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  CHANGELINGS AT ODDS

  CHANGELINGS AT ODDS

  Copyright © 2019 by Ken Altabef

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in articles or reviews. Contact the author for more information.

  Cover art by Tomasz Chistowski

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical figures, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ALSO BY KEN ALTABEF

  ALAANA’S WAY

  Book 1: The Calling

  Book 2: Secrets

  Book 3: Shadows

  Book 4: The Tundra Shall Burn!

  Book 5: The Shadow of Everything Existing

  CHANGELINGS

  Lady Changeling

  Changelings at Court

  Everbright

  Changelings at Odds

  CHRYSALIS

  FORTUNE’S FANTASY:

  13 excursions into the unknown

  GIANT SLAYERS

  (with Jeff Altabef)

  www.KenAltabef.com

  CHANGELINGS AT ODDS

  By Ken Altabef

  Chapter 1

  September 14, 1763

  City of Everbright

  Northern Durham, England

  The King of the Faeries stepped out onto the balcony of the West Tower. As usual he was naked except for a long, red velvet cloak trimmed with tufts of white ermine. A gigantic white powdered wig, which would have been the envy of any Georgian courtesan, hung askew atop his head.

  “My good ladies and gentlefellows,” he said, “and errr, hermaphrodites as well…”

  He glanced down at the crowd with sleepy eyes. “Tonight we celebrate…” The King seemed genuinely lost for words, though it was not deep-felt sentiment that stilled his tongue, but rather total confusion. “Tonight we celeberate… ermm, celeberate…” He lifted a glass of thistlewine high above his head, unwittingly dousing the top of the white wig. “We celebrate tonight! Hahah! And with that, I urge you go to it! Tonight let Everbright sing!”

  The crowd of faeries assembled below in Seelie Park burst into a raucous commotion. They saluted their leader with upraised cups and encouraging cheers as he danced across the ledge, nearly stumbling to his death several times.

  “Meadowlark!” exclaimed Theodora from somewhere inside the suite. Her voice, though strident and commanding, was sweet as honey to his ears. The urge to answer her call was strong but Meadowlark paused a moment more, swaying dizzily as he stared down at his people. Everyone below was either dancing, chugging intoxicants, or tearing at each other’s clothes. Colorful faery lights popped and sizzled in the air. All was well with the world. “They love me,” he told himself. “At long last, they love me. Ahha! It’s good to be the King.”

  Meadowlark turned and hurried back to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway to straighten his jacket and trousers but found he wasn’t wearing any such things.

  Theodora smiled. Although well over a hundred years old, Meadowlark still seemed a charming adolescent boy to her—tall, fit and trim. Puckishly handsome, with long black curls peeking out from under the ridiculous wig. She stood up from the bed and thrust out both arms, palms forward, to dissuade him from taking a diving leap toward her.

  “They love me!” he pronounced, spinning around on his heel. “And why not? Am I not a benevolent ruler?”

  Theodora smiled. “You do entertain.”

  “And that’s nine tenths of the thing right there. Keep them entertained, and they’ll do whatever I say.”

  “Not always, dear. That last decree—the one where you ordered that everyone should wear their underclothes on the outside on Sundays. Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it doesn’t seem to be catching on.”

  “Not a problem,” he returned. “I’ll just have to lead by example, is all. Just wait for Sunday. Have my best pantaloons cleaned and pressed, dear! It’ll catch on. You’ll see. It’ll be all the rage. If there’s one thing I know, it’s fashion. What day is it today anyway?”

  “Sunday.”

  He glanced down at his nakedness. “Oh. Where did I leave my underpants? Do you think I should go back out?”

  “I shouldn’t bother. Besides, we need to talk. I don’t think you understand the problem.”

  “Problem?” He drained his cup and tossed it absently aside. “That’s because there is no problem.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  He looked startled for a moment. “Well, then I’m being serious too.” He smoothed down his bare chest as if it were a rumpled waistcoat and sat on the edge of the bed. “Which problem are we discussing, then?”

  Theodora sighed. “Faery architecture. Magic. And our lack thereof. The caves down below. When we settled here to avoid the Purge, Moon Dancer built those caves by folding reality. The caves are much bigger than the actual space down there. I have no idea how to keep them that way. Moonshadow knew of course, but…”

  Moonshadow had been dead for several months now, but Theodora still could not say it. Meadowlark leapt to her rescue.

  He snapped his fingers as with great inspiration. “Eccobius is an architect, isn’t he? He built this tower, and everything right? Just ask him.”

  “I did. He’s wonderful with facts and figures but this isn’t a case of mathematical computation. He knows nothing of magic. He’s as useless in this as you or I. And we’ve no one better. The caves are going to collapse. Right beneath our feet. Everbright will fall.”

  Meadowlark glanced suspiciously about the room. “Perhaps the West Tower isn’t the best place for our apartment, then.”

  Theodora sighed.

  “Can’t you fix it?” he asked.

