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“A decade?” I’ve never heard of anyone trading so much.
“It was the only thing he was willing to trade. I can take other things—talents, memories—and transmute one type of power into another. I’ve always been good at that. Even before I was High King. But it’s most effective if I get life force to begin with.”
“And what did he get in return?” I don’t stifle the note of accusation.
“He was worried about his farm. He didn’t think his crops would be enough to feed his family this year, so I ensured he had a good harvest.”
“Why is he so young?” I demand. From the looks of it, he was my father’s age, or perhaps a bit younger. “Even without the ten years, this—” I gesture to the crying family, “—is early.”
“He worked too hard. Spent longer days than usual in the fields trying to get everything in before it spoiled. He was afraid the abundance would go to waste. He got tired; he caught a chill. His body couldn’t fight it.”
I think of how easily fae deals turn from blessings to curses—the way their magic finds a way to trip you up and twist the good into bad. How much of that is by design, and how much of it is a side effect of magic unbalancing natural orders? Perhaps there are some places it just shouldn’t be.
“Your deal didn’t kill him early, then?” I ask. I want him to tell me exactly what role he played in this. I have the shape of it, but what I’m really asking is something deeper: how much is he to blame for this scene? How much of a monster is he? Part of me doesn’t want the answers, of course. Because if I judge him, I’ll have to judge myself next. After all, I have attached myself to this man, haven’t I? Allowed him into my bed, and maybe even my heart, despite knowing that he has demons lurking around every corner.
“My magic may have played a part. The taking of life force isn’t easy. It can leave someone weak for a little while. He pushed himself too hard while he was still vulnerable.”
“Then you deceived him.”
“No.” Ruskin looks at me, tearing his eyes from the pool’s surface for the first time. “In case you’d forgotten—I cannot lie. But it takes life to make life. I needed some of his own life force to ensure that good harvest in the first place. It fed the soil, nurtured the roots of his crops.”
“And you took the rest,” I say.
“Yes.”
“How often do you take people’s years? How much do you take?”
He takes a step back from the pool, his expression hardening under the bombardment of my questions.
“I take them as often as people offer them—and whatever number they choose to give.” It goes unspoken that for peasant families, years of life was likely the only thing they had to trade. “I do what I have to do. I might not like it, but being a ruler means making the necessary decisions, even when they’re hard.” He gestures to the pool. “The important thing is that you don’t get complacent, that you face the consequences of those decisions, look them in the eye, and know you did what was necessary.”
I look at the painful scene in front of us, trying to understand. It seems that this isn’t so much penance for him as a reminder of what he’s doing and why. His voice, his expression, is sad and determined at the same time. I’d once thought of him as being casual about these trades of his, imagining him laughing at the stupid humans foolish enough to fall for his trickery, but it’s much more complicated than that. He’s neither proud, nor ashamed. Simply determined.
“I suppose there’s some balance there,” I say. “You took those years to keep his family alive, but also yourself.”
Though I know that doesn’t mean it’s right. The opposite of bad isn’t perfect equilibrium—it’s tipping the scales the other way. It’s actively doing good. What would I do if I had Ruskin’s power? Would I bargain only to get what I needed in return, or would I find a way to give my gifts freely? But then, Ruskin isn’t in a position to give freely, is he? I remember, my eyes on the spot on his chest where his curse is still working away, leeching the life from him.
He looks away.
“I don’t make the deals to keep myself alive.”
“What?” It’s like the bottom has dropped out of my stomach. I was sure…hadn’t he said as much? Hadn’t he confirmed that’s what all the taking was for? But no, I realize, thinking back. Not really. He gave only vague answers, allowing me to make my own assumptions.
“My High King magic has been enough to slow the spread of the curse. My deals have nothing to do with it,” he says.
I could shout with frustration at this new non-answer.
“Then why on earth do you make them?!”
He takes a step towards me, but my anger forces me away even as he reaches for me. I want to stand still, let his hands cradle my face, let him give me some answer that offers hope he’s the man I want to believe he is…rather than the man he appears to be.
“There are still some things that you don’t understand,” he says, but then offers nothing more.
I throw my hands up in the air, the volume of my voice rising. “Then tell me, explain it to me. Except that’s not what you want, is it? You want to keep me in the dark, so you can hold me at arm’s length instead of admitting we’re in this together.”
His face folds into a frown and he waves his hand. The image in the surface of the pool changes, shifting from the unknown family to a much more familiar face.
“Dad,” I whisper, moving closer to get a better look. He’s down by the river, fishing, but his expression is empty and solemn. He looks thinner, I think, though there’s a reasonable catch in the basket at his side. He’s worrying himself sick, I’m sure, and my heart breaks at the thought.
