Changelings at Odds Read online

  “Do you recognize me?” James asked.

  Desmos squinted an eye at him, seemingly surprised that he might possibly be expected to recognize this bizarre figure whom he was certain he’d never set eyes upon before. He studied the face carefully and then broke out into a broad smile. “Now that you mention it, there is something vaguely familiar about the shape of the nose, the strong cut of the chin… James, is that you?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Sorry to cause you such a disturbance on a Sunday.”

  “Well, you might have chosen a somewhat less dramatic appearance, I imagine. What do you faeries call it? Putting on a glamour?”

  “I would’ve Father, but I can’t. I’ve never been able to change my appearance. No one at Everbright seems able to teach me.”

  “Oh, is that so? Well, I apologize for the frigid reception, my boy. Sentiment toward the faery-folk has gone rather sour, I’m afraid. Some say we are already at war. First there was that dreadful massacre of the army garrison at Everbright, and then some sort of battle in the Tremblay woods. An entire regiment of His Majesty’s troops lost—rather grisly deaths, I’m told. The news sheets sensationalized the details, of course, but they were all good men.”

  “If it means anything to you, the person responsible for those deaths has been killed herself.”

  “Has she? We didn’t know. I will pass that bit of information on to the Cardinal. Things would be better if there were some line of direct communication with Everbright, don’t you think? These types of misunderstandings don’t help the situation any. But… how did this happen?” He indicated the new additions to James’ forehead.

  “Well, you remember the Changed Men—”

  Desmos bowed his head. “Those poor unfortunates living in the caves, yes, I do remember. Last I heard, they said you were helping them.”

  “I cured them.”

  “Oh!” The Vicar’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his broad forehead. “And took their deformities unto yourself. James if we’re ever in need of another saint in the canon, I’ll put your name in.”

  James laughed. “Not so fast, Vicar. There have been a lot of changes. That’s sort of the reason I came here to talk. I thought I’d see father Grimaldi but…”

  “Ahh, recalled to Stratford. Family problems, I believe. Come, let us talk. I’ve an office round the back. I’ll make some tea.”

  ***

  “How did you cure them, James? Was it magic? Does faery magic truly exist? I’m fascinated by the subject.”

  “Not magic,” James replied.

  “Some form of alchemy?”

  James sipped his tea. “That’s more like it, I guess. It started with an alchemist. His name was Trask. He discovered some new type of element—the thing that changed those men—the thing that makes faeries what we are. He called it Wild Tyme. All I had to do was remove it from the Changed Men and they became human again. They were very happy.”

  “It pleases me as well,” said Desmos. “And your transformation?”

  “Much the same process in reverse. The Wild Tyme changed me… into this.”

  “You don’t seem pleased with the result.”

  “I didn’t ask for this. It’s so drastic, Vicar. And I’m not just talking about my physical appearance. Everything has changed for me now. I see things differently. Colors are brighter—everything is blue and purple and green. I can taste smells, all the time. For example, right now I smell coriander and… horse shit.”

  The Vicar sniffed at his tea and shook his head.

  “I know,” continued James. “I can’t make sense of it either. And there are certain impulses I hadn’t felt before. A desire for mischief. It’s unsettling.”

  “I should say so.”

  James lowered his voice even though they were alone in the room. “I have… strange sexual urges…”

  “Oh dear…”

  “All the time.”

  Desmos cleared his throat. “Young men often feel the need to sow wild oats… In time you will settle down, I’m sure.”

  “I suppose, but… What human woman would want me? I had a lover once—before the change—a faery girl. But she died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can hardly look at a woman now without…”

  Desmos patted him reassuringly on the wrist. “Strive to keep them in check, my boy, just as everyone else does.”

  James chuckled. “Good advice.”

  “But you didn’t come all this way just to take such obvious instruction?”

  “No, Father. I know the teachings of the Church as well as any. It’s just that… I’m at war with myself. My faery nature drives me one way while everything I’ve learned in the Church—this church right here in fact—would direct me otherwise. I can’t reconcile the two.”

