An Artificial Night

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE WORLD WAS MADE OF MIST and filled with snatches of song. I hummed along, singing when I knew the words. There was nothing else: just the music, the mist, and me. Sometimes people moved past without speaking, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as the music was there to keep me warm. There was a time when the world was something more than mist and half-remembered songs, but that time was long ago and far away; that time was over. I hurt when I tried to remember, and so I’d stopped trying. I just sat in the darkness and waited. What I was waiting for exactly was the part I didn’t know.

There were things to hope for, even in the misty darkness. If I was very lucky and very good, He might come. He was as big as the sky and as bright as the moon. When He walked the mists parted, and I could see the plains that stretched forever under the twilight sky. I would have done anything for Him. I would have died for Him. I think I told Him that once. I remember His hand on my hair, and His voice, as deep and wide as the ocean, rumbling, “You’re almost ready.” I cried for a long time after that. I didn’t know why. Something about promises.

Time passed. I don’t know how much, and I didn’t care; time had no real purpose. All that mattered was the mist, and the hope that soon, He would come again.

When the mists cleared enough to remind me that I had a physical shape, I realized someone was dressing me. Something was coming, something as important as the moon I could remember seeing against … some other sky. The thought hurt, so I put it aside; something important was coming, and that meant He would be there. Everything would be fine, as long as He was there. I smiled, letting unseen hands pull boots onto my feet. That didn’t seem polite, and so I sang, “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse …”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the someone, and stroked my hair, pulling it back and pinning it. The voice was almost familiar, the way the faces I sometimes saw when I slept were almost familiar. “It’s almost time to go. I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t worry.”

“… with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,” I sang, closing my eyes. It hurt to watch the mist for too long. It would start dissolving if I did, showing me glimpses of a world that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the way the world was supposed to be; it made me want to bite and scream. Something about children and candles.

“How many miles to Babylon?” I muttered. “It’s threescore miles and ten.”

“Shhh,” said the voice. “You need to be quiet. No more rhymes. No more words.”

“Can you get there by candlelight?” What was she talking about? Words and the mist were the only things I had.

“Snap out of it!” she whispered and slapped me. I froze. Sometimes He hit me when I sang songs He didn’t like. I never knew what songs would make Him hit me until they were already sung and it was too late to take them back. Once, when I sang a song about a woman named Janet and the white horse her lover rode, He started hitting me and almost didn’t stop. I bled into the mists for hours after that, bright blood like rubies on my fingers.

I didn’t like it when He hit me. It hurt. And it confused me, because as much as I hated it, I didn’t want Him to stop. When He hit me, the mists cleared enough that I could start grasping concepts beyond the world I knew, things more complex than mist and half-remembered songs. So I cringed at the blows and remembered what caused them, so that I could make Him do it again whenever I wanted Him to. Whenever I was willing to gamble pain for sanity. When He hit me, I hated Him. When He stopped I hated myself for hating Him.

But I always made Him hit me again.

There was no more pain. I opened my eyes. The mist was empty, eddying in slow swirls. “Hello?” The mist caught my voice and threw it back, drowning out the songs. “Hello?”

No one answered. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering harder. This wasn’t right: I was never alone. There was always someone in the mist, ready to chastise or soothe. They never left me alone. Something might hurt me. Something might frighten me. Something might …

Might …

Something might wake me up.

“How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten …” I whispered. I remembered someone else saying the same words; a woman with dark hair and eyes like the mist. She put a candle in my hand, she told me the route to follow for my there-and-back-again; she promised the candle would protect me. There was danger, yes, always danger, but there was a road I could follow. I remembered the oily sheen of her skin, the tapered nails that crooked so naturally into claws …

The Luidaeg.

I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. The Luidaeg. She gave me my candle and set me on the road to Blind Michael. I was safe as long as I held the candle and stayed on the path. I was safe until … oh, root and branch, what had I done? More important, what was I doing? I tried to stand and fell, catching myself on the chair.

