Faerie Lord

Ninety-Nine

It was raining, of course. Since he’d inherited Burgundy’s old Keep, Lord Hairstreak had found it more economical to leave the weather spells in place than have them neutralised. So the Keep remained exactly as it had been when Hamearis was alive, a Gothic nightmare clinging to a cliff edge, buffeted by breakers and lashed by heavy rain and howling winds.

No matter. It suited his mood.

Hairstreak climbed out onto the battlements, wrapping his cloak around him. From this vantage point, he could see the approach road and the angry sea. There were no ouklos, no carriages of any sort. There were no boats, no flyers overhead. No one visited now. If they had, there were no servants to greet them.

The chill insinuated itself inside his cloak, but he ignored it. Where, he wondered, had it all gone wrong? It seemed such a very short time ago since the whole world and its potential had stretched endlessly before him. His sister married to the Purple Emperor. His followers solidly behind him. It had seemed only a matter of time – and a short time at that – before the Faeries of the Night took control of the Realm, with himself at their head.

How different things looked now. His brother-in-law, Apatura Iris, the old Purple Emperor, dead, resurrected and dead again. His daughter on the throne. Hairstreak’s old demon ally, Beleth, dead as well and Blue now Queen of Hael. All the old alliances and arrangements in tatters. The Lighters more firmly in control than they’d been for centuries. How had it all gone so horribly wrong?

His hands reached out to grip the stonework of the battlements. Where, he wondered, had his money gone? Oh, it was simplistic to say that with Beleth dead his major source of income disappeared as well. But where were his properties, his reserves, his massive lines of credit?

The plain fact was that maintaining a political presence was ruinously expensive. The bribes alone were crippling, and if one did not keep up appearances, no one took you seriously. So in a frighteningly short space of time, his reserves had shrunk, his properties sold off or repossessed, his lines of credit dried up. And with them went his so-called friends, although that was no surprise. He’d never been under illusions about any of them. Ultimately, he’d relied on no one but himself.

He still thought his last scheme had been a good one. Lighters… Nighters… men of means always wanted servants and always would: the cheaper the better, which was why demon service was so appealing. One payment and you had a slave for life. He could never understand why the arrangement had never really caught on with the Lighters – they were quick enough to abandon their religion in other areas when it suited them. But the new scheme was even better! How could anybody object to angels?

Where did it all go wrong?

He stepped closer to the edge and felt the wind pluck at him like giant fingers. He felt, as he had felt so often in the past, a little angry, a little resentful, greatly disappointed, but most of all confused and weary to the bone.

How had it all gone wrong?

Lord Hairstreak stepped from the battlements and launched himself towards the cliffs below. As he fell, the wind spread his cloak so that he looked for all the world like a giant bat.