Ethine Ch. 01

Alone in the crowd again, Ethine felt cold tears trickle along her cheeks.

******

The sword he had acquired was a fine piece of work - the blade slightly curved, light, supple, reflecting light in ripples from the surface. Calan swung it experimentally a few times - nicely weighted, it would serve him well he had no doubt - better than its last owner at least. Reassured he slung it over his back so that it could be drawn from beneath his arm, the hilt hanging down near his waist.

A few of the other knights had observed him but nobody had shown any inclination to seek retribution for their injured colleague - one or two had even smiled in what he'd taken to be a friendly manner.

They had left the bar en masse shortly after closing time, moving in military order through the nearly deserted streets. As Terror had indicated, Sorrow's Court was located in Andrew Freedman House, just off the Grand Concourse - a sagging limestone palace originally built to keep once rich old mortals in the luxury they'd become used to. Its grounds were now patrolled by Sorrow's muscle - glamoured faeries with vicious looking fay hounds discouraging all but the most intrepid of visitors.

"For a while at least, until you earn my trust, you'll be the lowest of Sorrow's knights," Thorn had explained. "Which means that any dirty jobs that need doing, you'll be doing them. Understood?"

"Understood."

Inside Calan had not been surprised to find that the upper floors of Sorrow's Court had been left to decay - sagging plaster and mould a better protection than any security. The Court had centred itself in the basement, the entrance to Faerie down a narrow twisting staircase guarded by a couple of knights in Sorrow's regulation business suits.

Long before the staircase opened into the Court's central hall Calan could hear music -- the sound a strange mix between the wailing melodies of Faerie and the stronger beats, the vocals of the mortal world. Like Sorrow's Court, he thought, truly neither one thing nor the other.

The hall itself was a dimly lit room stretching away in all directions, the light source indeterminate - walls barely visible in the dark - the nebulous illumination leaving more in shadow than in light. At intervals across the open space thick pillars of dark stone rose into the darkness above and, along the walls, a series of arched niches ran together like gap-toothed gums, providing privacy and shelter for those who might crave it.

Filling the hall were the fay of Sorrow's Court: ogres, trolls, pixies, hobs, nixies, dryads, gentry and every other kind or type of fay found amongst the exiles were scattered in every direction, lounging about, chatting, fighting - a scene not too far removed from similar tableaux in the Unseelie Court, though the number and type of faeries were much reduced. Moving amongst them were both mortals and fay with trays of drinks and food - in one case he saw a troll chewing on a limb so it was possible that some of them were food.

At the approximate centre of the hall a dais had been raised - a gleaming thing of gold and black studded with lights, rising in three layers like an art deco wedding cake - its perimeter guarded by a low railing. Rising from the centre of the dais was the thick trunk of an enormous ebon tree, its branches and leaves flaring above to spread in a canopy across the dark ceiling. Carved into the trunk of the still living tree was a large chair, seated in which was a pale skinned fay in a grey suit, his grey hair pulled back in a pony tail. Sorrow, Calan realised. Attending him were a number of other fay - a fox faced man in a tweed suit talking into his ear, a handful of knights in dark suits. Set in a rack near his right hand, was a slender, straight bladed sword, its sheath and hilt as black as midnight.

"That's Sorrow's dais," Thorn said. "You don't go there unless Sorrow summons you, understood?"

"Understood."

Just short of the dais, adjacent to the wall, was a curving bar - all polished ebony and gleaming brass, its surface heavy with piles of food -- fire apples, silver pears, farbread -- and silver carafes of drink. A number of fay were gathered about it, or slumped on the floor near it, a hobgoblin was serving drinks from behind its polished top.

Beyond the dais part of the floor appeared to have been cleared to form a dance floor of sorts, knots of fay and mortals were moving about in the space - some clearly dancing, others entertaining themselves in less obvious ways difficult to make out in the shadows. Against the far wall he could just make out the band, no more than a collection of shadows in the distance.

"Gilraen here will show you your quarters. You're welcome to come to the hall any time you like - the bar's always open - but until I say otherwise the rest of the place is off limits to you. Understood?"

