Chapter Eight Vina #3
Look at what happens right in front of you, her expression said. Why have you never done anything about it?
Vina looked away first, shame in her belly.
The balls held at the royal Palace were lavish beyond all belief.
Vina had attended her first soon after being found out as an incarnate.
She’d worn a stiff dress, flat at the bodice in the style the Queen favored, her hair piled on her head in plaits beneath a veil.
She’d loathed that entire candlelit banquet and formal dance, as she’d stumbled through steps as the adults watched her with curious eyes, this child incarnate trussed in velvet and gold.
But now she was an adult, and although she couldn’t avoid probing eyes, she had more control over some things than she’d once had. Her appearance, for one.
Her doublet was unadorned by ruffles, plain velvet stitched with silver, broad at the shoulders and whittled at the waist. In front of her small bathroom mirror, she wetted her short hair and combed it until the curls fell in a pleasing shape.
She changed her earrings from gold to silver to match. It was enough.
The banqueting hall was warm, scented by the pine smoke of open hearth fires, the ceilings high and wooden floors polished to a gleaming shine.
The walls were covered in tapestries of great incarnate tales: dragons with lustrous green scales, and women in coned hats; serpents and warlocks, great giants and wolves vaster than houses.
She avoided looking at them. Instead, she looked at the throng of nobility in the hall, the great lords and ladies all dressed for the Queen’s pleasure in her preferred clothing, ruffs and gowns, doublets and hose.
The candlelight was warm on their milling figures; the air smelled like rosewater and cardamom.
Among them stood a few alien figures; gowns at a closer glance woven from rose petals; imps, dryads; figures with faces of exquisite beauty.
The fae were here.
She thought of Soren and all her unanswered questions, tracking one figure with her eyes as she did so: a dryad perhaps, her hair woven into a long braid of leaves, and her companion, a tall figure with a long fall of golden-blond hair, power radiating from their form like light. The beginnings of a plan began to form.
“Vinny,” a voice said.
It was Matthias, concern and sympathy in his eyes.
“So,” he said after a pause. “You’re… Well. It begins. How do you feel?”
Vina smiled. “Have a wine for me,” she said. “Get one for Edmund too, if he’s here.”
“He’s here. He doesn’t want to talk.”
She didn’t stop smiling. “That’s fine,” she said lightly. “I’ll corner him another time, I’m sure.”
She grabbed her own glass of spiced wine from a silver tray. One drink would do her no real damage, and would make this whole business more palatable.
She downed it. Lowered the glass back down. As she did so, a chorus of trumpets erupted, and the nobles bowed low and graceful as the Queen swept in and took her seat at the high banqueting table, raised above the room.
That was Vina’s cue. She was moving even before a harried maid began to walk over to her, summoning her with flapping hands.
The floor before the banqueting table was bare of people. Waiting.
“The knight and the witch,” a herald announced, and Vina stepped forward with a breath, a smile.
Vina knew keenly that a tapestry of the knight and the witch hung in this room. That golden-haired man and that palely blond woman swooning in his arms were stitched into cloth behind the Queen’s seat, their bodies surrounded by a circle of blood.
The pale witch could not have been more different from Simran, who was being harried to the center of the hall by two ladies-in-waiting.
Simran’s brown skin glowed in the candlelight.
Her expression was flat and unreadable, her bones sharp, her arms crossed.
She was angry and beautiful—like a sharp blade, to be held with reverence, moved with skill. Vina’s throat felt dry.
Simran wore her hair in a simple black braid. Her gown was stiff brocade but entirely black, copper embellished where Vina’s was silver, as if they were twined together by the language of cloth, not just their shared tale.
Vina stepped forward and took Simran’s hand in her own.
Simran stared back at her, defiant and cool, but under the surface Vina could see her panic. Either she had not been told what to do, or she had forgotten.
“First, bow to the Queen with me,” Vina said in a low voice. She turned and bowed, Simran mirroring her.
The Queen smiled. Raised a hand. A lute began to play to a slow and mournful rhythm.
“… then we dance,” said Vina.
“Dance,” Simran repeated. “Is this necessary?” Her voice softened to a whisper. “This ball, this stupidity. All of this. What is the damn point?”
“Monarchy is a performance,” Vina said, smiling, always smiling.
Few would be able to read her lips—and after so long unable to speak to Simran, it seemed important to tell her this.
“It needs balls and feasts and thrones and crowns to survive. We’re food for her power.
We dance to serve.” She could feel the prickling heat of all those eyes on her, the wine in her belly.
“Think of us as a dancing bear, here for entertainment. Have you ever danced the pavane?”