A voice behind me said, amused, “Well, that worked better than I expected.”

I froze, sorting through the possible speakers and discarding them. Finally, I asked, “Acacia?”

“It’s me; now hush. I need you to get up.” Her hands were firm on my shoulders. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Where am I?” I could hear her, but I couldn’t see her; the mists blocked everything.

“My husband’s private hall.” She guided me to my feet. “It’ll be all right, but you need to move.”

“I can’t see.”

“You’re enchanted—he has plans for you, and they don’t include escaping.” There was a dark amusement in her tone. “Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told, and she dragged a soft, damp cloth across my eyelids. I opened my eyes when the pressure faded, squinting against the sudden brightness. The mist was gone. We were in a small room cluttered with broken furniture and heaps of discarded tapestries. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, and footprints led to the chair where I’d been sitting. There were no windows; the door was ajar, and had no locks. They’d held me prisoner, and they hadn’t even needed iron bars to do it, because I gave myself to them. I was an idiot.

Acacia was kneeling in front of me, a frown pulling the scar on her cheek taunt. She watched me look around, concern evident in her expression. “Can you see me?”

“I can,” I said, looking back to her. “What did he do to me?”

“He coated your eyes with faerie ointment brewed to blind, not reveal.” Her smile was bitter. “He’s not very original, I’m afraid, but what he does, he does well. Including the taking of other people’s toys.”

“I thought he was a god.” I almost gagged on the words.

“I know. He does that to everyone; even those of us who should know better.” She ran her hand over my hair and straightened, saying, “We need to go. It’s All Hallows’ Eve, and he’ll be coming for you soon.”

“What?” I stared at her. Had it been that long? It couldn’t have been … but the mists had been so thick. For a moment, I was ready to go with her. Then I sobered, shaking my head. The thought of freedom was like a drug, but it didn’t change my promises. “I can’t.”

“I know you gave your word. Do you know what you swore?”

“To stay.”

“You never said you’d Ride. My woods are part of his land. Now come with me. I can’t free you, but at least you won’t be his.”

I studied her before offering my hand and letting her lead me out of the room. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you didn’t have to take her my rose, and because his plans for you would be bad for us both. Now hurry.”

I fell silent, letting her guide me through the halls. We were halfway down the hall when Acacia gasped and shoved me behind her. I hunched down, trying to make myself small enough to be overlooked. I hadn’t seen whatever startled her, but I was sure it wasn’t anything friendly. Very little in Blind Michael’s lands was friendly.

Armored feet scuffled on the floor, and a voice said, “Lady Acacia? We did not expect to see you here.”

“Do you question my right to pass?” she demanded. Her voice was cold and convinced of its own superiority: the kind of voice purebloods use on changeling servants.

It worked just as well on Blind Michael’s guards.There was an embarrassed pause, and the voice said, “No, Lady. But we grow near time to Ride, and I thought …”

“Who said you should think?” she asked. “You’re obviously ill-suited to the task. What breed of fool challenges a lady in her lord’s halls? And I am still his lady until the Ride is done.”

What was she talking about? I remembered Blind Michael’s hands on my hair and cheeks and was suddenly terribly afraid that I already knew.

“My lady, I—”

He’d have been better off keeping silent—it was too late to stop her. I’d heard Evening do the same thing more than once; it impressed me coming from her, and she usually had reason. Acacia was doing it cold, with nothing to fuel her but fear. That took skill. “I’ve half a mind to tell my husband you doubt my right to walk his halls! I’m sure he’ll be charmed to know his guards would even do so much for his safety as guard his lady from his bed!”

“Please!” The guard was frantic, and even I felt a little sorry for him: I could guess what it would mean to be reported to Blind Michael for something like that. “A thousand apologies!”

There was a pause. When Acacia spoke again her tone was gentler. “Very well. See to it no one else disturbs me; I haven’t a mind to dance these steps more than once a night.”

