A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova

Chapter 34

Raph sets a breakneck speed.He’s so much more nimble than I that I’m scrambling to keep up. He bounces down the rubble as though it were skipping stones, landing on a cobbled river walk below as I’m just climbing down the first boulder.

I bite back shouting his name. I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. I just have to keep up. So I jump. I land hard, falling forward and scraping one knee so I don’t roll my ankle. I push off with both hands and run in the direction that Raph disappeared, praying I haven’t already lost him.

Citizenry of the High Court are only adding to the confusion. They’re silhouettes, darting around frantically. It’s utter chaos. Yet miraculously, I manage to spot Raph among the fray.

He glances behind him and catches my eye; I nod and we keep running.

A sudden, icy wind whips through the area, dissipating the smoke. As it does, I grab Raph by the collar, and yank him into a small alcove where others are huddling. I push to the back, holding him close with both hands. Raph glares up at me.

“We should—”

I shush him, looking back over the square. None of the other people around us seem to pay us any mind. We’re just two other citizens of the High Court, afraid of and darkly fascinated by whatever wrath the Butchers are about to reap on the intruders.

Shaye stands alone on a bridge that spans the river in the center of the square. Her shoulders are relaxed, hands on her hips, as she looks up at the four Butchers that are perched on the nearby rooftop. One of them lazily flips a dagger.

“Impressive you made it this far, traitor,” one of the Butchers says blandly. “Maybe that means you won’t be totally boring while we kill you.”

“Why don’t you come down here and find out?” Shaye cocks her head to the side.

“She’s confident,” the Butcher flipping the dagger says. “We should see if she has such a bold tongue in a few minutes.”

I scan for any sign of Giles. He’s nowhere to be seen. That can only mean he’s taken up some kind of strategic position to help Shaye. After his insistence on staying with her, I know he’s not going to abandon her now.

“Oh, if she does, can I cut it out?” One of the Butchers laughs. “I find that’s sometimes the only way to deal with smart talkers like her.”

“Well, if you’re too intimidated to stop me, I think I’m going to go and have a word with the king.” Shaye shrugs, and starts down the bridge in our direction.

No sooner has she moved than the Butchers launch themselves from their perch. Shaye doesn’t so much as look their way. A giant wall is erected out of nowhere—no doubt Giles’s doing. Shaye puts her back to the initial three Butchers to fling daggers at two others who jump from hidden vantages.

As the fight picks up, the citizenry begins to scatter.

“We should go now,” Raph whispers. I nod, yet I can’t seem to bring myself to move. My eyes are glued to the battle that’s only just beginning. Though I already know how it will end. For as strong as Shaye is, and as clever as Giles can be with his magic…there are only two of them, and a seemingly infinite number of Butchers. All I can hope for is that they’re taken alive and put with the rest of the survivors of Dreamsong.

We’ll save them with the rest. I have to believe it to be true.

Raph tugs on my hand and I can finally force myself to move. We fall into step between two couples rushing away from the combat. We keep our heads down, and miraculously, no one stops us.

We walk until the sounds of battle have faded. I don’t know if they faded because the struggle has ended…or if we are too far to hear it anymore. That’s when I finally gain the courage to look around.

I’m instantly overwhelmed by how…normal it all seems—well, normal by Midscape standards. I had been expecting the High Court to be a place with blood running through the streets and screams hanging in the air. I expected to see people living under a vicious ruler, the threat of bodily harm hiding behind every corner.

But the men and women seem no different than the people of Dreamsong. Away from the chaos and the nightlife of the section of town we entered in on, the streets are quiet. People keep to themselves, heads down and shoulders high, as they march toward wherever it is they’re going this late at night.

The buildings are made with the same style construction as many I saw in Dreamsong. There’s stained glass, and iron lampposts. Most are two or three stories tall and far more condensed than Dreamsong was.

It’s in the comparisons that I slowly draw that I begin to see the darker undercurrents. The construction is so similar that it can’t be by chance. I think of what Giles told me of his people—that the courts of crafters and tradesmen were slowly rounded up by Boltov and assimilated or killed. Or perhaps the houses are even older and date all the way back to Aviness. They are a part of stolen history; their occupants are captives. Even though they’re going about their business, the normality is a shroud—a lie to cover up the constant fear they must live in.

“I don’t like this place,” Raph whispers.

“I don’t either. We’ll do what we came here to do as quickly as possible.” Yet even as I say that, I think of Shaye’s warning. I only have one chance to make it into the castle. I have to wait for the right moment.

We move up the streets, heading for the highest point of the High Court—the castle. As we near I can hear faint music. It makes me all the more aware of how quiet things have been. We emerge onto a main street. Down in one direction, far in the distance, is the main gate of the High Court. In the opposite direction is a large portcullis that protects the opening of the castle.

“So that’s it,” Raph murmurs.

