Chapter Fourteen Vina
Chapter Fourteen
Vina
If you fall into the grasp of the fae, you must not eat or drink. Seek cold iron. Show them respect. They are our elders on the Isle, and will no doubt outlive us all, save our fair and just Eternal Queen.
And finally, make peace with your death. The fae obey their own laws beyond our ken, and take pleasure in mortal suffering. You may obey every rule set before you and still lose your life.
Source: Parables for the Elfshot by Dr. Felix Scott
Archivist’s Ruling: Preserve. Publication permitted. No further action required.
Around Vina, the other people were shivering with fear. The air was oddly heavy and cold—colder than it had been when she’d been found by a witch (not her witch; and how shameful it was, to be captured by someone else).
Vina wasn’t shivering. Under her skin, the fae geas was running hot. Her skin wasn’t shining this time—which was certainly a relief, considering the situation she was in—but the fire was awake. It must have sensed the fae maiden.
The fae maiden did not look familiar to Vina, but there was something about her that made a deep instinct twang in Vina like an untuned lute.
The maiden was riding away now, her horse’s cantering sharp and light, the sound of raindrops on stone.
Surrounded by her nymphs, she looked like a royal holding court.
They came to a deep valley that arrived so suddenly, Vina was sure the latent magic of the ancient forest had carved it out for the fae maiden’s pleasure.
The fae maiden held out a hand; her nymph took it, holding the fae maiden steady so that she could slither elegantly from horseback to the ground.
The maiden turned. Her eyes lit on Vina.
“Ah,” the fae maiden breathed. A smile stretched her beautiful mouth, the bloodred lips, the pearly white teeth. “My gift has truly arrived.” Her gaze slid away, starry and cold. “The rest of you may sit at my table. Feast. Be merry.”
It was like the Eternal Queen’s balls, seen through a dark looking glass.
The feasting table was wizened wood, a living tree sculpted to the fae maiden’s pleasure.
It lay in the basin of the valley, on grass turned silvery by moonlight.
Music began—strains from a violin, the high call of a flute. No nymphs were playing.
Spirits and ghosts, Vina realized. It explained the coldness—and the way Simran’s eyes had shifted, cataloging things Vina certainly couldn’t see. Ruefully, Vina considered—not for the first time—how useful it would be to have magic.
A pale figure, fish-eyed, grasped Vina’s arm.
“Sit,” the nymph said cordially. Her white fingers clasped the back of the chair, drawing it out. Vina sat.
She’d been seated opposite a thronelike wooden chair. The fae maiden swept into the seat, settling in a cloud of black hair and scent like violets. Vina gripped the arms of her own chair.
The scent was unmistakable. The fae was an incarnate.
No wonder she’d taken special notice of Vina. It was a stroke of good luck, at least, that the fae maiden had not sensed Simran. Vina had, of course. Vina couldn’t help but notice Simran, no matter where they were.
The maiden smiled, and gestured at the feast before them. Purple, fat grapes, and tureens of miniature birds in a rich gravy; bowls of trembling jellies, and sliced fruit that fair glowed with its own richness.
She grasped a silvery jug and raised it over the glass set by Vina’s empty plate.
“Will you drink, Sir Lavinia?”
So. She knew Vina’s name.
“I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of wine.”
“Yes.” Her nose wrinkled. “You do smell like you have. But mortal wine is nothing compared to the sweet ambrosia of the fae court.”
The lady poured the wine. It was the color of rubies, and swirled of its own accord in the glass, sparkling and unnatural. Vina’s mouth ached with the desire to drink it.
That was the problem with fae food. It made you hunger for it; it wanted you to want it.
But once consumed, it placed you in the thrall of the fae who’d offered it.
All children on the Isle were taught to avoid and abhor it, but that was easier said than done.
Around her, she could see the four other people who’d been hunted down by witches. They were eating, their eyes feverish.
She took a slow breath. The scent of violets reminded her that this was not a feast she could afford to partake in.
“I am grateful for your hospitality,” she said slowly, carefully. “But I’m afraid I must refuse for now.”
The fae woman laughed and poured her own goblet of wine.
“My name,” she said, “is Tristesse. I believe you were friends with my dear knight. I did not have the pleasure to meet him in this lifetime, so I am very glad to meet you.”
“You mean—Soren? Soren was your…?”
“My knight,” she said. “Yes. Born to love me and perish lovelorn. He should have been mine again, and he was stolen from me. And now I am alone. Our story is broken. He will never return.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Vina said gently. “Soren was a good person.”
