Naked Blade
This piece is carved into the inside of a door, the outline of a sword with an emblem etched into the blade.
The details of the emblem are vague, incomplete, so it’s impossible to discern what it’s meant to represent.
And the blade itself is flawed, with lines indicating where it will, one day, break from that implicit fault.
There is no hand present in the design to wield the blade, nor is there a sheath to shelter it.
The blade is the focus, the beginning and the end.
Kerboros
In distant halls, I hear the shouts, a great clamor spreading like a wave.
But I never volunteer my time to the Lord and Lady of Winter.
No matter the situation, while they do compel my service time and again, I never proffer it freely.
Had I the power, I’d sabotage everything related to Thea’s forced nuptials.
As far as I’m concerned, whatever has gone wrong can continue on its way.
I remain in my quarters, ignoring the ruckus, carving the first shallow shapes of a new bas-relief.
And I smile.
It is not my problem until I’m summoned to deal with it. I continue slicing delicate strips from the wall that curl downward like the peels of a desiccated fruit.
Whatever has occurred, they will demand that I remediate the crisis. At this point, I doubt that my distant cousin would know how to act without first steering my hand wrapped around the hilt. He thinks that if I do violence in his name, the court will loathe him less.
For I’m the perpetrator; I hold the weapon. But he is shortsighted and imperceptive. Everyone else sees, as well as I do, that I’m not the wielder; I’m the dagger.
For now, however, I’m permitted to choose the angle of my cuts, create a design of my own making. The artistry is soothing. I’m repeating patterns I find everywhere—in the scales of sea creatures and the shells they leave behind.
It is a rare peace that cannot last.
The sounds intensify, until eventually, they culminate with the sound of small fists thumping on my closed door. I take my time in responding, knowing that each tick of the clock will feel intolerable to my accursed cousin, the Lord of Winter.
Lord only of his own sight line.
There are quiet rebellions all around him, and he lacks the wit to discern them because he is always scanning for overt resistance, not seeing the subtle markers of disrespect.
The whole court despises my cousin and his consort, and I doubt the courtiers would weep if Summer conquered the realm and imposed new leadership, a puppet more amenable to their terms.
Not that I’m willing to serve as such.
Once I complete my arrangements and escape from Liskaal’s influence, I will never permit anyone else to make me dance.
Before opening the door, I clean my artistic tools and put them away with precision that must feel maddening to the person who has demanded entrance three times with urgent rapping. Only then do I respond to the summons.
“Yes?” I regard the brownie with a calm mien, unmoved by the chaos spinning in the shadows behind us.
“Lord Liskaal needs you, sir.”
I say nothing.
But with every moment, the urge to smile plucks at me. I must not, of course.
I must behave as if I know nothing about what’s transpired and have no insight as to how the Summer delegation came to vanish within our walls. If that’s what has occurred. I will put my faith in nothing before confirming it for myself.
The brownie takes the direct path instead of sticking to the corridors allotted for the use of the wild fae.
This choice reveals much about the urgency of our mission.
The great hall is empty as we pass through, and it smells of trampled flowers.
Something large and angry rampaged here, terrorizing the court.
Blood here. And here, drying now. Those who serve will be up all night, scrubbing away stains from the gleaming white.
I guessed at the chaos from the distant noises, but I’m not a guard.
I suppose if I was ordered to fight, to defend the Winter Court, I would comply. But that is a waste of my magic, and for Liskaal’s many faults, he’s not a complete dolt. He tends not to squander valuable resources, and there are other bodies better suited to protecting empty rooms and halls.
“What transpired?” I ask.
It would seem strange for me to evince no curiosity, so I ask even when I may be able to surmise.
Through my spiderlings, I specialize in secrets.
And there are always those who pay for such.
As I work through intermediaries and dead drops, nothing could be traced back to me, and someone who wanted to pass unnoticed might find my knowledge useful.
The brownie is young, nervous. Her gaze darts into all the dark corners before she speaks in a tiny voice that reminds me of ringing bells. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. It’s better for you to get your information from the source.”
“You didn’t see anything?” I press.
People tend not to like me. I encourage it. She’s no exception, trembling from the question like I might blame everything on her and offer her to the Lord and Lady of Winter. As if I’d do that to my worst enemy, let alone a kitchen brownie whose name I can’t recall.
“I truly don’t know,” she squeaks. “But I’ve heard a lot of confusing nonsense.”
“It would be helpful if you shared that information.” Even when I try to sound reassuring, I come across as gruff.
At least, I suspect that’s true from her audible gulp. Then she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, making eye contact. “You didn’t get this from me, yeah?”
“Understood. To be frank, I don’t even know your name, so I wouldn’t be able to provide that intelligence to anyone who inquired.”
That seems to soothe her, and her tension eases. “Right. Well, someone I know who was in the serving hall said it was a fachan! But how in the world did the beast get past all the guards and wind up running wild?”
“An excellent question. I appreciate the information.”
As we pass through the palace, I notice that the damage appears to be largely cosmetic. Someone wanted the compound on high alert, but not to mount an offensive. A fachan qualifies as an excellent diversion, and it allowed the Summer delegation to slip away in the confusion.
“Did they catch the creature?” I inquire.
She shakes her head. “It disappeared, along with those bigwig guests. People can’t just vanish, can they?”
“Not usually,” I agree.
It is possible. With the right preparation.
And if someone like me isn’t tasked with finding the lost. Thoughtful, I let the silence stand, analyzing the information I’ve acquired.
An illusory fachan, perhaps, with agents judiciously placed to create physical evidence of its passage?
That would have provided cover for the real escape.
Even if Liskaal has come to the same conclusion, he won’t view the situation as I do.
He’ll see this as a subtle statement that Summer has no intention of withdrawing their claim on Winter’s border.
The brownie leads me to the lord and lady’s private chambers. “Here we are. Good luck to you.”
That is a curious thing to say. I knock twice and wait, turning to watch her scurry away before their attendant opens the door.
He is high fae, beautiful in the manner many are, with perfect features, pointed ears, pale skin, and ink-dark hair.
His eyes are like silver pools, reflecting nothing.
And he is clad head to toe in their colors, his fitted uniform white and silver, showing every line of his body.
He makes a sweeping gesture to invite me in. “You’re expected. The Lord and Lady of Winter are wrapping up in the throne room. They will speak with you presently.”
I keep my face still, suppressing instinctive scorn.
Such absolute self-aggrandizement—they rushed me to arrive when they’re not even here to receive me.
It feels like the ultimate in posturing.
They never stop posing, those two, so enamored with their own importance that they can’t see the moving forest for the trees.
There’s a human story, written by some famous bard, about how a noble house will fall when the forest comes for them.
I’ve forgotten the particulars, but yes, these two will never realize what’s happening—that I’ve cut all the cords—until it’s too late.
All I need to do is play my role for a little longer.
Even if compliance burns like fire.