[19] So This Is Massacre

The hero and heroine: Jay and Shannon Waringcrane. After their productive audience with Queen Mallory, they were taken to recover in fabulously-furnished bedchambers, where a bevy of servants attended to their wounds and needs. While neither sibling exactly lost consciousness, they were in little state to protest their treatment, which didn't stop them from protesting their treatment anyway with what dazed words they managed to eke out.

Eventually, fatigue became too much, and each fell into a deep slumber. The weary servants filed out their respective bedchambers, nodded to the armored knight Mallory assigned as guard, and left to retire to their own quarters.

Night plunged a city without electricity into a deep darkness, some narrow streets at times illuminated by the lantern of a passing watchmen or the windows of houses awake late carousing in celebration of the newly arrived heroes—or in quiet confederation over how best to deal with this brand new fly in the ointment. In this environment a creature like Lalum could creep easily without discovery, and Lalum knew the alleys well enough to scuttle blind, both in the poorer outer districts and the richer ones closer to the castle. After all, she had lived in both before her disfigurement.

A common story, not one worth telling. Her family, noble in name, poor in pocket, nonetheless groomed her well; she served in the castle, was even considered a candidate for governess to the young Princess Mayfair; but finances being as they were, she was instead married to a wealthy merchant in what both families considered a fair deal: Gold for a title.

Unfortunately, the merchant, on top of being a reprobate drunk, was a fraud—penniless. What could be done? Nothing. Lalum attempted to be a good wife to her husband, who was at times not a horrible sort; a liar, yes, prone to anger, true, often striking her for any failing no matter how slight; but he could also show mercy and kindness.

He died in a knife fight over cards.

The debt collectors took any meager amount left afterward; she returned to her family, but her father died soon of illness; her mother had long been dead already; her brother, facing his own difficulties, refused to take her in. Then it was onto the streets, where she remained until the kindness of Archbishop Astrophicus allowed her into the convent despite her lost purity. She bore the archbishop no ill will for his deception, for the drugs he gave her, for his lies about their source and purpose. He'd saved her from an ignoble fate, after all, and he did what he did out of love for God, not enmity. People were fundamentally good. People were fundamentally forgiven due to the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross. Sadly, Lalum was no longer a human. She lost the right of salvation. Nobody, not even Christ, would lift a finger to help her now.

Nobody except the hero.

Her knowledge of the castle interior served her well as her spider legs climbed along the bricks and stony ridges to each of the windows belonging to spare bedchambers; on the third window she found him sleeping, used the thin tip of one leg to undo the latch, and crawled inside.

She dared not wake him. She merely wished to know he was safe, and watched him from the side of his bed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but had he been hurt? Was that a shadow or a bruise? What happened? Oh no. Oh no...!

Lalum.

Lalum drew back, struck an unlit candlestick; it wobbled; she turned and steadied it before it might fall. Furtive eyes glanced about the room. Who had spoken? Nobody was here besides herself and the hero. Had he mumbled in his sleep? Mumbled her name? He—he would do that? He would think about her in his dreams? Her? Oh, oh—oh!

Lalum.

No. Not the hero's voice. Not a voice at all. It wasn't like someone spoke it, it was more like... something that suddenly became known inside her head. A thought, except not her thought. Was it... the voice of God?

Lalum, can you hear me?

How—how to respond to something like that? Normally she communicated by weaving her web. It was dangerous to those around her if she ever unsealed her mouth; she did so only to eat and drink, which she made sure to do in private, when nobody was near. So, she couldn't speak. But without someone to see her web, how could she respond?

She tried the web anyway. A single word spread between her fingers: YES.

Superb. As my experience with these papers remains limited, I was unsure whether my message would reach you. Oh, I ought to explain. I am Princess Mayfair, and I am the New Master of Whitecrosse.

Mayfair? New Master? Lalum understood not a whit. Clearly, however, something incredible was happening.

I apologize for not communicating with you or the other nuns sooner. I have experienced distractions, but they should not trouble me further. Now, as for you, Lalum. I notice you were hurt very badly during a fight with Flanz-le-Flore. Has anyone seen your wounds?