“I hate how pretty it is,” I say under my breath. Spires made of silver are edged with crystal that almost looks like frost. Motes of light drift through the air, circling up the high points, and then out over the city—as if all the magic I saw throughout the fae wilds stems from this one source. Every window is embellished with a frame of carved stone in the shape of lilies and stars. Every balcony railing is adorned with scrollwork. It’s the castle I always saw in my dreams after listening to the storybooks Joyce would read through the door.

“It’s pretty ’cause Boltov didn’t build it.”

“I figured as much.”

“Mom would tell me stories of Aviness when I was little. She’d say the castle, the hill, the glass crown, and the fae people are all one. As long as one stands tall, so do the others. And that’s why the glass crown can control the fae, and why it can’t leave the High Court.”

I crouch down and lean against a wall, listening to him. We perch ourselves at the edge of where the narrow road meets the main one, the castle in view.

“Did your mom’s stories have any tips for how we might get inside?” I ask, trying to keep my focus on him and our mission rather than the music drifting through the portcullis.

“Of course not. Stories don’t really tell you that.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty useless,” I mutter. “The stories of the fae from my world haven’t really done me much good here.” I close my eyes and listen to the tune as it reaches its end. At first, I thought I was so focused on it because it had been a few days since I last heard music—that wasn’t the magical sort. But the more I hear, the more I begin to think I recognize it. “That song… I know it.”

“Do you?” Raph arches his eyebrows.

I push off the wall. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“It’s coming from inside the castle, right?”

“I think so.” I bring my thumb to my mouth and bite on the nail lightly. “I want to wait here for a bit.”

“What are we waiting for?”

“I want to see if we can figure out who’s playing that music.” I keep my eyes focused on the portcullis, ignoring the four Butchers lined up on either side.

“Do you want to get closer?” Raph shifts from foot to foot, as if already restless.

“No, we stay here until it seems unsafe or unwise to do so.” I make sure my words are firm and leave no room to be contradicted. One shot. That’s all we have. I have to be patient and take it when the time is right.

The music plays on through the night. The longer I listen, the more certain I am that I’ve heard it before. It’s not just the tune, or the melody, or even the unique harmonies—what I cling to is a unique rendering of those notes. Music is like painting. Artists can use the same medium, but no two people will create in the same way.

As dawn begins to streak across the sky, the portcullis finally opens. I stand. Raph pushes away from the wall as well. He grabs for my hand, clutching it tightly as we watch people stream from the castle.

They stagger into the early morning, clinging to each other and swaying. I watch the macabre parade stroll down the main street, fanning out into alleyways, and disappearing into the lavish homes that line the main run of the High Court.

These fae aren’t like the others we saw in the lower rungs of the city. They’re dressed in sumptuous clothes—silks and scandalously transparent chiffons with cuts that leave very little to the imagination.

Gold and jewels weigh them down, circling every finger and neck. The finery is even draped from their horns and wings, tied with ribbons and small chimes that sing as they move. These people float through the world as though they own it, as though they don’t have care.

“Look,” Raph whispers. “Their feet…”

Their gilded presentation is merely a distraction, I realize. Their hems and boots are bloody. I see crimson splatter on men’s waistcoats.

“You don’t think that’s from—”

“Don’t even think it.” I pull Raph a little closer to me. “We’re going to help them, and stop all this forever, I swear to you, Raph. I will stop this.” I look back to the portcullis in time to see the music troupe emerging. Sure enough, I recognize them. “Those are the players from Dreamsong,” I breathe.

“What?” Raph looks as well. “Those traitors,” he snarls. “How dare they—”

“Stop.” I clutch him tighter before he can run off in a just rage. Kneeling down, I look him right in the eyes. “You have to keep your wits about you now and think through every action. Will you do that for me?” Raph swallows hard and nods several times. “Good. Now, tell me, can you play any instruments?”

“The drums, a little.”

“The drums it is. Come with me.”

“What are we doing?” He stays at my side even though he is clearly uncertain about what has prompted me to march along the main street.

“I’m going to talk to them.”

“I don’t like this; I don’t like any of it.” He folds his arms.

That’s certainly an understatement. None of this is going as I would’ve hoped. I’m exhausted, pushing my limits; my brain is running out of good ideas. Maybe it ran out a while ago. I guess we’ll find out if Raph is right and this is a terrible idea in the making.

We trail the performers to an inn not far from the castle. As soon as they go inside, I hear the band strike up again and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least they didn’t immediately retreat to their rooms. It will be easier to catch a word with them this way.

I stop Raph. “You’re going to stay here, okay?”

“What?” He blinks several times in shock as he watches me remove the glass pendant from my neck. “You can’t— What’re you—”

“If I don’t come back out, you find a safe way out of here and you go. You take this as far away as you can, you hide it somewhere no one will ever find it.” Guilt and sorrow are companions of desperation as I stare down at the small boy, watching the fate of his people rest on his little shoulders. “Wherever you hide it, you take that secret to your grave. Anyone who could know you have it would do the same—I will do the same. Keep yourself and the magic of Aviness safe.”

“I can’t…” He grabs my hand with both of his. “I can’t do this without you.”

“I hope you won’t have to.” I pat his hands with my other one. “But if things go badly in there, this is the safest way. So promise me you understand what you must do.”

