Chapter 11 Fool’s Paradise #2
Merelle. The name was familiar, somehow? Maybe? I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”
The tension in Lorreth’s shoulders fell away; he knew he’d already won. “Merelle was Ren’s sister. She died on the side of that frozen mountain, and none of us have been the same since.”
“Tell me.” Now that he’d mentioned her, I had to know. “Ren had a sister?”
“Not just a sister. A twin . . .”
I was already back on my feet, the pain in my shoulder forgotten. I raised Solace, but Lorreth let out an annoyed groan and batted the sword away before I could adopt a defensive stance.
“Y’know what? On second thought, if we’re talking about Merelle, we shouldn’t be fighting at the same time. We should be doing the next best thing.”
I had a feeling I already knew what Lorreth was going to suggest next, but I still had to ask. “What’s that?”
“Drinking, of course. Come on. These blood suckers are too fancy for beer, I’m afraid, but they really know their wine.”
What had I expected? An armed escort through the palace?
A crowd lining the streets, cheering me as I passed?
No, of course not. That would have been ridiculous.
But I hadn’t expected Lorreth to toss a cloak around my shoulders, yank my hood up, and bully me out of Ammontraíeth without anyone stopping us or saying a word.
That just seemed too easy. Though I hated it, I was getting used to residents of the Blood Court kneeling whenever I passed them in a hallway or entered a room.
With my hood drawn up tonight, my reluctant subjects didn’t recognize me for who I was, and so I slipped out of Ammontraíeth unmolested.
I knew there were buildings outside the palace.
Lots of them. I could see them from the balcony outside my bedroom.
I hadn’t paid much attention to them, though.
When I stood out on the balcony at night, my attention turned northward, across the barren plains that stood between me and my mate, and not down at the hub of activity that bustled around Ammontraíeth’s feet.
The Cogs—that’s what Lorreth called the circular, interlocking neighborhoods, each connected by a steep downward staircase until they reached street level.
Rain hammered on the rooftops of the narrow buildings, sluicing over slate and pouring from cracked clay gutters onto the cobbled streets.
We cut through the second tier of the Cogs—an area frequented by blood mages, the lich-born, and outcast paladins looking to trade questionable goods, according to Lorreth.
Shadowy courtyards waited down narrow covered walkways that branched off the main thoroughfare.
Brick-built shops with crooked roofs and windows fogged with condensation advertised tinctures, tarot readings, and familiars for sale.
As we walked, Lorreth held true to his promise and told the tale of the Ajun Gate.
I was the only one who remembered the song he’d once sung about that terrible night on the mountain, but even that hadn’t covered all of it.
Renfis’s poor sister Merelle had burned to death in the most horrific way, and Ren had been there when it had happened.
She lived on in a small way, part of her spirit bound to Fisher’s sword, but .
. . it was hard to imagine how her loss had affected the band of warriors.
Hard.
An appropriate thought. Everything about this place was hard, and the Cogs was no exception.
There were plenty of people out and about their business as we walked—mostly high bloods, with the exception of a feeder every once in a while, collared and being used in lieu of a packhorse.
I tried not to stare from underneath the hood of my oilskin cloak.
The feeders were gaunt and thin, little more than rotting skin stretched over bone.
Their eyes bore a hunger that could never be sated.
Their masters dragged them along on chains, taunting them with vials of pungent blood and laughing at their desperation as they strained for their prize.
Everywhere I looked, some new form of cruelty unfolded before my eyes. A female, stripped to the waist and lashed to a post, the pale skin of her back parting like wet paper as she was whipped.
A child wailing, crimson tears rolling down his cheeks, shoved this way and that, ignored by the other high bloods as they hurried about their errands.
A spindly-legged creature crouched on the top of a low stone wall, tearing the limbs off a rat before ripping its head off and drinking from its body like a cup.
But . . . there was beauty to be found here, too. It felt wrong to acknowledge that anything in Sanasroth could be beautiful, but I found myself awed as I followed Lorreth through the winding, narrow pathways that cut between the buildings.
From window boxes, night-blooming flowers cast fragrant spores up into the cool air. They crept in vines up the fascias of the buildings, carpeting the stonework with tiny white flowers that smelled like jasmine.
