Page 47 of The Faerie Handmaid

She tried sensing the fae’s feelings and even made a weak attempt to listen to their thoughts, but without success. This person’s emotions were as blank and cold as a granite wall, and that frightened her even more.

They left the boulevard, turning into a curving lane that ran up a short hill. At the top was a large house, made of pale stone like the others in the city. A high wall of the same stone encircled the house, reaching above Braithe’s head. The fae spoke a cantrip to open the gate and led Braithe through a garden with several beds of shrubs and dwarf trees, all meticulously tended, everything planted in the straight lines that characterized every garden or park Braithe had seen.

The fae didn’t pause but drew Braithe up a single step to a tall door painted such a dark gray it was nearly black. The same cantrip opened that:

Skin and bone and belly and blood

Belly and blood and skin and bone

Master spell is now undone.

Braithe had heard it twice now, and she would remember, although it would do her no good. Cantrips required magic. Real, strong magic, like Priestess Morgana’s.

She hated the sound of the closing of the door behind her, cutting off her last chance at freedom. The fae’s hand lifted from her arm, and she felt a rush of relief as control of her muscles returned to her, but she was imprisoned, and she knew it.

She turned to the fae and spoke in the harshest voice she could muster. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

The façade of Morgana shimmered and dissolved, revealing the fae’s true appearance. Faolin. She had identified him as one of the enemy, but he had seen through her disguise. He must have remembered her from that first day, when she stood on the dais and spoke as if she had the right. Only this man had made the connection, with his odd bristling hair and mind full of obscenities.

“Sero Faolin,” she said.

“Very good,” he answered, with a mirthless smile. His face was all angles: a long sharp nose, a receding chin, gold-flecked eyes that tipped sharply up at the corners. That feature was beautiful on Morgana, catlike on Skye. On Faolin it was exaggerated, even grotesque. Faolin’s voice had an edge to it like that of a freshly honed knife, and it made her want to put her hands over her ears. “You are called Braithe, I believe. Braithe of the Temple. Why were you pretending to be a servant?”

Braithe pressed her lips together without answering. She turned from him to look at the house. Her first impression had been correct. It was a prison, or at least it would be if that was Faolin’s intent. It was beautiful, with smooth white walls, a tiled floor, a number of closed doors, and niches here and there. They held tiny art pieces, similar to those in the Council Hall. Fleetingly, she wondered if the art was old as it seemed. She suspected she knew the answer to that.

Faolin said, “I have been alive far longer than you, Braithe of the Temple. I am difficult to deceive.”

She responded without looking at him. “Perhaps if you answer my question I will answer yours.”

He smirked. “Perhaps? I can force you, you know.”

“Is that what gives you pleasure? Forcing people?”

“Oh, yes,” he said smoothly. “It does. It does indeed. All other pleasures faded for me long ago, but for that one.”

A chill of horror crept over Braithe’s body. She tried to hide it by walking a little way down the hall to examine one of the art pieces. It was a tiny sculpture of wood, or perhaps bone. It depicted a female figure bending backward, twisted into a position of agony. It was exquisitely rendered, and utterly repulsive. Braithe had to look away.

“You do not like my work,” Faolin said. He had come up behind her on soundless feet.

“Is it your own?”

“It is.”

“It offends me.”

“That is its purpose,” he said easily. “Look at my other pieces, Braithe. You will be even more offended, and I will take satisfaction in that, too.”

She had no wish to look at other such sculptures, but it gave her an excuse to move away from him. More than anything, she didn’t want him to touch her again. She took a few steps along the hall, stopping at another niche. The sculpture it held was also very small. It consisted of two nude figures locked together, but it was not romantic. It was brutal.

She spun away from it, not caring that her revulsion would please him. “I want to leave,” she said. “Your house could be beautiful, but it’s full of ugliness.”

“You haven’t seen anything but this hallway, Braithe.”

“I do not care to see anything more, Sero. Kindly open the front door for me.”

“Oh, I am not going to do that. I intend to enjoy having you as my guest for a little while longer. Or a very long while longer. I haven’t yet decided.”

She had expected nothing less. “I am not your guest, then,” she said, taking care to steady her voice. “I am your prisoner.”