  “Are you truly a faery, James?”

  “Just look at me.”

  “Your father was a mortal man.”

  “I don’t know what I am!” James took a deep breath and shot a sheepish glance at the row of statuettes on the shelf, representing some of the better-known saints. “Forgive me.”

  “Of course.” Desmos sipped his tea. “Do you still hold firm to your belief in Christ?”

  “I do. But that does not resolve the issue. You always said that God created the faeries and nurtures them. And loves them. Do you still believe that, Father? After what happened at Everbright?”

  “You refer to the burning of my chapel. Well, my boy, if a Christian priest gave ground every time he was threatened by fire, civilization would not make any progress at all. Opus continua. The work of the Lord must go on. Nothing can separate us from God’s love. His love is unfailing, eternal, unconditional, and everlasting. If you keep Him in your heart, you will find understanding. I am sure of it.”

  “The Bible was written by men, Vicar, not faeries. They have their own beliefs. Most of the faeries at Everbright believe they are nurtured by Mother Moon.”

  Desmos shook his head. “Pagan beliefs die hard. The faery-folk, I believe, are the last of them.”

  “They tell me that when they lay out on the grass under the full moon they feel some sort of power filling them, strengthening them. The power of the Mother Moon.”

  “God’s power, nonetheless,” said Desmos.

  “I suppose. I just wish I had your conviction.”

  “You have your faith in God. Of that you can be sure. But this other? This Mother Moon? What do you know of ‘her’?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “There you have it.”

  “Not quite. The Bible is painfully silent on the subject of faeries, yet they do exist. And that omission, to me, is quite glaring. So I’ll have to look elsewhere for my answers. There is a place said to be sacred to Mother Moon—a sort of an orchard. The faeries call it Arcadia. If I am to find her anywhere, it will be in that place. But don’t worry…” He fished a small brass crucifix from his coat pocket. “I bring this with me. Always.”

  “Sounds like quite an adventure!” Desmos beamed. “I almost wish I could come along, but Graystown has troubles enough as it is without losing another priest just yet. You are a good man James, despite the…” he waved a hand in the air, “the horns.”

  ***

  After James had gone, Desmos gathered up the cruet and chalice from the lectern. His appointment at Graystown was a temporary one, a station of opportunity only, designed to keep him near to the Grayson estate and close at hand if events turned sour at Everbright. He thought fondly for a moment of the small chapel he had once serviced there, preaching the Word to both faeries and army men alike. But such mundane memories were immediately overshadowed by the glorious vision he had experienced in the caves down below the faery capital. He had stumbled upon Arondight, the flaming sword of Lancelot du Lac. That sword was perhaps the most important holy relic of the Church of all time, even surpassing the Grail itself. It had called out to him in the Lord’s voice, he was certain of it. Just thinking about that encounter caused the hai
rs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

  The Vicar admired James Grayson and had always liked the lad. He wished him well on his quest. Searching for ‘Mother Moon’ indeed! Desmos believed the path would inevitably lead James to an even deeper faith than he already held in his heart. He hoped so. But in any case, James Grayson seemed off the board for the present in regards to King George’s plans involving Everbright. That was perhaps for the best. Desmos had no desire for the young man to be caught up in the struggle for the sword. He and the Cardinal, along with the King’s agent Oliver Doakes, had the situation well in hand. Their secret weapon, Lord Eric Grayson, was already on his way to the faery stronghold in order to procure the sword for them.

  And when he did, Arondight would be delivered first to the Anglican Church at Graystown—to Desmos himself. And when he held that cherished sword in his own hands… well, the world would see what the Vicar of the Sword might accomplish...

  Chapter 3

  Meadowlark felt a sharp jab in the ribs.

  He opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn’t. The bright afternoon sun brought with it a blinding headache. He closed his eyes again but the throbbing pain did not go away.

