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CHAPTER1
For a thousand years, the people of the shatterlands raged war. Until Dallin, God of Order, grew tired of their endless bickering. He forged four crowns for four courts:
Love. Justice. Pain. War.
Each court was responsible for protecting and safeguarding the balance of the shatterlands, and only by working together would they prosper.
Under Dallin’s watchful gaze, the courts of Love, Justice, Pain, and War nurtured peace and harmony, and the people of the shatterlands thrived.
But when Dallin vanished, the shatterlands and its courts once more fell into chaos.
* * *
“Dance for us, Lark.” The Queen of Love laughed and fluttered a hand in my direction. Her flushed cheeks glowed, not from rouge, but from the potent wine I’d filled her cup with all evening.
I flashed her an agreeable smile, hopped off the table where I’d been on display long enough to numb a few muscles, and bowed deeply. “Anything for you, my queen.” Taking her hand may have been a little much, but I wasn’t here to be subtle, and when I brushed my lips across the back of her fingers, her blush reddened. Queen Katina was easier to please than her husband, Albus, seated beside her.
It was always best not to meet his eye. The King of Love suffered from a dire absence of humor.
I let the queen’s hand fall and sashayed toward the pirouetting dancers in their brightly colored gowns, peacock feathers, and sparkling jewels. Like the villain of the ball, my black tailed jacket and trousers stood out for their lack of embellishment. I didn’t need lace and feathers to pretty myself up when everyone knew I was the most desired among them. Princes, lords, ladies, and even the queen herself—they all wanted me in their beds.
Before the night was over, I’d have multiple offers. I’d deny most, especially the women. There was no easier way to snare a man than fall into bed one night, only to have your lover return a year later with a mistake clinging to their petticoats, a familiar pair of eyes pleading. Men were the far easier prospect, and there were plenty to choose from among the dancers this night. My true pleasure, however, came from another game I played at their expense. The game of lies.
I inserted myself among the guests, took hands, and danced as though the music lived within me. Most people I knew, but some were fresh faces visiting from deep within the shatterlands, curious about the whispers surrounding the Court of Love’s infamous jester. Most rumors were mine, sent into the world to take on a life of their own. Some less desirable teases had sprung up like weeds in my carefully managed garden—he’s a whore, he’ll pick your pocket as soon as kiss your lips. Those nasty little rumors I nipped in the bud before they grew unwieldy. Gossip was another weapon in my arsenal, just so long as it danced to my tune.
There goes Lark, the court jester, a fool. They say he fucks the queen, and the kitchen maids, and the squires.If all the rumors were true, I’d have little time for anything outside of bedding the entire Court of Love. Of course, much of it was fantasy. Tales spun to keep me alive. A fool is nothing without his reputation.
Music flowed, smiles flashed, fans fluttered secret codes to meet behind the drapes later, and scandalous glances flew back and forth. The Court of Love was an intricate tapestry of lies and desire, of the forbidden and the denied. A tapestry with many a loose thread.
The music reached its crescendo, the band ceased, and the dancers stopped, breathless, plumage sagging. Some of their makeup had smudged, lipstick had smeared, and eyes were darkened by brushed kohl. We bowed and clapped, all playing our parts in the ludicrous game of courtly life.
The queen’s trill sounded again. “Won’t our jester entertain us?”
The queen was one such loose thread.
All eyes turned to me. Whispers simmered of how the queen and I were engaged in an affair. Such rumors were undesirable, and like the most determined of weeds, they refused to die despite my best efforts to kill them.
I broke from the throng and donned a frivolous grin. “A poem, or a tale more befitting this joyous celebration? The Tale of a Queen’s bird, escaping her cage?” The queen—a woman of some forty years to my twenty-three, was not as dimwitted as she allowed others to assume—tilted her head, hearing something in my tone I hadn’t meant to reveal. Weariness, perhaps. I must have been off my game for her, in her pickled state, to sense a fracture in my polished exterior.
Better to distract her than have her concerns multiply into paranoia. Suspicion now would make her far less pliable later.
The royals’ table was elevated on a dais, raising it above every other table and the guests, both in situation and status. I took to its stage as though I had every right to be there. The audience eyed me with a curious mix of envy, trepidation, fascination, and even hatred. How dare I, a common fool, stand above them, lords and ladies all.
My heart fluttered at the thought. I didn’t wear a crown, and I wasn’t a king, although I’d make a fabulous one—a better king than the man who watched me now, his glare like daggers in my back.
Perhaps, had these people fucked and lied their way to the top as I had, then they too could have the Court of Love eating out of their silk-wrapped hands. But alas, they were all too weak, too small-minded, too blinkered to step outside their gilded cages, into my dirt.
“A poem, then,” I announced, drawing the crowd’s lagging attention back to where it belonged. On me.
“An orphan boy, his world all void of color. He lived in a land so cold and dreary, where no one cared and few were merry.” I gestured at my crowd. Their faces bloomed with delight now they featured in this evening’s entertainment. “One grey day, he saw a boy prince, so fair and fleet, wearing a crown of shining gold, and a cloak that billowed in the cold.” I flung a hand at the empty chair beside the king, and quickly moved on, once more avoiding Albus’s glare. His face might have turned a darker shade of purple than the inside of my coat, but I wasn’t paying attention to that. “The prince took the boy by the hand and said,Come with me, my friend.Filled with glee, the orphan boy agreed. The prince took him in, gave him a home. And the orphan boy was no longer alone. He learned to read and write and dance.” I spun, and curtseyed, pausing for affect, then lifted my head. Yes, everyone was watching. The thrill of it unleashed butterflies inside. “And his life was filled with joy and chance.” I marched back across the dais. “The orphan grew into a man, never forgetting the prince who took him in. He lived a life full of love and light. Thanks to the prince, his future was bright.” From my pocket, I scooped a fistful of glitter and flung it over their heads.
The crowd erupted in applause and wonderment.
Arms spread, I absorbed the adoring praise, soaking it into my veins. Was there any greater thrill than the adoration of an audience? Of course, the poem was all lies, much like the court we all danced in. Orphan boys didn’t get happy endings. Not in this court. Jesters did not marry princes, and fools could never be heroes. But I dealt in the currency of dreams. And here, in this moment, I had more power than any king.
Riding high, I mingled among the crowd, pulling cards from my sleeves and dazzling the nobility with sleight of hand. I skimmed my fingers along powdered cheeks, pulled cards from elaborate swirls of hair. I teased kisses while standing scandalously close to a husband or wife, producing flowers from behind their backs. More than a few hands roamed where they had no right to go. Never mine—my hands were always in plain sight, lest I lose another finger to some jilted lord. Still, what was a finger? I had nine more. Nine more lives. And I planned to live every one of them to their fullest before fate caught up with me.
Four years a fool, and I’d loved every second of it. The scandal, the rule breaking, the freedom that came from saying that which should never be said. The king? A buffoon. The queen? A drunken whore. Court of Love? Truly the Court of Broken Hearts. And the prince? Well, he was so hideously ugly and unloved he feared leaving his chamber.