Of course not. Lalum had barely been able to look at them herself. Being half-spider was awful enough, but now she was not only that. Those horrible wolves had ripped off one of her legs, had bit and chewed her bloody. The pain remained severe even days later, but her husband had prepared her to endure pain silently, and that was also the way the Bible instructed one to act.

NO, her web wrote. And nobody ever would. She would never allow another to see her ever again. Certainly not the hero. The way he would blanch in disgust if he laid eyes upon her...

Instantly her wounds were healed.

The constant stinging pain and ache that she was accustomed to feeling ceased at once. At first she didn't believe it. It must have been a trick of her mind, a false hope, a dream even. Much of what now transpired felt like a dream. But she knew the signs of the waking world. And as she shuffled into the dim moonlight filtering through the window and unraveled the webs around her arms and torso, she discovered it so: unblemished skin.

Fascinating! It truly worked. I believe I much better understand how these papers function now. Oh, but it seems you still lack the leg you lost.

It was true.

Hm. Someone must have seen that particular injury, meaning I cannot remove it without creating a contradiction. Please wait one moment. I shall attempt an additive change, rather than a subtractive one.

Additive change? Before Lalum had a chance to wonder what that meant, a tingle manifested on the stump of her severed limb. She held it up to the light; the stitching broke and a small nub grew where the wound once was.

There. I gave you a new property, one that allows you regrow limbs after about a day, similar to how a lizard regrows its tail. I apologize; it seems I cannot make the regeneration act much faster.

Another moment of stunned silence. Then it struck her. She was healed! She wasn't going to be permanently maimed for life! Oh, oh, oh! Princess Mayfair did this? Lalum had always thought the girl to be cold and self-centered, but perhaps that assessment was much too unkind... she certainly regretted it now.

THANK YOU! Her web wrote. OH, THANK YOU SO MUCH YOUR HIGHNESS!

It is nothing. You have provided much aid to my cause. I merely ask for your continued service in return.

Yes, of course, certainly! That was what Lalum wanted to write. The letters only partially formed, though. She looked at the hero asleep on the bed. The "service" Mayfair wanted her to provide... it couldn't be...

I SHANT HURTE THE HERO YOUR HIGHNESS. I CANNOT DO THAT.

He saved her life. Asking nothing in return; simply out of kindness. Simply because he was a hero. He did not demand her service, she gave it to him freely. She refused to betray him.

No, no! Nothing like that, Lalum. I need you to instead go to the caverns underneath the castle.

That was all? Then so be it.

With some navigational assistance from Mayfair to slip past any guards prowling the corridors, Lalum quickly found and descended the long, spiral staircase into the castle's basement, someplace she had never gone during her time as a prospective governess to the child—now young lady—who now gave her orders.

Down Lalum went. Down and down. She grew unsettled and anxious—no matter how many times she descended a staircase, the next instruction Mayfair gave was to find another and descend even more. How deep did this cellar go? Everything was pitch darkness, but a subterranean chill crept through her spine. Rats skittered. It seemed as though there was space for an entire second castle under the first. She'd once heard rumors the cellar was rather expansive—some of the guards griped it was easy to get lost—but she never imagined something like this. For what purpose did this underground serve? When had it been constructed? The castle predated John Coke. What was down here with her...?

Finally an orange glow arose in the distance. It came from two torches, ominously lit—who had done so? Would a guard come by to replace them? These questions were secondary. The torchlight shone upon a vast door that arched into shadow. On the door was an engraving, a larger-than-life image of Christ, his halo massive and his eyes intense, the pupils seeming to stare down directly at her. His expression was not kind, and a sick feeling spread in her stomach...

This is the entrance to the royal vault of Whitecrosse, said Mayfair.

The royal vault. Yes, she knew of that. It contained the relics amassed by John Coke. It was said the door could only be opened by members of the royal family: a magic binding. Perhaps these torches burned due to magic too. Or perhaps all that was merely a story. After all—

I AM NOT OF THE ROYALE FAMILY, YOUR HIGHNESS.

Not yet. I will now attempt to make an alteration to your paper. Our record-keeping four hundred years ago is rather piecemeal; I know that fact well from nights perusing the royal lineages in the library. Who is to say your aristocratic heritage is not an offshoot of John Coke's direct line? I shall give you royal blood.

