A Lovely Light, page 11
“Roic thinks to insult me, you know,” she said, sounding more thoughtful than annoyed. “Sending a mortal as an envoy, forcing me to make deals with one of his pets. It’s a game to him. And you, changeling, I don’t yet know if you’re one of his pieces or one of mine.”
Game night, again. And if I hadn’t screwed it all up, maybe I wouldn’t even be here. Maybe I never would have reached for Rumor and set this all in motion.
“I’m not playing games.”
“Of course not. The players are already set. You, changeling, are simply moving on the board. Though not, I’d note, to any purpose.”
“I’m trying,” I said.
“Are you?” She finally looked away from Peregrine, and I was caught by the galaxies in her eyes, the furnace of her breath. “We have found another sleeper. A banshee. One of my own.”
“Oh.”
“I agreed for the sake of peace, to allow you to play at solving this, changeling. But it is spreading. It may be appropriate to call an end to our deal.”
An end, she didn’t say, to my life.
I looked down, then away. Whisper had stopped purring. Jest was holding tight to Banter’s arm; she clearly wasn’t going to let him help me. Not that he could.
Across the room, Nightingale and Peregrine were laughing together, his arms slung casually across her shoulders. Her gaze caught mine and her smile disappeared, as she leaned to whisper in his ear. For a second, I hoped. But he pulled back, shaking his head.
She stepped away from him, and I remembered the liquid beauty of her frantic birdsong. The golden chain in Eteir’s hand. Nightingale thought she could help me. But it was only a dream of hers. I was alone.
“And then what?” I asked Eteir. “If you had someone here who could figure this out, it would be over.”
“At the very least, I would not have an insolent, unaligned changeling complicating matters.”
“No, you’d just have more sleepers and nothing to do about them. I can connect with them. You’ve seen it. You’re letting me try because I’m the only one who can.”
Nightingale and Peregrine were arguing. I could hear the shape of her voice, rising, though not the words.
“So, you’ll heal my banshee, will you?”
Whisper’s ears were pressed back against his skull, his tail lashing. Rules, I thought, and chose my words with care.
“I said I would find out what happened to the kelpie and who was responsible. The banshee isn’t part of our deal.” I kept my eyes down, watching Eteir’s claws dig furrows into stone. “But I’ll check on them. You can, um, owe me one.”
It surely couldn’t hurt to have a favor.
“Owe you what?” Eteir asked, a hiss.
“Eteir!” Nightingale called out. She reached for me, all casual disregard momentarily discarded, her grip bruisingly tight. I watched her steal herself, posture easing, smile fixing into place.
“A life,” I said, forcing myself to look Eteir in the eye. “Isn’t that the going rate?”
“I cannot grant your life twice, changeling,” she said, ignoring Nightingale with ease. “But, should you help my banshee, I will grant you its equal weight.”
“Fine.”
She was smiling, the fire gone from her breath, the stars in her eyes settled into tidy constellations. I had sold myself too cheaply a second time, given her what she’d likely wanted from the start. But Nightingale’s grip eased as she leaned against me, her arm against mine, and I didn’t care.
“There is one more thing, changeling. Susaire is sending a second envoy. It would be well if you resolved this before their arrival. Otherwise, there may be no point in waiting on you to resolve it at all.”
“But—”
Eteir’s gaze cut from me to Nightingale, and while we stood side by side, I could feel myself disappearing, dismissed entirely from her notice.
“Well, then, Nightingale, how tidy. Susaire is sending a mermaid to our court. And your Peregrine has suggested a performance. You will, of course, sing for her.”
“Me?” Nightingale’s voice was light, her smile sly. But the filigree coils tightened on her skin. “I’m out of practice. I’d only embarrass you.”
“Then you best prepare yourself, while your pet here sees to my banshee.” Eteir leaned forward and took Nightingale’s hand, pulling her forward, away from me. “Listen, little songbird. This is not some whimsy of mine. Susaire’s friendship protects us all from Roic’s pretensions. But our alliance ends with the season. You would not like what followed, should we not renew our pact.”