  “No. Can you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But we’ll figure something out eventually. You always do. Really, it’s too late for all this hubbub tonight. All this talk of tremors and cataclysms, it’s not good for your nerves.”

  Theodora agreed with that last sentiment completely. “That’s for sure.”

  He patted the broad feather mattress. “Come to bed now.”

  “You’re drunk,” she observed.

  “Yes, well, I’m not that drunk. Come now, my good Queen, time to relax.”

  “I’m not anybody’s Queen. And I can’t relax. Don’t you get it? Everbright’s children are in those caves. The caretaker mushrooms that nurture them… if the caves collapse, we’ll lose all the children.”

  “Oh,” he said, quite soberly. “The children.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed but he made no move toward her. Instead, he rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “We don’t want anything to happen to them. What if—say, this is a good idea—what if we find a new cave above ground and transplant some of the caretaker mushrooms there and make them grow and then the children will have a new nursery?”

  “I thought of that, but it will take decades before new mushrooms would be ready to host children.”

  He snapped his fingers in sudden inspiration. “How about this? Let’s say we all start reproducing the old-fashioned way again. Huh? Dresdemona did it. You did it. Start a campaign! Make it the in thing to do! Full bellies fashionable.” He mimicked a round pregnant belly and curved spine. He leaned back on the bed and stuck his legs in the air saying, with mock frenzy, “Push? Are you crazy? I can’t do this!”

  Theodora didn’t find his antics very funny. “That still won’t help the children already down in the caves.”

  “Oh, ri
ght,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t have an answer for any of that right now. But as I said, if we just give it a little time, just let the problem percolate a little more, I know you’ll come up with something! I’m damn well certain of it!”

  He dragged the powdered wig from his head and flung it across the room. “Darn thing itches like a hornet’s nest. Don’t know how Old Georgie stands it. Well, it’s not easy being the King.”

  He jumped up from the bed. “Dance with me!”

  Theodora let out a little groan, still thinking of the doomed children.

  “Dance with meeee!” he sang, pulling her to her feet.

  She shrugged him off.

  “Fine. Suit yourself. There are other ladies at court you know.” He picked up one of her full-length gowns and, holding it as a partner, began to dance rather tenderly with it across the bedroom. He did a fair imitation of an allemande waltz, humming his own tune as he went, twirling the yellow gown as a lover. Theodora hadn’t known Meadowlark could waltz. She wondered where he’d picked it up, and a French version of the dance at that, but of course there was that time he’d spent in the King’s palace at St. James impersonating one of Queen Charlotte’s handmaids.

  Meadowlark kept glancing at Theodora with veiled eyes and then back at the dress as if trying to make her jealous. Her sour mood crumbled. She could stand it no longer. She fell into his arms, pressing the empty dress between them. “Oh, all right,” she said. “But you’re doing the footwork all backward you know. I think when you learned this dance you were playing as a woman.”

  He batted his eyelashes at her.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let me lead, then.” She tossed the dress away.

  In no time they were twirling across the room, their arms comfortably intertwined at the shoulder, and Theodora felt herself start to relax. The quick footwork and rapid turning movements soon left her breathless. Meadowlark gripped her closer and closer until the dance melted away into a passionate kiss.

  As always, Meadowlark’s kiss was both eager and energetic. He didn’t care if the caves collapsed; he didn’t care if the walls came crashing down or Everbright crumbled beneath their feet. He really didn’t care about anything but her. He was the most irresponsible, irrational, wildly conflicted person she had ever known. But one thing was certain, he cared a great deal for her. There was something very attractive in his faery nature, his desire to forget everything and simply enjoy the moment, a sentiment she had forced away for so long, living in the disguise of a British noblewoman. No longer, she thought. I am faery now, body and soul.

  They tumbled onto the bed. Theodora shed her nightgown and flung it over Meadowlark’s head. He came at her anyway, his hands hungrily devouring her soft skin. He was already stiff and ready as ever and she wanted to make some joke about the ‘royal scepter’ but couldn’t be bothered to frame the words. As he entered her, she pulled the clinging nightgown from his head. She wanted to see his face.

  Even beyond the physical coupling, Meadowlark was eager for the melding, the merging of souls that accompanied faery lovemaking. Theodora wanted it too. They relaxed simultaneously, merging into a complete unity of body and spirit.

  When she joined with him there were fireworks, quite literally. Explosions of light in red and yellow, dancing across Theodora’s consciousness. As far as she could tell, there were always fireworks going off inside Meadowlark’s head. She was confronted by an avalanche of wild fancies—a flock of exotic birds in flight spinning around them in a burst of multicolored feathers like a tornado, a bath in liquid chocolate, the scent of an exotic orchid so thick in her nostrils it seemed they had become as insubstantial as a gust of mist utterly subsumed in the fragrance. Lovemaking with Meadowlark was a nonstop flight of pure fancy, an epic journey through the mind of a quintessential faery. But the type and character of these lush sensations were not dictated by wild abandon. They were always carefully tailored to Theodora’s preferences; they consisted of nothing except sensations that she personally liked. She marveled at his control. He was the most selfish man she could possibly imagine and yet in this he was the most sensitive and selfless lover she had ever known.

