Chapter Text
Faeries are twilight creatures, and Andrew has become one, too. They rise when the shadows grow long and head to their beds before the sun rises. It is well after midnight when they arrive at the great hill at the Palace of Evermore. To go inside, they must ride between two trees, an oak and a thorn, and then straight into what appears to be the stone wall of an abandoned folly. He’s done it hundreds of times, but he flinches anyway. His whole body braces, he grip the reins hard, and his eyes mash shut.
When he opens them, he is inside the hill.
They ride on through a cavern, between pillars of roots, over packed earth.
There are dozens of the Folk here, crowding around the entrance to the vast throne room, where Court is being held—long-nosed pixies with tattered wings; elegant, green-skinned ladies in long gowns with goblins holding up their trains; tricksy boggans; laughing foxkin; a boy in an owl mask and a golden headdress; an elderly woman with crows crowding her shoulders; a gaggle of girls with wild roses in their hair; a bark-skinned boy with feathers around his neck; a group of knights all in scarab-green armor. Many he’s seen before; a few he has spoken with. Too many for his eyes to drink them all in, yet he cannot look away.
He never gets tired of this—of the spectacle, of the pageantry. Maybe Abby isn’t entirely wrong to worry that they might one day get caught up in it, be carried away by it, and forget to take care. He can see why humans succumb to the beautiful nightmare of the Court, why they willingly drown in it.
He knows he shouldn’t love it as he does, stolen as he is from the mortal world, his mortal family murdered. But he loves it all the same.
Wymack swings down from his horse. Abby and Aaron are already off theirs, handing them over to grooms. It’s him they’re waiting for. Wymack reaches out his fingers like he is going to help him, but Andrew hops off the saddle on his own. His leather slippers hit the ground like a slap.
He hopes that he looks like a knight to Wymack.
Abby steps forward, probably to remind the twins of all the things she doesn’t want them to do. Andrew doesn't give her the chance. Instead, he hooks his arm through Aaron’s and hurries along inside. The room is redolent with burning rosemary and crushed herbs. Behind them, Andrew can hear Wymack’s heavy step, but he knows where he is going. The first thing they have to do when they get to Court is greet the king.
The High King Nathan sits on his throne in gray robes of state, a heavy golden oak-leaf crown holding down his thin, fiery red hair. When they bow, he touches their heads lightly with his knobby, be-ringed hands, and then they rise.
His grandmother was King Kengo, of the House of Moriyama and Wesninski. He lived as one of the solitary fey before he began to conquer Faerie with his horned consort and her stag-riders. Because of him, each of Nathan’s six heirs are said to have some animal characteristic, a thing that is not unusual in Faerie but is unusual among the trooping Gentry of the Courts.
The eldest prince, Ichirou, and his younger brother, Riko, stand nearby, drinking wine from wooden cups banded in silver. Ichirou wears breeches that stop at his knees, showing his hooves and deer legs. Riko wears the greatcoat he favors, with a collar of bear fur. His fingers have a thorn at each knuckle, and thorns ridge his arm, running up under the cuffs of his shirt, visible when he and Ichirou urge Wymack over.
Abby curtsies to them. Although Ichirou and Riko are standing together, they are often at odds with each other and with their brother Tetsuji—so often that the Court is considered to be divided into three warring circles of influence.
Prince Riko and his set are known as the Circle of Grackles, for those who enjoy merriment and who scorn anything getting in the way of it. They drink themselves sick and numb themselves with poisonous and delightful powders. His is the wildest circle, although he has always been perfectly composed and sober when speaking with Andrew. He supposes he could throw himself into debauchery and hope to impress them. He’d rather not, though.
Prince Tetsuji and his companions have the Circle of Larks. They value art above all else. Several mortals have found favor in his circle, but since Andrew has no real skill with a lute or declaiming, he’ll have no chance of being one of them.
