Page 116 of Minor Works of Meda

Everything felt sharp around me, like I could taste my own terror and death on my tongue. The music was discordant and strange, the tune impossible to follow. I motioned to Oraik with my head. He nodded. I approached the opening and inched my face around the corner.

I half-expected to be seen instantly. Blessedly, the crowd in front of me was far too invested in their revelry to notice one mostly human woman poking around the lip of the wall. And truly, what lay before me was a sight to behold.

“Bird, stop,” I heard Oraik breathe behind me, his tone frustrated even though he was nearly silent.

We were at the edge of a great hall. The ceiling was so tall I fancied it might not exist at all. In the center of the room there was a truly massive, barren oak, its roots buried deep below the marble floor and its bark lined with veins of silver. From one of its branches grew a silver bird cage—not hung, grew; it was part of the tree itself. A huge blue rock-thrush was inside the cage, its plumage the color of the stormy sea. But its magnificence was lost against the waves of finery below.

I couldn’t count how many faeries danced around the base of the tree. They came in various sizes and shapes, mostly humanoid but with strange features; some long-fingered, others winged; short and squat as barrels or taller than Oraik but thin as an oar pole. Some were feathered, others furred; some had hides as rough as bark. All were dressed in wonderous clothing. They wore ball gowns and billowing suits, caftans embroidered with threads that sparkled like stars, jewels on necks glinting with captured fire. I could have stared for hours and kept seeing more details. Horns and scales and tails and cleft hooves. Fangs. Antlers. Wings.

To the far right, a set of marble steps led to a single throne.

The male faerie seated there was tall and gray, his features uncomfortably familiar. He wore a crown of bone. His long hair, like spun silver, cascaded down his narrow shoulders.

Kalcedon lounged on the marble steps in front of him, a careless soft smile on his face. Gone was his worn shirt and mended trousers. He was dressed as fine as any of the dancers, with black breeches even darker than the night sky and a flowing moon-bright shirt whose billowing sleeves fastened closed at his wrists with pearls. Even his mess of dark hair seemed to shine, rippling like moon-touched waves.

“Bird, no!” Oraik hissed.

With a keening shriek, the wooden creature plunged past me. I grabbed for it and missed.

Bird careened into the room and collided with a startled fae female before crashing down to the floor. The crowd parted away from it. The rock thrush puffed out his feathers and regarded the unhappy creature with a tilt of his head.

Bird straightened and stumbled a step back. Against the crowd, the awkward wooden thing looked so small and pitiful. The song ended in bits and pieces, different instruments falling away one at a time until the room was silent.

The dancers turned to watch as Bird hopped forward. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. Voices whispered; faces craned.

I couldn’t undo this. I could hardly believe it was happening. But it was.

The Sorrowing Lord, his features inhuman and perfect, leaned forward on his throne, one delicate eyebrow raised.

“Run,” I whispered to Oraik. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

Bird whistled loudly and plunged forward. Spreading its lopsided wings, it wobbled the last few steps to Kalcedon. My half-faerie tilted his head to one side, a curious expression on his face. He reached a hand forward and touched Bird.

The moment Bird brushed against Kalcedon’s skin, it toppled over on its side. It was just wood again, its animating mission gone. Kalcedon lifted it slowly and turned it over in his hands. His face still looked empty. Flat.

“Run,” I told Oraik again, as I finally pulled away from the room. He hadn’t left like I’d told him to. He was beside me, watching the same scene I was with a horrified look on his face. I nudged him with my elbow, fingers still clenched in the spell. “Run, run.” He finally turned and we took off down the narrow hall.

Or, at least, we tried to.

Chapter 53

With each step we took the corridor changed shape. The walls widened and grew; sloped, dropped. I could never be sure that my feet would hit solid ground. We kept running anyway, until Oraik threw a hand out to stop me.

We weren’t in the hallway anymore. Somehow it had turned itself inside out to drop us in the middle of the great room, in front of Kalcedon and the Sorrowing Lord on his raised throne. My eyes were even with the Lord’s polished, tall boots.

“What a quaint little sorcelle,” the faerie lord said. The droning of his voice buzzed like wind through dead branches.

Then the Sorrowing Lord twisted his hands.

My concealment ripped apart sigil by sigil, stitch by stitch. Murmurs rippled through the crowd of faeries. Some of them drew near, curious sparkling eyes looking us over.

Without the sharpening spell the room seemed to change. My perception dulled. The dancers looked more human as their strange details blurred away. Sound softened.

Unprotected and in the open, I felt naked. My fingers stayed cramped into the shape of the spell, but there was nothing there, nothing to hold on to. Slowly I let them straighten.

“I’m sorry,” Oraik whispered to me. There were tears in his eyes. “It’s my fault. I let Bird—”

“What enchantment is this?” The Sorrowing Lord continued, ignoring the prince. “I cannot grasp their minds.”

---