“Yes, Lady!” I heard the guard scramble away, footsteps fading. Acacia kept me pressed against the wall for several minutes, waiting. No alarms sounded.

When she finally stepped away from the wall, she gave me a look that was full of sorrow. “So you know.”

“Why—”

“Because.” Her sorrow faded, twisting into bitterness. “You’d be a better toy. Come quickly.” She grabbed my hand and started walking again, faster now. The guard was as good as his word, and no one else tried to stop us. The end of the hall was in sight when Acacia broke into a run, dragging me with her. We were almost there. We were almost out.

Fingers snagged in my hair, yanking me to a painful stop. I fell backward, hitting the floor hard, and found myself looking up into the smirking face of the Piskie from the Children’s Hall. She was sitting astride her Centaur mount, one hand wound in his mane; her other hand was still raised, strands of my hair caught between her webbed fingers.

“He said you might try to get away. He said we should watch you special,” she said, and looked to Acacia, eyes cold. “You can’t hurt us. He knows where we are.”

“No,” said Acacia wearily, hands dropping to her sides. “I can’t hurt you.”

“Stupid old hag,” said the Piskie. The Centaur grabbed my hair this time, hauling me to my feet. I winced but didn’t scream. I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction.“These are His halls, not yours. You have no power here.”

“No, I don’t. I gave it up,” said Acacia, and looked at me, expression pleading.

What was I supposed to do? I was already damned. So was she, but I didn’t need to make her suffer. She’d do that on her own. I went limp, not fighting against my captors or pleading for help as Acacia turned and walked away.

“You’re just in time,” said the Piskie. “Now we go.”

“Go?” I asked, bleakly.

The Centaur nodded, giving me a brisk shake for punctuation. “Now we Ride.”

They dragged me through the hall and out the door, into the clearing where I’d made my bargain. About half of Blind Michael’s twisted children were there, milling back and forth under the steady gaze of the Riders. There were other, unchanged children as well, lashed together like cattle. Most of them were crying. The Piskie shoved me into the crowd, and I stumbled, barely managing not to fall. No one seemed to have noticed our arrival; it could have passed for a festival atmosphere if not for the screams.

Riders guarded the edge of the clearing, except for the point where it bordered on a long stone wall. There was a break in the wall, less than twenty feet away; the Piskie and her Centaur mount were cantering toward the front of the clearing, and the other children were ignoring me, caught up in their own private anticipations or terrors.

I started inching backward toward the opening. It was almost time for the Ride to begin. I didn’t know what happened when Blind Michael took his Riders out into the night, and I didn’t want to; Acacia was right. I promised Blind Michael I’d stay in his lands, but I didn’t say anything about sitting idly by while he bound me to his eternal service or took me as his lady. I knew enough to know that if I Rode, I’d belong to him forever, and maybe it was splitting hairs, but the idea of spending all of time with the man just didn’t appeal. All my kids were safe at home, except for Katie, and if Blind Michael still had her, it was too late. There was no one left for me to save but myself. It was better to run away, even if I died in the attempt. At least I’d have tried. At least I’d die a hero.

I kept my hands down, trying to look nonchalant. A few of Blind Michael’s kids would be glad to hurt me, like the Piskie and her Centaur friend, but others might be glad to see someone escape. The wall was only a few feet away. If I could get out of the village, I might be able to reach Acacia’s woods before the Riders knew I was gone. Once I was in the woods, they couldn’t take me. Acacia ruled there. There was still a chance.

Like an idiot, I let myself believe it. Only for an instant … but that was long enough to give me hope. I reached the wall, slid myself into the hole, and got ready to run.

And Blind Michael loomed out of the darkness. For a moment I saw him for what he was: one of the Firstborn, a foundation of Faerie, but still a man. Not a god. Then his illusions slammed into me, and he became the mountains and the sky and the world. I could think about escaping, but much as I wanted to, I couldn’t move. “Now we Ride,” he said.

Oh, root and branch. Oberon help us all.