  She fell into his generous spirit, forgetting her troubles and wholeheartedly embracing exactly what it meant to be faery again. No thoughts for tomorrow. No worries. Completely free. She realized she was being perhaps a bit selfish about it; she was much less concerned with Meadowlark’s pleasure than her own, but still it worked because he asked so very little.

  Now it was butterflies. Glittering blue butterflies that pelted them with honeyed pollen and fluttering kisses.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you too,” she returned.

  I am the faery Clarimonde, she thought. No thoughts for tomorrow. No worries. Completely free.

  But some small corner of her mind, keeping apart from Meadowlark, begged to disagree. But that’s not real, thought Lady Theodora. That’s not who I am. Is it?

  Chapter 2

  James Grayson hated arriving late, especially for Sunday services. He opened the tall double doors as quietly as possible. But when he stepped inside the church, heads still turned.

  James was quite familiar with the First Anglican Church in Graystown, originally built by his great-grandfather Griffin Grayson nearly a hundred years ago. The church’s modest proportions and near-complete lack of adornment bespoke clearly of Griffin’s Puritanical viewpoint. And yet the clean, straight lines of rough timber were impressive in their understated sense of authority and reverence for a higher power.

  Throughout his childhood James and his sister Nora had taken religious instruction daily at the little chapel on the Grayson estate, but this was the place where his family had always attended Sunday services. James fondly remembered dressing up in his best clothes and sitting proudly beside his father during the glorious carriage rides through town and up the hill to the church. A young boy fidgeting in the pew, he’d taken little interest in the sermons themselves. He’d spent hours studying the beams as they arched across the ceiling, their interplay with the huge rectangular corner stones, the delicate pattern of the lone rose window. Finally, after his confirmation ceremony at age twelve, he found a deeper understanding of the Word.

  Likewise, most of the townsfolk attending Sunday service were familiar to him as well. Graystown was only a minor farming village after all. He knew all the farmers who leased land from his family, the blacksmith, the miller, the craftsmen. As a boy, he had visited with their children on occasion years ago. He liked to think they thought fondly of him as well. But no one in the church recognized the young man who walked down the aisle this day. James wore a typical churchgoing outfit befitting the son of a noble house—elegant waistcoat, formal pants, buckled shoes—but the sight of him caused many of the parishioners to turn away in revulsion. His skin was purple, his ears pointed, his brows arched like those of Satan himself, and sprouting madly from his temples were a pair of wide antlers with no less than ten points each.

  Several people rose to object, but the pastor raised his arms high and urged them to calm.

  “All are welcome in the Lord’s house,” he reminded them. “Make some room. Clear a space here in the front row. We welcome all guests here.”

  James would have preferred a less conspicuous location than the first pew, but the die was cast. He maneuvered into the space provided for him. The churchgoers gave him as wide a berth as they were able, carefully measuring the dangerous swing of his antlers. James wanted no more attention. He settled in, knelt and, leaning forward, lowered his head. The first pew turned out to be a very wise choice indeed as there was no one in front of him to be gored by the points.

  The Vicar continued the service. No sooner had three words escaped from his mouth when someone called out, “Blasphemy! Devil-spawn!”

  And another, “I won’t sit down with blights!”

  James
kept his head bowed. The last thing he wanted was to incite some sort of violent scene.

  “All things great and small!” shouted the pastor. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. All things were made through him, and without him not anything could exist. And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.”

  James was impressed by the Vicar’s quick-thinking and inventiveness. He’d gathered lines from Psalms, John and the Book of Genesis, combining them into a mixture of platitudes certain to placate and confuse anyone in this crowd.

  The pastor cast a stern gaze across his congregation, and James recognized his old acquaintance Albert Desmos, the man who had previously preached the Word at the little chapel in Everbright. Desmos had departed the faery city just before the massacre of its military regiment on Midsummer’s Eve. James had not seen him since.

  He had expected to find Father Grimaldi presiding here as he had done for the past twenty years. He was surprised the old Vicar had been so recently replaced, and wondered what had become of him.

  Having quelled the resistance with all the weight of the holy Word, Desmos continued with his sermon—something about Joseph of Arimathea and the burial of Christ. James kept his head low, ignoring the murmurs of disapproval that occasionally rang out from behind.

  Finally, to everyone’s relief, Desmos intoned, “Peace be with you.” The crowd murmured a luke-warm response and the Vicar added, “Peace be with us all.”

  At this final adjournment, the parishioners to either side of James shuffled away immediately. He did not look after them but remained fixed in place, still on his knees before the gigantic crucifix at the head of the chancel. When he was certain they had all gone, he stood up. Desmos awaited him at the lectern, a wry smile on his face.