He reluctantly nods. “I understand.”

“Good.” I turn to face off against the inn. Sucking in a deep breath, I march across the narrow street on the exhale. Before I inhale again, I’ve opened the door. There’s no turning back now.

The troupe isn’t so much performing as sitting and strumming together. The first floor of the inn is a tavern, empty at this time of day. I can smell the herbaceous aroma of something slow cooking in the back—the owners no doubt getting a head start on the dinner rush before the sun is even up.

Because it’s so empty, all eyes are on me as soon as I enter. Instruments fall silent. I cross straight for them, weaving around the vacant tables. My eyes meet the man who I assume is the head of the troupe. The man with the raven hair and markings on his brow whom I played with in Dreamsong.

We simply stare at each other for several long seconds. I can tell he recognizes me instantly—I can tell they all do by their demeanor. We’re silently sizing each other up, waiting to see who’s going to act first. The muscles in my legs are tense and ready to run.

“You look weary, traveler.” The leader hooks a chair with his toes and kicks it toward me. “Take a load off.”

“I’ve come a long way.” I sit. “I heard the king has something truly special planned for the end of the autumnal celebrations.”

“Can’t speak for the king, but we’ve heard whispers of the like.” As their leader speaks, the troupe exchanges wary glances. I see the flash of steel as one of them moves. Bards who live on the road would be armed to the teeth.

“Must be nice, having the opportunity to see those celebrations inside the king’s halls.”

“It’s certainly something.” The fact that he doesn’t agree—that none of them have immediately called the Butchers at the sight of me—gives me hope.

“Do you play for royalty often?” I have to be absolutely certain where their loyalties lie. How they can go from playing for the people of Dreamsong to Boltov’s inner circle in a few short days is beyond me. But if I’m to work with them, I need to understand.

“Only when we’re summoned. The king has a good ear for music; he appreciates quality.”

That must be why they’ve been afforded some freedoms. They must’ve cut a deal with the king—or at least reached an understanding. Is what I have to offer enough to sway them from the security they’ve managed to procure?

“Do you think he would appreciate the quality of my playing?”

“As I said, I can’t speak for the king.”

That’s not a no. “It would be an honor to play for the Fae King.”

“Would it now?” He arches his eyebrows.

“I desperately want to get inside the castle.”

“And why is that?”

I bite my lower lip, weighing my next words carefully. “There is something—someone—within his walls that I would very much like to see. But alas, the Butchers keep the place well-guarded and I’m not of high enough standing to gain entry otherwise, so there’s no way I’ll be able to get in on my own.”

“You want to play your way in, is that it?” His directness gives me hope.

“If that’s what it takes.”

The man holds out a hand to one of his fellow performers. She hands him her lute without question. The leader then passes it to me.

“Play for it.”

“Pardon?” As I take the lute, he picks up his own from where it leans against the chair.

“A duel of the strings.” His fingers pluck up the neck of his fiddle. “I play, then you play, then I play, then you, until one of us is bested.”

“And how do we know when one of us is bested?” I’m already tuning the lute.

“We’ll know; that’s never a problem.”

The other minstrels are settling into their chairs. They wear smiles, as if this is all an amusing game to them—as if the fate of the fae wilds doesn’t hang in the balance. Maybe it is just another amusement. Maybe the life of these bards is looking for one burst of inspiration, or entertainment, after the next. They have no loyalty, no fidelity, but to the muse of music.

Perhaps it’s their lack of loyalty to anyone that means I can trust them. It makes them simple and straightforward. I’ll always know where they stand—for themselves.

“If I win, you let me and my friend join your troupe for the next performance inside the castle, yes?” I ask carefully, knowing I need to be mindful when cutting a bargain with fae.

“You and your friend?”

“He can play the drums.” I consider this, knowing the musical aptitude of the people I’m speaking to. “Or, he can be like a jester, dancing about. He’s small and can be quite silly.”

The leader exchanges glances with another woman. She chuckles. “I think I’d like to see her little assistant.”

“Very well then. You’ve a deal.”

No sooner does the man say it than his fingers start to move. He starts off slow, dancing around single notes, plucking one string after the next, before they evolve into chords. It’s a shrill, short little ditty, almost like a wordless limerick in music form.

The second he stops, I begin to play. I take the same line he laid with his notes and turn it into full chords. When he plays next, he harmonizes those chords, bow in hand this time and blazing across the strings.

I’m in as much awe watching him play now as the very first time. Inspiration makes my fingertips itch. The music soothes away my troubles. It puts the world on hold. I can’t stop myself. I don’t wait for my turn.

I begin playing in harmony, and then, in creative dissonance to him. The leader gives me a glance, and a smirk, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. I grin slyly at him as well and begin to play faster. We egg each other on with glances and clever notes. The troupe begins to stomp and clap. And as we reach our crescendo, we both finish with a flourish. Breathless.

We share a smile, as only two musicians can.

“All right. You should get some rest. Because tonight, you come with us to play for Boltov.”