Then, a pause. Lalum wondered if she should attempt to open the door now. Under Christ's harsh glare, Lalum would rather have done anything else. A silly fear, she knew. It was only an image of Christ, it was not Christ himself. Nothing to fear.

Hm. It did not work.

A relief.

But why? I know with certainty these family trees reach outside the bounds of all records and living memory. How is it still a "contradiction"? Unless... I cannot alter anything to do with John Coke, the way I cannot with Jay and Shannon Waringcrane? Yes, that would make sense!

Lalum stood there awkwardly while Mayfair's disembodied "voice" brainstormed to itself inside her head.

Regardless. It was an unlikely plan anyway. The vault's page specifies it can only be opened by "members of the Whitecrosse royal family"—it says nothing of blood. A distant relation would not be able to open it anyway... Hm. There must be some method, however. Something that does not contradict established facts. Well, one cannot prove a negative. Certainly, it is "well known" that the vault can only be opened by the royal family, but never has this fact been definitively proven by forcing every other person in all of Whitecrosse to attempt to open it. Who is to say the door cannot be opened by the royal family AND by the woman named Lalum? The woman named Lalum has never attempted to open the door before... therefore, her being able to open it now should not be a contradiction. One moment. I shall amend the vault door's page.

Lalum decided not to ask questions, or think about it at all. She stared at the stones below her and pretended she didn't feel Christ's eyes burning into her skull.

Curses! That failed too. Why? Is it because the vault door's page says "Can only be opened by the Whitecrosse royal family"? Adding that it could be opened by another person would contradict that fact, even if the fact has not be definitively proven to the people of Whitecrosse... There must be more nuance to what is considered a "contradiction" than I thought. One moment. Please allow me to think some more.

In silence, Lalum wrapped her arms around herself and waited. Much time passed and Lalum realized she preferred when Mayfair still communicated her thoughts. At least then it wasn't so eerie.

When Mayfair's voice returned Lalum jolted. I have it! I cannot believe I failed to realize before. I am embarrassed even—the solution is so utterly, unbelievably simple. In fact, it requires no amendments at all: We shall use your animus!

Animus. Despite Mayfair's clear enthusiasm, the word did nothing to settle Lalum's deep unease.

It's a flawless plan! My mother is currently sleeping. Your animus allows you to control the actions of another; you shall simply sneak into her bedchamber and manipulate her into opening the vault. Make haste. I shall direct you. Oh yes, of course, you need some fae blood to use your animus. No matter. Olliebollen Pandelirium is around the castle somewhere; we need make only a quick detour first.

The sickness inside her spread.

Lalum? Do hurry. There is no reason to dawdle.

Lalum disliked using her animus. Not merely due to the corruption it wreaked upon her body, although that was part of it. Not merely because she needed to devour a faerie first, although that too was part of it, even if their flesh and blood tasted so delectable, and the mere mention of that adorable Olliebollen caused her mouth to water—Urgh. No, the main reason was that she hated the animus itself.

The act of controlling another creature. It went against the free will God gifted mankind; his greatest gift after the gifts of creation and life. While she had used her animus on other nuns before, they agreed to it beforehand; in some cases it was to save their lives. To use it on someone without consent...

They claimed the animus was a manifestation of an individual's soul. Each person possessed a unique animus. Why, then, was hers that? Was that the truth of her soul? That she wanted to control... manipulate... No, no, she was not like that at all. She was not.

YOUR HIGHNESS, she wrote. CAN YOU NOT ASK YOUR MOTHER TO OPEN IT OF HER OWN WILLE?

The interval of silence that followed bristled the hairs on the back of Lalum's neck. The cold voice that eventually spoke did little to assuage her worries.

That is impossible.

Nothing more. Lalum grimaced.

THEN, she wrote. MAY I ASK WHY YOU WISH TO OPEN THE VAULTE? Were it at least a worthy goal, then she may soothe her conscience about forcing the queen to do it.

The voice that returned was much softer, much kinder: Of course, Lalum. There are relics in the vault with great power. I seek to use them to bring Whitecrosse and all its living beings into Earth. Into the world created by God. That way, you and everyone else may experience His love and salvation. And I can also use it to return you and your sisters to their original forms. Is that not what you want, Lalum? Is this not a worthy mission?

