Page 133 of Crown of the Courtesan

While the Beast Realm is hot and humid outside, the sandstone walls keep the castle’s interior temperate, especially at night. My balcony doors, overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean, are left ajar to allow the breeze inside as I sleep soundly to the roar of the waves.

That is, until the nightmares begin a week after I arrive. Urgent and panicked, the whispers inundate my mind, and I wake drenched in sweat over and over again. Most nights, I cool myself by standing next to the balcony’s balustrade edge, peering down the side of the castle that blends into the sheer sandstone cliff dropping toward the crashing waves—all while I piece together the fragments of my desperate dreams. I clutch the balustrade, thinking how unsettling it is to look into the darkness where water meets sky and not know where one begins and the other ends, but I can’t stop searching the void. Deep within me, I feel as if something is calling.

Despite my restless nights, every morning I rise with the sun, scarfing down colorful fruit before heading to the library. Impressively, it rivals Alexandria’s in size, except that here the library features intricate stained-glass windows from floor to ceiling, as well as several smaller, more specialized bookrooms attached to the main gallery. Books, maps, and scrolls tuck into my arms every night as I carry them to my chambers to keep studying.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there’s an empty hollow inside me that craves more. I read about dragons. I read geography texts. I read about the Beast Realm. But to my dismay, I’m unable to learn anything about the Kingdom of Ashland’s history. The only available textbooks are written in the Dead-Fae language, and no local scribes are willing to translate them.

When scrounging at the library fails to occupy me, I spend my evenings practicing the defensive and offensive moves Valora taught me, using a cast-iron fireplace poker—a private habit I picked up at Ashland Castle when I was denied Neriene for solitary practice.

It’s growing troublesome that every time I ask Rett if I can train with a sword master, he says he’ll consult with his mother and let me know. After all his talk of me continuing training and honing my skills, he should care more, but it’s almost as if he can’t keep up with both my requests and his mother’s daily tasks. So I’ve stopped asking, and I alternate between using the poker and conjuring elements on my balcony.

With the exception of the library, I’m forbidden to visit other palace rooms or attend official dinners in the grand dining hall, a place where Rett entertains foreign dignitaries every night. I dine alone in my chambers because the empress expresses concern about openly harboring me. I’ve been told that I won’t be able to meet other guests or leaders until Erah officially lays out a plan of allyship and war. Yet the days roll by like pearls on a string, and still the empress never arranges a meeting with me.

Most nights, Rett only comes to visit me when the hour is well past midnight. Sometimes, he doesn’t come at all. But tonight, his familiar knock sounds at the door, and as soon as I open it, he grins and says, “Grab your cloak and your walking shoes.”

“Where are we going?” I snap shut the balanced book in my other hand.

Fifty-Seven

Leaving through a servant’s gate, we slip into Delamere City. The moonlit streets are quiet as Rett leads us through shadowy alleys and narrow lanes. He wants our excursion to remain discreet, but I’m not sure if that’s possible.

We pass a gaudy building illuminated in golden light by lanterns glowing in every other window. Raucous laughter drifts out, followed by pleasurable moans that escalate in passion to a climax. Scantily clad women in frilly, low-cut dresses lean out of the open windows, waving and calling down.

“Evening, Prince Everett! Care to stop in for a visit?” purrs a voluptuous female, swishing her tail while cat ears peek through her calico tresses. She plucks a Mellonia bloom, sucking the nectar out of the base.

“These missed you, darling!” Another presses her bare orc breasts against the window glass, her nipples hard and pointed. I glance at Rett quizzically and watch his face go from relaxed emerald to a brilliant shade of crimson before he sheepishly smiles at me.

My eyebrows lift.

If I were a typical woman, I would care more about his visiting this establishment, and I do, in an irritated sense, but I’m distracted by something more important. I ask, “Does the Beast Realm allow simple harlotry here?” Seeing a real brothel or bawdy house, as they’re sometimes called, shocks my senses. It’s hard to believe—let alone witness it.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. “Well, it wasn’t always this way. The Beast Realm used to have Spirit-Fae Cathedrals that banned brothels and common prostitution in favor of Lady Courtesans, but the priestesses fell out of power generations ago, and now the brothels are a thriving business model, if I’m being honest.”

Two more prostitutes yell greetings, waving embroidered handkerchiefs. I notice multiple sets of initials mark the square bits of fabric.

“So the women truly choose this work… willingly?” I ask slowly, eager to learn more about their mindsets here.

“Mostly, yes,” he says. “If a prostitute is held against her will, then the brothel owner is arrested and placed in the dungeons to be made an example of. It’s strictly against the law, so it rarely happens.” I nod slowly, worrying about the courtesans back home and wondering if Rett is telling the whole truth. The catcalls for Rett fade as we continue to walk.

Rett slips his hand around mine, and we stroll a long distance, deep into the city center, until we reach a grassy park full of beastfolk sitting on patchwork quilts.

We stop beside a small basket and blanket strategically placed beneath a blossom tree. Rett gestures to the setup, making me smile appreciatively.

From where we are sitting, we can see a wooden stage lit with many lanterns. Performers rush around behind a curtain, and musicians tune their braying instruments. There’s a pleasant disorganization as everyone tries to find seats while last-minute adjustments are made.

The corners of Rett’s mouth turn into a smirk as he watches the preparations. He leans toward me, brushing our shoulders together. “They have productions here once a month, always on the full moon.”

“Oh, really? What are they like?”

“It varies. Sometimes, they perform popular plays or adaptations of novels. Sometimes, they act out a bard’s ballad or ancient historical texts. It’s all art to them, so they get creative.”

Three trumpets blare from the side, and the curtain over the stage swings back, revealing props resembling the ocean and a few boulders. A tall woman in a gauzy, nearly translucent robe hangs from a thin cable in the air above.

From the corner of the lantern-lit platform, a beautiful sprite narrates in a mature voice, “At the beginning of time, the Spirit Goddess ruled the Fae Realm, but with her realm already teeming with an abundance of life and beauty, she had little else to nurture. So she descended upon the water world of the nymphs and creatures of the deep, using her fae-magic to bring forth the land.”

The actress playing the goddess is lowered while the boulders flip over, the land multiplying and turning lime green. A group of women runs across the stage in graceful leaps and dances. They wear even fewer clothes—a sparkly paste over their breasts, and a whimsical skirt of cobalt gauze. They imitate a fighting motion as they circle and dance around the goddess.

Rett mutters under his breath, “They look nothing like real⁠—”