"Understood."

Gilraen was shorter and skinnier than Calan, his hair the red of a chestnut's skin against a ruddy complexion, all bones and angles. He was one of the fay that had presented as friendly back at the bar and he had smiled warmly when Thorn had handed out his task.

With Thorn and his knights heading off towards the dais, Gilraen had led him toward a wooden door in an arched niche at the side of the hall, not far from the bar. On the way Calan had looked about furiously for any sign of Ethine, his eyes scanning the crowd. As he'd expected, there was no sign of her and he'd forced himself to relax lest he seem too attentive.

"Sorrow's a good boss, I'm sure you'll settle in okay once Thorn's happy," Gilraen said, stepping aside to let two knights in dark business suits, sabres slung across their backs, exit the passage.

"What's his problem anyway?"

Gilraen shrugged, stepping down the narrow passage. Like the hall it was paved in dark stone, the walls brick, numerous wooden doors set into it along both sides.

"We've had a lot of trouble with the exiles' courts, especially since Silarial's death. Guess he's worried about what Roiben will do to back up his offer -- you know, infiltrators." "Infiltrators? Right." Calan nodded, obviously unconvinced. "What's all this I hear about Sorrow kidnapping solitary fay off the streets - that part of the plan?"

Gilraen laughed musically. "You could say that. Look, I'm sure Thorn will tell you when it's time, okay."

"Sure," Calan said. "Wouldn't want to cause you any trouble. I'm just the new boy, right?"

"Right." Gilraen laughed. "Just keep your nose clean and you'll be fine," he said, leading the way along the dimly lit corridor. "Here. Here's your room."

Gilraen pushed a wooden door open onto a small chamber: a narrow wooden cot, a cupboard, small table, a chair, the smell of resin and damp. Home sweet home, Calan thought. For good measure Calan made a show of checking the room out, opening and closing the cupboard, leaning on the desk, nodding to Gilraen as if it all met some expectation he'd formed.

"Pretty good. All I need now is something to fill it with."

"You'll acquire things fast enough, I'm sure. Don't you have anything brought with you from the Unseelie Court?"

"A few things, stashed Ironside. I'll get them when I have time - they're safe for now. So what else is in this place? Going to show me about the Court?"

"You heard Thorn. You can go the main hall, but no wandering. Bar's open though, if you want a drink?" Gilraen looked hopeful.

Calan paused for a moment. Well he wasn't going to find Ethine in his room, he thought with a self-deprecating smile. "Okay, sure. Why not?"

The bartender was a tall hobgoblin, his skin the colour of aged leather, eyes stained yellow with drink. Around the bar a number of other fay were sat drinking or talking, one fay with pale furred skin and the head of a bear was fondling the breasts of a topless mortal in the shadows of a niche at the far side of the bar.

Calan chewed a silver pear - sucking the fiery juice from its flesh - and sipped slowly from his goblet, the bloodwine sweet and bitter at the same time - not a bad vintage. All the while his eyes drifted about, seeking some sign of Ethine. Trouble was, he both wanted to find her and was afraid to. He had no real idea if she was here or not, or even in trouble for that matter - but his heart told him that she needed him and needed him fast. Every time he thought of her he could feel his heart pounding like a hammer. Very disconcerting.

Conversation with Gilraen had been easy, and despite his earlier caution he had been all too willing to tell Calan everything he knew. Unfortunately what he knew was practically nothing. It was clear that Sorrow had something planned, and the kidnapped fay were part of it. But what 'it' was was no more clear now than it had been when he first talked to Terror.

Gilraen had revealed a couple of useful things, though. He had pointed out the back entrance to the Court - a dark wooden doorway at the far end of the room, behind the dais, near the dance floor - and informed him that it came out in Mullayly Park, beneath a rotten stump in the northeast corner.

He had also learnt that Gilraen was fascinated by the Unseelie Court - lapping up Calan's tales as if they were bloodwine. It didn't sound like much, but Calan had a feeling that Gilraen's aid could be bought with promises of entry to the Unseelie Court. It might matter.