Prince Ichirou leads what’s known as the Circle of Falcons. Knights, warriors, and strategists are in their favor. Wymack, obviously, belongs to this circle. They talk about honor, but what they really care about is power. Andrew is good enough with a blade, knowledgeable in strategy. All he needs is a chance to prove himself.
“Go enjoy yourselves,” Wymack tells us. With a look back at the princes, Aaron and Andrew head out into the throng.
The palace of the King of Evermore has many secret alcoves and hidden corridors, perfect for trysts or assassins or staying out of the way and being really dull at parties. When the twins were little, they would hide under the long banquet tables. But since he determined they were gentlemen, too big to get their vests dirty crawling around on the floor, they had to find a better spot. Just past the second landing of stone steps is an area where a large mass of shimmering rock juts out, creating a ledge. Normally, that’s where they would settle themselves to listen to the music and watch all the fun they aren’t supposed to be having.
Tonight, however, Aaron has a different idea. He passes the steps and grabs food off a silver tray—a green apple and a wedge of blue-veined cheese. Not bothering with salt, he takes a bite of each, holding the apple out for Andrew to bite. Abby thinks we can’t tell the difference between regular fruit and faerie fruit, which blooms a deep gold. Its flesh is red and dense, and the cloying smell of it fills the forests at harvest time.
The apple is crisp and cold in Andrew’s mouth. They pass it back and forth, sharing down to the core, which Andrew eats in two bites.
Near where Andrew is standing, a tiny faerie girl with a clock of white hair, like that of a dandelion, and a little knife cuts the strap of an ogre’s belt. It’s slick work. A moment later, his sword and pouch are gone, she’s losing herself in the crowd, and Andrew can almost believe it didn’t happen. Until the girl looks back at him.
She winks.
A moment after that, the ogre realizes he was robbed.
“I smell a thief!” he shouts, casting around him, knocking over a tankard of dark brown beer, his warty nose sniffing the air.
Nearby, there’s a commotion—one of the candles flares up in blue crackling flames, sparking loudly and distracting even the ogre. By the time it returns to normal, the white-haired thief is well gone.
With a half smile, Andrew turns back to Aaron, who watches the dancers with longing, oblivious to much else.
“We could take turns,” he proposes. “If you can’t stop, I’ll pull you out. Then you’ll do the same for me.”
My heartbeat speeds at the thought. I look at the throng of revelers, trying to build up the daring of someone who would rob an ogre right under his nose.
Prince Tetsuji’s younger sister Caelia whirls at the center of a circle of Larks. Her skin is a glittering gold, her hair the deep green of ivy. Beside her, a human boy plays the fiddle. Two more mortals accompany him less skillfully, but more joyfully, on ukuleles.
A new ballad begins, and the words drift up to me. “Of all the sons King William had, Prince Jamie was the worst,” they sing. “And what made the sorrow even greater, Prince Jamie was the first.”
Andrew never much liked that song because it reminds him of someone else. Someone who, along with Princess Laila, doesn’t appear to be attending tonight. But—oh no. He does see him.
Prince Nathaniel, sixth-born to the High King Nathan, yet still the absolute worst, strides across the floor toward them.
Hawking, Katelyn, and Roland—his three meanest, fanciest, and most loyal friends—follow him. The crowd parts and hushes, bowing as they pass. Nathaniel is wearing his usual scowl, accessorized with kohl under his eyes and a circlet of gold in his auburn hair. He has on a long black coat with a high, jagged collar, the whole thing stitched with a pattern of constellations. Hawking is in deep red, cabochon rubies sparkling on his cuffs, each like a drop of frozen blood. Katelyn’s hair is the blue-green of the ocean, crowned with a diadem of pearls. A glittering cobweb net covers her braids. Roland brings up the rear, looking bored, his hair the precise color of fox fur.
“They’re ridiculous,” Andrew says to Aaron, who follows his gaze. He cannot deny that they’re also beautiful. Faerie lords and ladies, just like in the songs. If they didn’t have to take lessons alongside them, if Andrew didn’t know firsthand what a scourge they were to those who displeased them, he’d probably be as in love with them as everyone else is.