“C’mon Eteir, you can hold your own against a couple ravens. Especially in Summer.”
“You mortals lie so sweetly.” Eteir patted Nightingale’s cheek, then let her go. “Run along. See to it that the changeling does not fail me. That neither of you do.”
CHAPTER 10
The banshee is not what she seems. Cannot be. The more I watch her, the clearer it becomes. I have known fae all my life, and what stands on that stage could never be one. She is as mortal as I, even as magic pours from her song, beats against me like waves, tries to pull me under. I have supped with banshees. I have felt the weight of their songs when Eteir was not around to command their silence. I know the warnings they cry are possibility, not prophecy.
Echo, somehow whole again, his face strange, blood pouring from his mouth as he whimpers my name.
No. It will not happen. I will not let it happen. My cheeks are wet, but I swallow the urge to sob, then pull my arm from Tyson’s grip. I am no child. I do not fall for petty magics, for the false visions of a false fae. I walk forward, toward the singer. She is only mortal. And if there is one thing I know of mortality here in the dying lands, it’s that magic is not ours to keep.
She does not look at me as I weave forward, through the weeping crowd. Doesn’t react when I climb the platform, stepping over the musicians to stand beside her. The magic of her is a knife in the soul, but it’s also rain on the desert of my lack. She has so much, and I have none. I grab her arms, turn her toward me, let the whole force of her power wash over me.
Drink it in.
Visions of death. My friends. My enemies. Tyson. My mother. Even, impossibly, Eteir, a spear through her chest, the Ravens gathered at her corpse. Strangers. The people in this club. A man in a narrow bed with tubes in his nose and arms, and him again, and him again.
I swallow and swallow and swallow the pain she offers, and when the singing stops, when she sways weakly in my arms, I reach for the source of it, a familiar thread, like the one that ties me to my changeling, drawn taut between her and a fae. I try to take it. Then to cut it. And when it will not break, I use the power I’ve stolen to dam the flow, and that, at least, seems to take.
The woman whimpers in my grasp. When I release her, she sways forward, throws her arms around my neck, and sobs. I run my fingers through the endless length of her hair and whisper meaningless reassurances. I know, just touching her, that the man I saw is her father. That he will die before the next sunset. I look out at the crowd, now coming back to themselves, and see their deaths clinging to them like desperate lovers.
Already, this new magic, so unlike what I know, strains against the bonds of my skin. Every word I speak is rich with it. I exhale magic and inhale only air. Let it go then. A banshee’s power can’t give me anything I need, can’t lead me back to Echo, dead already.
And in my visions, dead again.
I will not think of it.
I’m sitting on the platform, the woman still shuddering in my arms, when Tyson finds me again. Chloe is a few steps behind him. They avoid each other’s gazes, avoid looking at me. And I, having seen their deaths, seeing their deaths still, those hungry shadows, don’t look at them either.
“Do not touch me,” I say, not wanting to invite more visions than those that already surround them. They flinch from the magic clinging to my breath. The magic of a banshee’s song. Well, let them endure. I am.
“Sierra. I saw her,” Tyson says. “I saw them—You said she was safe!”
“It’s not real,” I say. “She’s fine. I would know if she wasn’t.”
“You wouldn’t!” he snaps. All pretense that he cares for me, gone now. “You said it yourself. You don’t have any power here.”
“I lost my magic, yes. My connection to her remains. And in this moment, I have both.”
“So that’s it,” Chloe says. She’s steadier than my brother. Like me, she’s known banshees. Still, her voice is hoarse, her eyes bloodshot. “That’s how you did it. It’s your changeling. You’ve still got one.”
“Of course.”
The woman finally loosens her hold on my neck, and I let her pull away. She stares at Tyson and Chloe, dazed, then at me again. “Are you real?”
“Are you?” Chloe asks. “Where’d you get a banshee’s voice? How’d you find this place? Who are you, for that matter?”
“Fiona. I’m Fiona,” she says.