  Also, there was something tickling the inside of his mouth. He spit out a mouthful of green grass, though his mouth was so dry the shoots didn’t get very far. He wiped them from his chin and looked up.

  He lay on the great sward somewhere in Seelie Park, though he had no idea how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the party. They’d been celebrating… well… something or other. And then making love to Theodora. But that had been up in their apartment. How had he wound up down in the park? Well, no matter, he was no stranger to waking up in odd places and had learned not to question that sort of thing too much.

  From the looks of things, it had been a successful party. Clothes were strewn across the park and empty bottles of thistlewine and all-what-else were scattered amid the grass. He struggled to his hands and knees, balancing a head that felt as if it weighed a couple of tonnes. Had somebody kicked him?

  Among the debris just in front of his face he saw a fashionable brown leather boot. He watched in fascination as the boot moved slowly away of its own volition. When it came rollicking back toward him, he suddenly realized its intent and dodged quickly to the side.

  “Argghh,” he groaned, rolling over.

  A grisly sight stood towering over him—the Winter Court warrior known as Pox. Tall and well-muscled, his bare chest and arms were covered in hideous tattoos representing the cult of Herne, Lord of the Hunt. His skin had the color and mottled texture of putrefying green mold, his nose long and hooked, his black hair drawn back in a pony tail. A deep green scar ran down along his cheek, splitting his upper lip to reveal two front teeth that had been filed down to sharp points.

  “I thought I had already woken up,” muttered Meadowlark, “Why am I still having a nightmare?”

  Pox stepped closer.

  Not trusting his unwelcome visitor’s intentions, and vaguely remembering a jab in the ribs, Meadowlark struggled to a sitting position. “Play nice, Poxy. Daddy’s got a headache.”

  He heard the shwinng! of a drawn sabre.

  “Now that’s a particularly unfriendly sound,” he said. He reached down to draw the rapier from his own hip. But there was no hilt, no sword belt, and no pants. “Damn.”

  Meadowlark tried to stand, but the throbbing pain in his head and his rubbery legs brought him back down onto his naked rump. “Ugghh! All right now. I’m serious! What are you—what are you up to Pox?”

  No answer.

  “Come on, Poxy, use your words.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to kill you.”

  “The K-word? So early in the morning? Quit kidding around. You’re not going to kill me. Well, maybe someday. But not today. After all, you’re not that stupid. At least, I don’t think…”

  Pox did not answer.

  “Well, let’s find out,” said Meadowlark. He reclined casually backward on the grass, one hand behind his head. “Follow along as best you can, alright? You remember the very first decree I made upon assuming the mantle of King Meadowlark the First? I do. What was it? Oh yes, a prohibition against any leadership challenges for a minimum period of one year from the completion of a successful challenge. Makes sense, no? We can’t have anarchy here—bloody death challenges every five minutes. That’d be way too disruptive. Remember that?”

  Pox grunted.

  “Sure. And you probably also remember the very second edict I launched from that balcony there.” He pointed up toward the West Tower. “A permanent moratorium on death fight challenges. We do things here the Summer Court way. A good old vote. That’s the way. So therefore and ergo positus sum, you’ll have to wait nine months more until proffering a challenge against me, a challenge which would manifest in the form of a vote. A vote which you would lose. Still with me? Because by that time Jolly Old MTF—that’s short for Meadowlark the First—will certainly have become everybody’s favorite benevolent ruler. All will cast their votes for me. Unless people get tired of parties and having fun and wanton sex and that’s not really very likely is it?”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I am. But I’d rather be a happy idiot than a sour puss. Like. You!”

  “To hell with challenges, I’ll just kill you anyway.” He swung the sabre a half inch above Meadowlark’s head for emphasis. Meadowlark remembered the time Pox had lopped off the tip of his left ear on an earlier occasion when he’d been determined to kill him right here in this very park. Round and round they seemed to go, and Pox too stupid to learn anything at all. Meadowlark had covered up the missing appendage with a permanent glamour, the only concession to vanity he currently employed.

