice. “Ap Rees is out of Harlech this morning. He has an army to gather in readiness for their leader.”

“This,” she said. “All of this. It was poised on the edge of the precipice, just waiting for the last stone to fall. We’re at war?”

“Yes,” said Barric.

“Then it is…time to die,” said Dion, and fell asleep.