“And you’re doing banshee tricks how?” Chloe prods.
“Someone gave it to me. Helped me.” She speaks like someone still half asleep. “I wanted to know. Had to know. It was so hard, just waiting. I was walking home from campus, and maybe I was crying. And he asked me what was wrong.”
“He?” I ask.
“I don’t know. A guy. Not a student, I don’t think. Really pretty. He said he could fix it. That I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. That I’d be able to see death.” She rubs her eyes and sniffs. “And I did. But then I was here, and there was all this, this, weight. This pressure, and I couldn’t help it. The song, it just came. I had to sing it. But it’s gone now.”
It isn’t. It’s in me. In her as well, a river’s current behind the dam waiting to overflow its banks. This protection I’ve given her, this clarity, it will not last. The magic will pull her down soon enough.
“What about Sierra?” Tyson interjects, but I ignore him. His beloved changeling is fine, and his new fear is only what he should have always had. Changelings are not meant to last.
“This man gave you banshee magic?” Chloe, too, was unwilling to be distracted.
“I guess? He said that word, banshee.”
“Who could do that?” I ask. “Who here could do that?”
“I don’t know. But this isn’t the first.” Chloe’s calm again, her eyes no longer shining. She looks angry. Looks like the Spar I remember. “I heard about a kelpie a couple days back. Or what sounded like a kelpie. Some college pool. Three guys drowned. One of the survivors, they said they saw a horse. Another said there was some sort of fish monster. At the time, I just thought it was weird. No kelpies are getting across the veil, after all.”
“But if it were like this?” I ask. “Some kelpie’s power drawn through the veil, tied to a mortal?”
“Could be. If that’s even possible.” She looks at Fiona, shrugs. “Which I guess it is.”
“But why—”
“Can you stop talking? Just. It hurts,” Chloe interrupts, crossing her arms. “Fuck. I am not going down like that. Not happening.”
“I—” But the magic is still there, and I need Chloe’s help. So, I say nothing. Wait for her to think and finish. She probably loves it. Always did like to get the last word.
“It has to be a fae. Who else could do it? Changelings don’t know shit about magic. And mortals can’t even see it as soon as the last of it leaves them. ‘Course, most of us don’t have a changeling keeping us tied to Faerie.” Her expression darkens. “You always were weirdly obsessed with yours. That what always kept you so stable? Her?”
And it’s true. As soon as she says it, I know it’s true. Remember the way I felt, every time I spied on my changeling. Like some weight had left me. Like the world was coming clear again. Magic is a poison, and maybe every changeling is meant to counterbalance that poison, keep their mortal counterpart going just a little longer. But me? I was always looking for her. Always reaching for her. Always pouring away the worst of it and coming back stronger. And now, here, she’s still anchoring me. Giving me, if not magic, then at least an opening into which magic can flow.
I shrug, unwilling to admit what I’ve realized. Not quite willing to deny it either.
“Doesn’t matter. Whoever the hell it is, someone needs to stop them. Before this happens again.” She gestures, pointedly, out at the room. Most of the visitors are on their feet again, huddled together or making their shaky way out the door. No more dancing tonight, and the musicians behind us, whispering to each other as they pack their instruments, only emphasize that point.
“I don’t understand,” Fiona says.
“Can you find him?” Chloe asks her. “The one who did this to you?”
“For me,” she corrects. “I don’t know. Campus. I guess.”
“Could you take me?”
Another shake, more forceful. “He tried to help me.”
“Did he?” I ask, unwilling to sit silent any longer.
The magic leaves me steadily. No tearing rush this time. I’m relieved by the lack of spiders, happy to see the hungry shadows fade.
“Yeah.” Fiona’s tone is firm. “You don’t know what it’s like. Just waiting for a death. Not knowing. You should be glad you got a little warning. You can say your goodbyes. I don’t get to.”
“Nothing is settled,” I say. Easier to make that claim as the deaths fade. “It’s all possibilities.”
Echo will not die again. Eteir is safe. Visions are only visions.
