Chapter 57
Fifty-Seven
Leaving through a servant’s gate, we slip into Delamere City. The moonlit streets are quiet as Rett leads us through shadowy alleys and narrow lanes. He wants our excursion to remain discreet, but I’m not sure if that’s possible.
We pass a gaudy building illuminated in golden light by lanterns glowing in every other window. Raucous laughter drifts out, followed by pleasurable moans that escalate in passion to a climax. Scantily clad women in frilly, low-cut dresses lean out of the open windows, waving and calling down.
“Evening, Prince Everett! Care to stop in for a visit?” purrs a voluptuous female, swishing her tail while cat ears peek through her calico tresses. She plucks a Mellonia bloom, sucking the nectar out of the base.
“These missed you, darling!” Another presses her bare orc breasts against the window glass, her nipples hard and pointed. I glance at Rett quizzically and watch his face go from relaxed emerald to a brilliant shade of crimson before he sheepishly smiles at me.
My eyebrows lift.
If I were a typical woman, I would care more about his visiting this establishment, and I do, in an irritated sense, but I’m distracted by something more important.
I ask, “Does the Beast Realm allow simple harlotry here?” Seeing a real brothel or bawdy house, as they’re sometimes called, shocks my senses.
It’s hard to believe—let alone witness it.
He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze.
“Well, it wasn’t always this way. The Beast Realm used to have Spirit-Fae Cathedrals that banned brothels and common prostitution in favor of Lady Courtesans, but the priestesses fell out of power generations ago, and now the brothels are a thriving business model, if I’m being honest.”
Two more prostitutes yell greetings, waving embroidered handkerchiefs. I notice multiple sets of initials mark the square bits of fabric.
“So the women truly choose this work… willingly?” I ask slowly, eager to learn more about their mindsets here.
“Mostly, yes,” he says. “If a prostitute is held against her will, then the brothel owner is arrested and placed in the dungeons to be made an example of. It’s strictly against the law, so it rarely happens.
” I nod slowly, worrying about the courtesans back home and wondering if Rett is telling the whole truth.
The catcalls for Rett fade as we continue to walk.
Rett slips his hand around mine, and we stroll a long distance, deep into the city center, until we reach a grassy park full of beastfolk sitting on patchwork quilts.
We stop beside a small basket and blanket strategically placed beneath a blossom tree. Rett gestures to the setup, making me smile appreciatively.
From where we are sitting, we can see a wooden stage lit with many lanterns. Performers rush around behind a curtain, and musicians tune their braying instruments. There’s a pleasant disorganization as everyone tries to find seats while last-minute adjustments are made.
The corners of Rett’s mouth turn into a smirk as he watches the preparations. He leans toward me, brushing our shoulders together. “They have productions here once a month, always on the full moon.”
“Oh, really? What are they like?”
“It varies. Sometimes, they perform popular plays or adaptations of novels. Sometimes, they act out a bard’s ballad or ancient historical texts. It’s all art to them, so they get creative.”
Three trumpets blare from the side, and the curtain over the stage swings back, revealing props resembling the ocean and a few boulders. A tall woman in a gauzy, nearly translucent robe hangs from a thin cable in the air above.
From the corner of the lantern-lit platform, a beautiful sprite narrates in a mature voice, “At the beginning of time, the Spirit Goddess ruled the Fae Realm, but with her realm already teeming with an abundance of life and beauty, she had little else to nurture. So she descended upon the water world of the nymphs and creatures of the deep, using her fae-magic to bring forth the land.”
The actress playing the goddess is lowered while the boulders flip over, the land multiplying and turning lime green.
A group of women runs across the stage in graceful leaps and dances.
They wear even fewer clothes—a sparkly paste over their breasts, and a whimsical skirt of cobalt gauze.
They imitate a fighting motion as they circle and dance around the goddess.
Rett mutters under his breath, “They look nothing like real—”
The narrator starts speaking again: “Angered over the theft of their beloved home, the water nymphs vowed to hate the land-dwellers and their creator forevermore.” The goddess collapses to the ground while the nymphs fall into the fake water. Lanterns pointing at the stage go dark.
What I assume are the land-dwellers—the humans—hold small flickering lights.
They each have a candle as they come and help the Spirit Goddess to her feet.
A giant sun moves across the stage, and in its wake, the bare landscape disappears, replaced by a castle cutout with villages and cottages sprinkled in the background.
The narrator’s voice booms: “And over time, the Human Realm grew and grew until no free land remained. War reigned supreme, fighting over the resources of the kingdoms. The Spirit Goddess urged them to put their weapons down as they recklessly destroyed her creation, but they did not.”
A group of soldiers shoves the goddess until she stumbles offstage.
She sits on a rock and watches forlornly as they battle each other, their swords coming down in resounding crashes.
Bodies crumple into a heap, and the goddess begins to stroll through the fake carnage, openly weeping.
The survivors turn on her, pointing their fingers at her.
She runs away.
The humans clutch at her clothing, ripping and shredding the fabric until the goddess is almost naked. She throws her arms out. They run at her but hurl themselves backward as if by an invisible power.
“Spiraling into madness at the rejection of her love and wisdom, the Spirit Goddess turned violent, killing on sight to clear the land of the pestilence she helped spread across it.”
The lantern lights flash slowly at first, then faster and faster until they blink in disarray. Stagehands use reflective mirrors to bounce the light toward the audience. Gasps ripple through the crowd.
My eyelids grow heavy, and my eyes sting with needle-sharp acuteness before they roll back into my head.
An anchor pulls me down. My stomach aches and then roils with nausea before my vision goes dark. Rett’s hand wraps around my elbow, but I disappear into the roaring whispers.
Somehow, in the blink of an eye, I come to exist in a familiar yet strange land. The scene unfolding is hazy, making me realize what I’m seeing is in my mind—it appears as if the play is coming to life.
The Spirit Goddess stands as a radiant fae female with pointed ears and an iridescent circlet resting over elegant white-lavender hair.
She wears an ivory velvet gown. Fabric puffs at her elbows, while the sleeves are long and wide at the wrists, revealing matching iridescent cuffs fastened above her delicate hands.
Intricate stitching stretches over the broad hemline of her skirts, which swishes at her booted ankles.
And around her neck, a white fox fur collar and delicate chains drape at different lengths.
Striding through a small village, she shoots fire from her palm onto the thatched roofs of the brown cottages, setting them ablaze.
“It’s Brigid! Run!” yell the silver-eyed children as they race to the white-treed forest behind their homes. Their fathers and mothers approach her imposing figure, wielding pitchforks, axes—anything they can get their hands on.
Eyes black as pitch, Brigid instantly vaporizes them with her magic. Their skin evaporates, leaving only their bones to fall where they once stood.
My body jerks violently.
Lurching.
I can feel Rett’s hands shaking me as he calls my name.
“Tabitha.”
“Tabitha.”
“Tabitha.”