Page 117 of Minor Works of Meda

He reached for Kalcedon, who turned towards him as if on silent command. Gripping his son’s chin in one thin, long-fingered hand, the Lord peered into his eyes.

“Child of mine, are these your… companions?”

“Don’t touch him,” I shouted.

They both ignored me.

“Perhaps,” Kalcedon answered his father. His own voice was distant.

“Then have a care and end them.” The Sorrowing Lord waved his horrible long fingers. Like claws, or talons, I thought. You could see the cruelty all over him, like he was made of malice; as terrible as I’d ever thought faeries to be.

“Whatever spell you’ve got, let go of him! He’s not a puppet.”

“As you command,” Kalcedon told his father. He turned towards me, a blank look in his eyes. The Sorrowing Lord smiled. A wisp of mist passed in front of Kalcedon and resolved into a long silver blade.

Be pretending, I begged silently. Be stronger than the spell.

“Yes, end them!” I heard one of the fae creatures gargle.

“Make them bloody!” another chorused.

The faeries around us laughed. A horrible sound, mirth mixed with baying dogs and rattling insects. I quickly drew my choking spell, then launched it at the Sorrowing Lord.

His lips parted slightly, and for a moment I thought I had him; had cast it so quickly he couldn’t react. But then his lips tilted up in a strange smile. His fingers curled, and silver fire ate my spell apart.

“Fortune save us,” I said. Oraik couldn’t see the magic, but he could see Kalcedon’s sword, and I guess the worried look on my face. Shaking, he drew the tiny knife from his pocket, unsheathed it, and held it out in front of him. As if that could do a thing against the ancient horrors of this hall.

Kalcedon slowly stood. He examined his sword, head tilted to one side.

“Kalcedon, don’t!” I begged again, even though he hadn’t seemed to hear a word I’d said yet. “It’s me. It’s Meda.”

He didn’t answer. There was no awareness on his face.

“Don’t you want a real son?” I tried again, talking to the Lord now. “It’s fake, whatever this is, just pretend. Release him. Let him be him.”

He arched an eyebrow, yawned, and leaned back on his throne. He twirled the fingers of one hand. I felt another spell come at me, so fast I didn’t get a shield up. A blistering heat wrapped around my throat and sank beneath the skin. I gulped air, and realized I could still breathe. I didn’t know what he’d done.

“You’ve interrupted my celebration,” he informed me. “Silence your mouth, and entertain me.”

Kalcedon stood, the sword dangling in his hand. He took a step down the marble stairs, radiantly beautiful and achingly cold.

I couldn’t fight the Sorrowing Lord, and I would not fight Kalcedon. All I could do was try to run. I turned around and threw a shield out behind us, plowing it right through the crowd to clear a way. They stumbled back as if pushed.

“Run,” I tried to tell Oraik. My lips moved, but no sound escaped. The spell. I was voiceless.

It was a problem for later. I moved into the crowd, but not fast enough. The dancers were thick around me.

“Meda!” Oraik yelled. “Watch out! Kalcedon—”

Something punched me from behind. My stomach was wet. I looked down. At first I couldn’t make sense of it. There was something sticking out of me. A sword. And there was blood. My blood.

Kalcedon pulled the sword back out through me. Then the pain hit, hot and violent, worse than anything I’d ever felt. My head swam. I heard laughter, all around me. Everywhere I looked I saw grinning faces. But they were all blurry.

“Meda!” Oraik shrieked. I fell to my knees.

“The other, too,” the Sorrowing Lord said. “Slower.”

“Yes, father.” That was Kalcedon. But it wasn’t Kalcedon at all. His voice was soft, distant, strange.

---