“Probabilities.” Fiona slides down off the platform, avoiding my gaze. “I have to go. My dad, he doesn’t have much time.”
We watch her go, one mortal among many. But her shadow stretches out behind her like a shroud, darker than it should be. It will not be hard to find her again, I think. I know the taste of her.
“Should we let her go?” Tyson asks.
“I’m not going to tie her up in the back room. If she explodes again, I’m sure we’ll hear about it.” Chloe shivers, shakes her head. “Besides, I gotta get home. Quinn’ll be—I just need to get out of here.”
“Yeah, I feel you,” Tyson replies.
The pair of them shake hands, then Chloe turns to me. “Let me give you my number.”
“Number?”
“She doesn’t have a phone,” Tyson says.
“Give me yours then. You’ll need help. Trust me on that one.”
I recognize the glowing box Tyson hands her. My changeling always has one with her. Chloe touches it a few times, then hands it back to him.
“Right. Be safe, Rumor. Don’t hesitate to call. Just, not tonight.” She hurries away, arms wrapped around her chest, shoulder hunched.
Might I have comforted her once? Maybe. But Spar was always hard to reach. Chloe, it seems, is similarly distant. And I have my own concerns to worry over. If there’s a fae here, then he’s the one who can really help me. A changeling might struggle their way through the task of finding a soul with their clumsy, unpredictable power. But for a true fae, a fae old enough to cross the veil, it would be easy. Such a fae could help me get home without my even needing to beg Eteir for my return.
Yes, that’s what I would do. Find this campus. Find him. It shouldn’t be so hard. I can taste changelings. Surely, a true fae’s magic will be that much easier to sense.
“We should depart,” I tell Tyson.
“Fine,” he says, sliding down from the platform. I wait for him to offer me a hand, but he only stands there.
“I need to go to this campus place,” I tell him.
“No one will be there. Not in the middle of the night,” he replies. “You need to sleep. We both need to sleep. But first, you’re going to tell me about changelings. About my sister. I have to know that what I saw won’t happen.”
“It won’t. So long as I return, and I stay in Faerie, it won’t.” And I could almost love him, for caring so much for her, if I didn’t hate him for caring so little for me. After all, it seems she’s been my rock, all unknowing.
We walk together into the emptiness of the changeling’s strange palace. But Tyson is slow with worry, feet dragging, while I am desperate to move, to go, to find.
“I need you to explain.” He stops entirely. “Really explain.”
We stand in the darkness now, the remaining visitors winding their way out through the empty rows of glowing games. They don’t look at us, but I watch them, hungry for more familiar faces. Wanting to see anything but Tyson’s eager hurt.
“Changelings are made things. Constructs. They exist as replacements, while a taken mortal resides in Faerie. The connection provides a certain amount of stability. It’s not easy for a mortal to survive Faerie.” The last only a new guess, but I’m sure of it all the same.
“I know that,” he says. “I saw her made.”
“The problem is, a mortal’s stay is usually a temporary thing. There’s a sickness, of sorts, that the magic causes. The more a mortal uses such powers, the more quickly they sicken. And when it gets too overwhelming, the fae return them to the dying lands.”
“Rumor, please. Just tell me what I saw.” Impatient now, but still so careful.
“What do you do with a placeholder when it’s time to return the original?” I ask him. “There’s hardly space for both. A changeling is pointless without someone to replace.”
“I just thought, well, they’d go back.”
“Why? They’re not real fae. No one desires a construct in their court, all unaligned magic.” I’m talking around it. Trying to avoid the words, to lead him to the truth without speaking it.
Maybe you think me a coward. Or cruel. But it’s only that I’ve never thought about it. Thought of her. I’ve always known I’d stay in Faerie, so perhaps it was right of me not to worry over her fate. Perhaps too, I should have considered the usual fate of changelings before sending her to Eteir.
But she’s fine. I can still feel our connection, like a chain between us. And she has help. Nightingale is soft-hearted despite her eccentricities, and Eteir has always been patient for her kind.
“Tell me,” he says.