Furthermore, as he had sat chatting to Gilraen, Thorn had left the room through a small arched wooden door at the side of the hall, not far from the far end of the bar. When he left he had been escorted by two fay knights from those who had attended Sorrow -- one in red, one in yellow - so it was a fair bet he wasn't going to bed. Finally, and conveniently, it had become apparent that Gilraen couldn't hold his drink, he thought, as the fay knight slipped from his stool and crashed on to the floor, insensible.

He turned to the barkeep, chuckling, his own drunkenness feigned. "Any idea where Goldilocks lives so I can get him home?"

The hobgoblin grinned a feral grin.

"Sure. Not the first time," he said. He pointed to the door that led to the passage along which the rooms were located. "I think it's the third or fourth room on the right, or close by."

On a whim, Calan slipped a couple of fire apples and some farbread from the bar into his shirt, winking at the barkeep.

"They might make a useful breakfast," he said, grappling Gilraen onto his shoulder, lifting him in a fireman's lift. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, bedtime."

******

It seemed like hours later that Turiel was returned. In the interim Ethine had slipped into a haunted, restless sleep - the opening of the cage door waking her to see the pixie being pushed in by the guards. Turiel fell to her knees, sobbing. Ethine rushed to her, hugging her, feeling the faerie shudder against her.

"It's okay, Turiel, it's over now," she whispered.

Turiel looked up at her, her black eyes filled with anguish, with pain.

"No, it's not, it's not... They took my name...they took my true name..." and she sobbed harder than ever. "They hurt me, did things to me, until I told them..." She clung to Ethine with desperate strength, her fingers digging in to her flesh, her body shaking with sobs. "It was awful, Ethine, awful..."

Horrified, Ethine couldn't help but notice the burn marks on Turiel's arms, her legs, her wings. She hugged her close, drawing her further into the cage, into the dark away from the torchlight - all the while feeling the eyes of her fellow prisoners - those who knew and those who feared - following her into the shadows.

Gently she held the shuddering pixie, rocking her like a baby, until she fell asleep. Ethine felt fear, yes, horrifying fear - but she felt something else she was familiar with, too. Hate. Burning hate for the fay who would do this.

******

Somehow, in his quixotic quest to get Gilraen's unconscious body home, he had become turned around in the shadowy hall and had found himself staggering up to the same door that Thorn had used to leave the hall. On the way he had managed to spill the rest of his bloodwine down his own shirt - so that he stank almost as bad as Gilraen. Clumsy, clumsy, he thought with a smile. Not like him at all.

The door opened easily onto a set of narrow stone steps leading down into a corridor lit by a flickering orange light. The air smelt stale, thick with the scent of burning wood and pitch. Sighing slightly, Gilraen across his shoulders, he staggered in apparent drunkenness down the steps - eyes uncommonly alert for a drunken man, a dangerous glint in their depths.

He didn't quite sing, but he almost whistled beneath his breath. The corridor was floored in earth, the walls rough stone but, a short distance ahead, he saw the corridor end and split into a larger open space. On the left as he approached it he saw an open doorway - a guardroom, he guessed.

Not seeking to avoid being seen, he staggered against the wall and wandered openly past the guardroom - all the while talking in a quiet, slightly slurred voice to Gilraen.

"Come on lad, get you home," he said. Then, lilting tunelessly, "No more blood...blood...bloodwine for you, oh no."

He staggered into the open area, spotting the wooden cage at the same time that the wandering hob guard saw him.

"Hey, you!" the hob said. Behind him he could see shadowy forms in the cage, faces appearing in the flickering light. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Spiky, I work here," he said, staggering in a zig zag pattern toward him. The faces were becoming more numerous now, drawn like moths to the commotion being created on their doorstep.

"Work here. Ha! I don't know you. This area is off limits. Go on - get out!" he said, but his voice lacked authority. Then the hob raised his voice. "Calafas! Glorindar! Get out here!"

