Vidar
The Court of Madness lives up to its name. Young as I am, I have visited all the courts of the fae, and this is like the others in that it is as lovely as it is absurd. We are in a pillared hall under the earth. Roots tangle down from the fathomless heights of the ceiling and strange candles burn everywhere, squirming and gasping as if they are living things.
I suspect that the court would usually be dancing and laughing as their preferred form of revelry. Or maybe they prefer to torture the weak as my court does.
Long tables are dripping with decadent treats and an actual fountain of wine they are dipping goblets into, but today they are more than happy to trade dancing for violence. I am the object of that violence. As always. It almost makes me feel at home.
I must continue to take their blows and their derision. For now. Patience is my most useful ally.
I arrived exactly as I was ordered to arrive, leaving my mount outside the Court of Madness. There was no need to see him suffer with me. I brought no weapon and offered no harm – exactly as I was instructed – the perfect lamb for the slaughter.
And they have taken full advantage of that.
Even though I have this hidden trick, this careful ace tucked up my sleeve, worry still burns acid at the back of my throat. I should have tested the Seer on some small thing first. What if she does not show true after all? What if this very desperate gamble I’ve made doesn’t pay off? I will be dead and brutalized. I, who ought to be immortal.
And yet, just the thought of her sends shivers up my spine. I can’t put my finger on why, but it feels like she knows everything about me and understands. The last look I saw in her eyes was anger and judgment over the bird – and yet. And yet when I left the visions, I felt safe for the first few hours – safe in a way I have not felt since I was a child in the arms of my mother. And every time my mind drifts, I think of next May Day and if, were I to go to her again, she would smile this time. Perhaps I can find some manner of gift to apologize for the last one.
Two green-skinned, beast-scented fae hold me between them, their tree-trunk arms pinning me in place against leather harnesses. They’re trying too hard to look bad. You don’t have to try, you just have to be.
The delicate silver-haired fae female knows this.She’sclothed in gossamer white lace like a bride as she toys with me. She holds an iron rod in her kid-gloved hand. She shows no tell before she smacks it against my ribs, my shins, even my face. It sears me as well as dealing blows that would break mortal bones. Evenmybones are close to snapping at the impact.
I drift on the wings of pain, as I feel blood leaking from the splits in my skin. My mind flickers to the face of the seer once again. Mayfly-covered as it is, it’s a strange refuge to seek but I wouldn’t ask for anything else.
My things are spread across a table in front of my torturer and her delicate fingers dance over them as she toys with me.
“No weapon, pretty ice child? Or is there a weapon here I cannot fathom?”
She’s perfectly beautiful. There’s not a flaw in her face or figure. If I were a mortal, it might overwhelm my senses, but I am no mortal. I have depths she has not yet plumbed, set in place by years of this kind of treatment. Idly, I wonder if that might be part of the method to my own king’s madness. Has he subtly formed me as his tool – able to withstand torture after practically being raised on it? She’s still talking. What is she saying?
“A deck of playing cards, a small flute, a vial of an unknown substance, a handkerchief, a brooch in the form of a stag, a half-stub of candle. This is all you carry to our realms? Nothing more to show us?”
“Oh, there’s more to show,” I say with a seductive half-smile. I force aside the distraction of the little seer and settle into the role I must play. I have this one chance. I must not waste it.
My torturer is not amused. “Then show me.”
Seemingly unconsciously, her hand drifts up to the circlet on her brow. It’s new. She’s only been Queen of the Court of Madness for a year. Not long enough to get used to the idea. But long enough to begin thinking of war. My king was not wrong about that. I saw the evidence on my ride to their court.
“If I could have one of my hands back?” I suggest.
She nods and the fae to my left releases my hand.
With a flick of my wrist, I produce a daffodil from my sleeve and offer it with an awkward bow. It’s hard to bow with one hand still in the grip of the large fae. His lower incisors stick out through his lips and the grin he offers me is laced with promises. He would like to eat my flesh from my bones. He has reason to believe he’ll be given the opportunity.
“A pretty for my pretty,” I say flippantly but my stomach does a flip. No one should judge me for that. Even a clever and courageous son of ice gets nervous when he’s intentionally provoking powerful enemies.
The Queen snatches the flower from my hand, crumples it, and throws it to the ground.
“Try again,” she says in a low, threatening voice. She wants me to give her some evidence to damn myself. But I need to buy a little time. They began beating me before I was ready.
I flick my hand again and produce a long quill, rolling it over my fingers and back as some men might roll a dagger. My king said no weapons. I have honored his request. But he didn’t say anything about pens. Or flowers.
She snatches it from me and breaks it and now I know she’s furious, and my heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear her. I’m so close. And oh, if I prayed at all, I would be praying that the seer showed me truth because everything hangs in the balance of these final moments.
“What is this?” She grabs the vial from among my things and shoves it under my nose as her bully boy grabs my arm again. She opens the top and sniffs it. “Blastwort! Come.”
A thin wisp of a man shambles over. His beard tangles all around him, tied and knotted into a net that could serve as clothing except he wears a grubby robe under it. There are no standards of dress in the Court of Madness unless “unstable” is a dress code.
He takes the vial and sniffs it, tilts his head to one side, and shakes it. “A poison. But mostly gone. Deaddrop, I’d guess. Enough to poison every barrel of wine here. It’s not a nice death. It takes the body slowly, starting with sweating. Then a flush. Then tremors. Then an agonizing death of shaking and seizure.”