  “Will you?” he said. “Stab me right in the heart, right here in the park? In plain sight?”

  Pox grinned. “There’s no law against it, is there?”

  Meadowlark frowned. “I guess not. A good old assassination? Well, I’d be lying if I said I had never taken out a proper English King myself. Or a Dark Queen here or there. But again, what a stupid move on your part! A new king or queen will be decided by vote and you know it won’t be you. Who shall it be? Well, Clarimonde for certain. And she won’t take kindly to my murder. No, no my man. And take it from me,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you don’t want that woman angry with you. No sir, I’ll tell you that for free. Relax. Have a drink! You don’t want to kill me. That’s for certain.”

  Pox launched another kick at his face. Meadowlark saw it coming and considered catching the foot and yanking it upward, a move that was sure to send his antagonist sprawling backward onto the sward but, considering the circumstances, he thought the better of it. He simply rolled backward, coming up in a flip a few feet out of reach of his attacker. He raised his arms and, with a congenial nod at Pox, levitated up toward the West Tower balcony.

  ***

  By the time Meadowlark returned to their apartment, Theodora had just gone out.

  The night before, they had tumbled from the balcony in the midst of their lovemaking. Only a last-minute effort, with wings outstretched, had prevented a nasty fall. Meadowlark, as always, made use of the danger to heighten their excitement. He went right on thrusting and bucking as they glided down and continued all through their bumpy landing. After they’d made landfall, he picked up right where they’d left off. Afterward, she had fallen asleep in his arms. When morning came, she awoke on the grassy plain nestled beside her lover, the sweet taste of their lovemaking still in her mouth. What had it been this time? Sasparilla.

  She left him where he lay, snoring and chewing the grass in his sleep. Let him sort himself out. She had never been, and would never be, his nursemaid.

  She was more interested in breakfast and a hot bath. First, she checked to see that little Oberon was being well cared for by his two banshee handmaidens. The child slept peacefully in his crib, his two grisl
y guardians looking down from either side.

  “Good morning, Chlomaki. Good morning, Maghella,” she offered, but neither did respond. Well, she reasoned, it never hurts to try.

  Truth be told, the banshees both frightened and reassured her. They were Winter Court, originally Dresdemona’s allies. But as far as she could tell they had only one mandate; they were sworn to protect the baby, even from his adoptive mother. They didn’t eat and they rarely slept, not that she could tell—they stood still as statues most of the time. They never let the child out of their sight. One word from their lips and Theodora would die. If they are ever turned against me…

  But she had no way to get rid of them. And Oberon needed the protection.

  Meadowlark wasn’t concerned. About anything. He said the banshees protected him too, as the baby’s father. It was not in the child’s best interests to lose his father. But Theodora was not the mother. One wrong move and they would scream her life away.

  She kissed the child on the cheek, very gently, and then went to the kitchen for breakfast. After a meal of fresh fruit and stale wheat cakes, she proceeded to the bath. Meadowlark had installed a large copper tub in the alcove next to their bedroom. This was one of his more sensible additions. It had a slipper design, with one end raised and sloped, creating a comfortable lounging position. The rest of the bedroom, with its darkly paneled walls and tiled floor, featured a few of his less sensible additions—a huge brass chandelier pilfered from some English castle whose candles dripped gobs of white wax all over the place, a huge life-sized rocking horse, and a series of bizarre ancestral portraits Meadowlark had painted himself. Though none of these depicted actual ancestors that anyone could claim, he insisted the stately figures represented the ‘royal line’ as far back as medieval times. A royal suite simply must have these sorts of portraits, he claimed, regardless of their dubious quality. In the center of the room stood Dresdemona’s elegant four-poster bed, still draped with red silk and silver tassels.

  Theodora filled the tub with warm water she heated in a huge kettle on the bedroom fireplace, and soaked in comfort for over an hour.