"Look, Grumpy, I just need to get Sleepy here home, okay. How do I get back to the hall?" In the background he could see the fay gathering, the noise they were making attracting attention, faces in the darkness - no sign of Ethine.

Then he saw her, her pale face appearing in the crowd near the cage wall - eyes like quicksilver in the light, her pewter hair cropped short, spiky. His heart lurched in his chest, an almost physical ache accompanied by a sensation of unguarded relief. She was alive, she was here. The rest he could manage. For the briefest moment his eyes met hers and he saw hesitation, then a shock of recognition.

"Look you go back the way you came..." the hob said, still helpful, not alarmed.

In his drunkenness he managed to turn about so that Gilraen's feet clouted the hob on the head and then, to compound the matter, he contrived to drop Gilraen directly on top of him while he staggered clumsily back against the cage, falling face down next to it.

He saw the hob go down with a grunt of exhaled breath, struggling with Gilraen's dead weight. Gilraen barely stirred, grunting, gulping air drunkenly.

"Ethine," he whispered. Her face suddenly pressed against the cage next to his. "I haven't got long... I've been looking for you. I'm here to get you out. Are you okay?"

Her face registered shock, curiosity - relief. He saw her start to say something, pause and start again.

"It's horrible here, I'm scared," she said at last, her voice shaky. She gripped the cage bars, her voice taking on a pleading tone, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "If you are here to get me out, please hurry. They've hurt some of us, I know it will be my turn soon. I'm frightened."

Calan felt his heart hammering, aching with the need to help her, feeling helpless once again. "I will come for you as soon as I can. Believe it. Please, just stay safe, stay alive - whatever happens, whatever you have to do - just stay alive." His eyes held hers, his voice soft, earnest, filled with anguish.

Ethine swallowed, nodded quickly. Then, her face unreadable: "Did Roiben send you?"

A quick glance told him that the hob was still down, Gilraen's larger size and weight and the hob's natural fear of offending one of the gentry conspiring to keep him pinned to the ground longer than Calan had hoped for.

Calan shook his head. "No, but he knows I'm here. I came for you. I came for me."

His eyes met hers again, she was so close he could have reached out and kissed her. A thousand things he wanted to say rose in his chest, none of them right - not here, not now. "Ethine..." His voice failed, his whisper choking off. Behind him he could hear the hob struggling with Gilraen's dead weight. "Here, take this..." he finished.

He slipped the fire apples, the slices of farbread from his shirt through the bars and felt her small hands take them. For just a moment he felt her long, slim fingers in his and he held her hand gently - trying to say with that simple gesture what he couldn't say, didn't have time to say, with words.

"Thank you," she whispered, but whether it was for the food, or what he'd said he couldn't tell.

When he turned, the hob had managed to roll Gilraen off himself and a goblin and an ogre were making their way from the guardroom along the corridor.

Calan lurched to his feet, his feigned drunkenness returning. "Hey, what're you doing to my pal?" he said, his sudden anger from finding Ethine caged hidden under a more obvious cause. He shoved the startled hob away from Gilraen with careless force, bending over his inert form. In the corner of his eye he caught sight of the startled hob pulling a whip from his belt and he turned full on him, swaying slightly. "If you swing that at me, Stumpy, I will shove it up your ass, got it?"

He heard sniggering from the cage, echoed by the guards approaching along the corridor.

The hob glared - but he was just a guard; Calan was gentry, a knight. Furthermore, the savage look in his eyes was not encouraging. The hob lowered the whip. In moments the ogre and the goblin had wandered up together, looking in confusion at the scene in front of them.

Calan hoisted Gilraen back onto his shoulders. "This way?" he said, pointing back along the corridor the way he had come. "Right?"

"Right," said the hob, cowed.

Whistling softly he staggered back along the corridor, breaking off every so often to reassure Gilraen in a quiet voice that he was nearly home.

All the way he could feel Ethine's eyes following him, feel his heart aching in his chest. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done - walking away and leaving her trapped like that. He felt like he'd let her down, like he'd trapped her there himself. All the way back he could feel her eyes on him, see her tear streaked face, feel the fear in her and he hated himself.