Some of the shop windows had stained glass that caught and refracted the glow from evenlight candles that shimmered within.
The designs were stunning, a myriad of colors cleverly soldered together to depict some of the most intricate, expertly crafted scenes I had ever seen.
And then there were the high bloods themselves.
They wore cruel smiles, and their eyes flashed like knives in the dark, but their features were delicate, their skin flawless, their shirts exquisitely tailored, their dresses sheer in silk and satin.
Lorreth led the way, eyes pinned straight ahead as he confidently cut through the crowds.
He didn’t see the writhing bodies down each darkened side street—the painted females, perfect as dolls, with their heads thrown back in ecstasy as well-dressed, raven-haired princes of the night dipped fingers between their bare thighs and drank deep from the hollows of their necks.
He didn’t seem to notice the hissing, either.
Wherever Lorreth passed, high bloods recoiled, baring their fangs at him. Hatred burned bright as fire in their eyes, but not one of them made to touch him.
“You’re popular,” I mused from beneath my hood. “Must be nice.”
“They have no idea who I am,” Lorreth answered. “They sense the silver strapped to my back. That’s all that matters to them.”
“Mm. I’m sure the fact that you’re the only Fae male in Ammontraíeth hasn’t escaped their notice, either.”
Lorreth bared his teeth at one brave high blood female who dared block his path.
She spat curses at him in an unfamiliar, guttural language until he was within arm’s reach, then she spun around and vaulted away up the side of a building.
“You’d be surprised,” Lorreth said airily, ignoring the angry female.
“There are more Fae here than you’d think. ”
“What? No way. No member of the Fae would come here willingly.”
The warrior placed a hand on the door of the dilapidated building in front of him, raising his eyebrows as he faced me.
“No one said anything about willingly. Most of them are thralls.” He raised his voice so that the high bloods staring at us in the street could hear him.
“After all, who do you think these fuckers eat?”
He made a good point. Truthfully, I’d spent a good deal of time trying not to think about how such a large court sustained itself when its sole food source was blood.
Lorreth gave me a wry smile as he pushed open the door and gestured me inside. “Welcome to the Fool’s Paradise, Saeris Fane.”
There were Fae everywhere. Males. Females. Children. It made no sense. The tavern was full of them. They sat in booths, laughing with high bloods. They picked at meals, listening with intense fascination as they were talked at by one high blood while another casually fed from their wrist.
A row of booths ran along the back wall with thick brocade curtains drawn across them for privacy, but a couple of the curtains hadn’t been drawn, and all I could make out was a tangle of writhing naked flesh.
Mouths on breasts, and wrapped around cocks, and—okay, yeah, that was enough of that.
I looked away, my cheeks coloring hotly.
“What do you call a fully dressed Sanasrothian?” Lorreth asked, his tone droll as he made a beeline for the bar.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Me, either. I’ve never fucking seen one.”
“I remember you, Faeling.” The sneering voice came from behind the bar. It belonged to a tall high blood with pinched, narrow features; quick, dark eyes; and a deep-set scowl. “You were in here a while ago.”
Even with my hood down now, the male behind the bar didn’t remember me. The denizens of the Cogs had no clue what their new queen looked like. Therefore none of them knelt, which was perfectly fine by me.
“If, by a while ago you mean six hundred years and some change, then yes, you’re probably right,” Lorreth said, dumping a leather pouch full of coins on the bar and sitting down heavily on a stool. “What of it?”
“You got into a fight and broke one of my tables. You also left without paying your tab.”
“Gods and martyrs. Six hundred years go by, and you’re still bent out of shape over a rickety table and a glass of wine?”
The high blood—presumably the owner of the Fool’s Paradise—narrowed his eyes to slits.
“All debts are paid.” He pointed an index finger with a disturbingly long fingernail up at a sign above the bar that, indeed, said, ALL DEBTS ARE PAID.
“You’ll have to settle your tab if you expect service from me. ”
“I don’t want any kind of service from you. My sister and I came for a glass or two. Let’s not make this any more uncomfortable than it already is.”
The high blood turned to me for the first time, the icy cold weight of his attention pressing down on me. I was too taken aback by what Lorreth had called me to care much about the male’s distasteful sneer, though.
Sister.
He had called me his sister.