“Fuck no,” Simran said under her breath.
“Follow my lead, then.” She raised Simran’s hand in her own, feeling the light, warm weight of it. “The pavane has been danced a thousand times here in this hall,” she whispered, as she began to turn, a slow and stately motion. “The tale of it will guide you where I can’t.”
It was a solemn thing, this dance. Vina circled Simran. Simran moved with her whispers, and with the tug of the subtle tale threaded into the floor, the air.
When their hands touched again, she felt the absurd warmth of sunlight on her hair, so distinct from the hearth fire’s warmth. She smelled rustling green leaves. She could see from the widening of Simran’s eyes that she had too.
Others joined them, beginning the steps of the pavane, mingling on the waxed wooden floor.
Their hands were still joined. Vina forced herself to let go.
“Is it enough?” Simran asked. “Can we stop now?”
“It’s enough,” said Vina.
“Good.” Her mouth firmed. “We should talk.”
“I agree,” said Vina, relieved. Finally.
Simran hesitated, moving to speak. Then paused, turning her head. “Damn,” she said. The ladies-in-waiting were swiftly bearing down on them, now that the dance was done.
“They won’t leave me alone,” Simran muttered. “I’ve already tried to escape twice, but they won’t look away.”
“Twice?”
“Are you surprised? Truly?” Simran’s eyes snapped to hers, full of familiar fire.
“No,” said Vina ruefully. “It surprises me you didn’t try more times.”
“All the tools of my magic were taken.”
“They’ll be returned to you when our tale begins, I’m sure.”
Simran’s expression grew suddenly pinched. Vina knew her words had been no real comfort, and perhaps the opposite. She winced internally.
The ladies-in-waiting came over to take Simran each by an arm. They led her away.
Vina watched for a moment. Then, realizing how many eyes were on her, she loosened her posture.
She went to seek out another drink. She drank one mouthful for show, then carried the rest of the glass out with her into the gardens attached to the banqueting hall.
There were a few figures already standing out in the moonlight, laughing quietly and kissing in the shadows.
Vina sauntered past them into the maze that filled the garden, crafted out of roses and thorns.
Inside it, she kneeled and carefully poured her wine into the earth. She held her breath, the moon looming above her. A gift to the ground could summon any waiting fae. But Vina was sure there was only one that would seek her out.
“A libation to the soil, knight? How kind of you to summon us in the traditional manner.”
She raised her head. A dryad and a fae stood suddenly before her.
The dryad wore roses and green braids within her hair.
The fae was beautiful beyond comprehension, radiating the same power they had when Vina had first spied them across the room.
But that beauty was typical of their kind, and did nothing to move Vina’s heart.
“My liege is Alder,” said the dryad proudly. “They serve in the House of Lords, integral to the leadership of the Isle. You should be honored to have them answer your call.”
You could tell, often, from looking at a fae whether they were ancient and worthy of respect. This one wore a diaphanous gown of blue beneath a cloak of silver, flowers in their golden hair, their authority undeniable.
“I am honored,” Vina said, standing and bowing deeply.
“You’re looking for one of my kindred,” the fae said. Their eyes were as green as grass, lividly bright. “I feel the desire on you.”
“I seek the Merciless Maiden,” Vina admitted. “My friend—the knight of her tale—is dead. Murdered by a killer of incarnates. Something is rotten on the Isle, fair liege, and I must put it right. I hope she may have answers.”
The fae hummed, a light and thoughtful noise.
“You are not the first, and will not be the last to seek out the Maiden. Your house of mortal ministers has been wroth at the fae courts keeping her from them.” They cocked their head. “You have seen this killer?”
“I saw the man,” Vina admitted. “I saw him kill another incarnate. If you cannot introduce me to the Merciless Maiden, then all I seek is… information. I fear my own tale is in danger too.” She swallowed. “Tell me what the man is, Liege of the Fae. Tell me what I face, and how he can be killed.”
Their eyes glittered, amused and curious.
“I cannot tell you exactly how to defeat him, or all that he is,” they said.
“But he is old and canny and known to us. We can tell you a secret we have not even told the Commons, the Queen, the ink-pushers in the Tower. We can tell you a secret that could lead to his destruction. Will that suffice?”
“Yes,” Vina said.
“Come, then,” they replied. “Follow me into this labyrinth, knight. I am a Liege of the House of Fae, and I can give you what I have no desire to share with your mortal ministers. We will bargain.”
Vina hesitated.
“And what must I pay for the knowledge I seek?”
The fae’s smile lengthened and deepened. And they answered.