“My loss? I did not know him, Sir Lavinia. Had we met, I would have destroyed him. His fate was to wither from loving me, and mine was to enchant him and take his heart and his strength with me. I cannot grieve him. I would never have known him. No, I grieve my tale. That, and no more. Are you sure you won’t drink? ”
Vina felt parched, so thirsty that her throat ached.
“I’m sure,” she said.
The others were gorging themselves now, caught in a magical frenzy. The violin was screeching. Vina grappled for words, for any distraction, as the fae looked at her and the food beckoned.
“I met Liege Alder,” said Vina. “They said they’re kin to you.”
The fae’s mouth curved with pleasure.
“Alder is wise, are they not? I can sense their magic in you. What bargain did they strike with you? No—don’t tell me,” she urged, leaning forward. “Let me see.”
Vina could say nothing before she felt the fae’s magic stretch its fingers into her blood, seeking out the geas still webbed inside her. Fire raced through her skin again as Tristesse examined the geas.
“Oh, I knew you were a gift,” Tristesse said, beaming. “They told me you were—but I did not realize! What a fine surprise. You will do nicely.”
Abruptly, she released Vina.
“Where were you going before I claimed you?” Tristesse asked, cocking her head. “What quest has led you to this forest, that blankets the land and breathes in the oldest tales? Were you searching for him?”
Vina did not know who she meant. The pale assassin, perhaps?
“It matters not,” Tristesse proclaimed. “Your old quest is over, and a new one begins. I am in need of a knight.”
“Well, that’s what I am,” Vina said agreeably, her veins still aching. “Do you need me to slay a monster? Seek out a lost treasure?”
“No.” A laugh. “No. I need a knight to love me and lose me; to wither to death, feverish with love for me. I need my tale to survive. That means I need you.”
For a moment Vina didn’t understand. It simply wasn’t possible.
“You can’t simply take me,” said Vina. “I’m not Soren. I don’t belong to the tale of the Merciless Maiden.”
“You’re a knight,” Tristesse said dismissively. “That’s good enough.”
“One incarnate knight can’t simply replace another.” Vina leaned forward. “Lady Tristesse, I am desperately sorry your tale has died—and all of the Isle that relied upon it. But I must serve my purpose and my own tale. I cannot simply enter yours. Such a thing isn’t possible. It can’t be done.”
“How do you know? I am afraid you’re an ignorant creature, with barely any knowledge of what you are or how you came to be.”
“I know that I am the newest knight in an unbroken line,” Vina said evenly, trying to remain calm. “I know that I’ve lived and died for centuries. As a fellow incarnate, you must know you cannot change that.”
“Do you think you were always destined for this?” The fae laughed, a trilling sound of silvery bells.
“You were a mortal child once—shaped only by your blood and birth and the folk who raised you. But you had an open heart, a seeking and curious mind—and the tale found the keyhole into your soul, and took you. The tale claimed you. Wrote upon you, like ink on vellum, and remade you entirely. But I am not like you.” She leaned forward.
“I am not a wide-eyed child, snared and changed by the needs of a tale. I am tale-born and tale-made—a being of enchantment and eldritch might, born from the ink of the Isle itself. Without my tale, I cannot return to flesh alone. I must fade away—back to what made me.”
Tristesse reached for the long, flowing silver sleeve of her gown and drew it back. Her hand was pale, elegant, talon-nailed—but the arm was scarred with ink, peeling to reveal bubbling darkness. Vina recoiled, viscerally recalling the trees in Gore that melted away.
“Lady,” Vina whispered, horror-struck. “You are dying.”
“No,” snapped the fae, tugging her sleeve back into place.
Her voice was suddenly as sharp as a knife, her eyes just as cutting.
The humans around them went still, their faces smeared, their eyes wide—horror seeping in, as they realized what they had done, and what they had bound themselves to.
“My tale and I have bargained. It understands I am going to save it. I have promised it a knight, a mortal with an open, tale-seeking heart. A knight to love me and die for me. You’ll do. I’ll write my tale over your own.”
Vina shook her head, cold and horrified. “No,” she said, aghast. “It isn’t possible. You’ll destroy two tales instead of one.”
And yet disquiet filled her. Was it possible? She hadn’t thought you could reason with a tale. But she thought suddenly again of Gore, where she’d felt the tale tug and pull at her, and she’d firmly refused it.
And the tale had let her. She had bargained with it, just as Tristesse had claimed to bargain with her own.