“Nicky says that Neil has a tail,” Aaron whispers. “He saw it when he was swimming in the lake with him and Princess Laila this past full moon night.”
Andrew can’t imagine Nathaniel swimming in a lake, jumping in the water, splashing people, laughing at something other than their suffering. “A tail?” he echoes, an incredulous smile starting on his face and then fading when he remembers that Nicky didn’t bother to tell him the story, even though it must have happened days ago. Three is an odd configuration of cousins. There’s always one on the outside.
“With a tuft on the end! It coils up under his clothes and unfurls like a whip.” he laughs, and Andrew can barely understand his next words. “Nicky said he wishes he had one.”
“I’m glad he doesn’t,” he says firmly, which is stupid. He has nothing against tails.
Then Nathaniel and his companions are too close for them to safely talk about them. Andrew turns his gaze to the floor. Though he hates it, he sinks to the ground on one knee, bending his head, and grits his teeth. By his side, Aaron does something similar. All around them, people are making obeisances.
Don’t look at us, he thinks. Don’t look.
As Hawking passes, he grabs one of Andrew’s braided horns. The others move on through the throng as Hawking sneers down at him.
“Did you think I didn’t see you there? You and your twin stand out in any crowd,” he says, leaning in close. His breath is heavy with the scent of honey wine. Andrew hands ball into a fist at his side, and he is conscious of the nearness of his knives. Still, he does not look him in the eye. “No other head of hair so dull, no other face so plain.”
“Gorilla,” Prince Nathaniel calls. He is glowering already and when he sees Andrew, his eyes narrow further.
Hawking gives his braid a hard tug. He winces, useless fury coiling in his belly. Hawking laughs and moves on.
Andrew’s fury curdles into shame. He wishes he had smacked his hand away, even though it would have made everything worse.
Aaron sees something in his face. “What did he say to you?”
Andrew shakes his head.
Nathaniel has stopped beside a boy with long copper hair and a pair of small moth wings—a boy who isn’t bowing. The boy laughs and Nathaniel lunges. Between one eyeblink and the next, the prince’s balled fist strikes the boy hard across the jaw, sending him sprawling. As the boy falls, Nathaniel grabs one of his wings. It tears like paper. The boy’s scream is thin and reedy. He curls up into himself on the ground, agony plain on his face. Andrew wonders if faerie wings grow back; he knows that butterflies that lose a wing never fly again.
The courtiers around them gape and titter, but only for a moment. Then they go back to their dancing and their songs, and the revel spirals on.
This is how they are. Someone gets in Nathaniel’s way, and they’re instantly and brutally punished. Driven from taking lessons at the palace, sometimes out of the Court entirely. Hurt. Broken.
As Nathaniel walks past the boy, apparently done with him, Andrew is grateful that Nathaniel has five more worthy brothers and sisters; it’s practically guaranteed that he’ll never sit on the throne. Andrew doesn't want to think of him with more power than he has.
Even Katelyn and Hawking share a weighted glance. Then Hawking shrugs and follows Nathaniel. But Roland pauses by the boy, bending down to help him to his feet.
The boy’s friends come over to lead him away, and at that moment, improbably, Roland’s gaze lifts. His tawny fox eyes meet mine and widen in surprise. Andrew is immobilized, his heart speeding. He braces himself for more scorn, but then one corner of Roland’s mouth lifts. He winks, as if in acknowledgment of being caught out. As if they’re sharing a secret. As if he thinks Andrew is not loathly, as though he does not find his mortality contagious.
“Stop staring at him,” Aaron demands.
“Didn’t you see—” he starts to explain, but he cuts him off, grabbing hold of him and hauling them toward the stairs, toward their landing of shimmering stone, where they can hide. His nails sink into Andrew’s skin.
“Don’t give them any more reason to bother you than they’ve already got!” The intensity of his response surprises him into snatching back his hand. Angry red half moons mark where he grabbed him.
Andrew looks back toward where Roland was, but the crowd has swallowed him up.