A worthy mission. Yes, of course it was. It was an extension of the same mission the archbishop told them: To bring this world, Whitecrosse, closer to a God it did not truly know. While Lalum wasn't sure how much she believed Astrophicus when he claimed this was a world with no God, returning to her original form was something she longed for with all her heart.

Which is why it crushed her inside to say:

I CANNOT DO IT.

What! Why? You must tell me why!

Her sisters... Theovora and the others... they would surely despise her for this. Mayfair would despise her for this. And if the archbishop were correct, if Whitecrosse was divorced from God, then all the people of Whitecrosse would be right to despise her for this too. It shocked herself how resolutely, how easily she made her decision. It required only one counteracting thought to the thought of all the people Mayfair's goal would benefit.

THE HERO DOES NOT WANT TO GO HOME.

Lalum's eyes turned up to the glowering Christ. O Lord, wasn't she simply the most abominable creature? Look upon her with the disgust she merits. Pitiful, corrupt, degenerate.

Yet how could she betray her heart?

She awaited the fury of Christ to strike her, contained within whatever power Mayfair held. She awaited her healed wounds to reemerge, the pain tenfold...

Lalum. Do you seek death?

Why was she doing this. Why? When Mayfair struck her down the hero would never even know, never even dream that she had died for him. He would never think of her again, except perhaps an idle mention in the back of his mind: I wonder where that disgusting spider went. She would gain no favor from him living or dead due to this.

But his desire to stay here, stay in Whitecrosse—that was the one thing driving him forward, the one thing he truly wanted. His arguments with his sister made that clear. He had saved Lalum's life; when she saved his from the temporary mania of that same sister, he had even reached out—even touched her—not with anger—with affection.

Oh, she was awful. She knew that though. She always knew she deserved all of this.

No—forget death. Lalum, I can inflict upon you sufferings beyond your wildest imagining. Pain without end. I can do it with simply a flick of this quill. Yes. Yes. I can render every inch of your skin an individual agony worse than any you have yet felt. Do you understand, Lalum? I am the New Master of Whitecrosse. My will is not to be denied. But if you serve me, Lalum, I will pour upon you infinite mercy, I shall make you whole again. The hero doesn't want to go home—That's truly your reason? Ridiculous. What favor do you seek to curry from him? It won't matter. You're a monster, Lalum. He shall never give you another glance. Help me, Lalum, and I shall return you to your original form. Maybe then you might catch his eye, hm?

Pain and death was all she deserved anyway. If even Pluxie, whose only sin had been ignorance, was allowed to die in such misery, then what right did she have to seek anything better?

I SEEKE NOT HIS LOVE. DO WHAT YOU WILLE TO ME.

Silence. A long silence, drawing the seconds out, while Lalum closed her eyes and awaited the pain. She still somehow sensed Mayfair's presence despite the total quiet. Mayfair was thinking now, perhaps, of the best way to harm Lalum, how to torture her most efficiently.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The voice, when it returned, was not a voice, but a laugh.

Haha. Hahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, Lalum. Oh, Lalum.

You do not know, do you? Of course not. You were not there when your beloved hero met my mother at court. You have no idea what he asked her to do, do you?

No. Lalum did not.

Very well them. I, Mayfair Rachel Lyonesse Coke, shall be a merciful New Master. I shall not punish you for your insolence or your sins, nor for your singlehanded deprivation of all Whitecrosse's people including yourself from the warmth and light of God, which—I shall remind you—is perhaps a sin worse even than murder. But I shall not punish you. I am merciful.

It was actually a disappointment at this point.

Simply know this, Lalum. You will open that door. Not because I forced you; you will do it because you want to. Because the man you love asked you. I can be patient. I have my own matters to attend to in this world anyway. It should only take him a day or two, perhaps less, to realize how to open the vault using your power. Then you'll do it; and I shall have remained merciful.

My only request in the interim is that you do not mention me to him. Do you understand? Not a word. I cannot have him interfering in my designs. If he learns of me, then I must act. Do you understand? Good.—Farewell.

That word severed it, the connection, the presence Lalum felt. Instantly the silence of this deep chamber enveloped her, bereft of anything behind it. Christ stared down.

What Mayfair said at the end about opening the vault because she wanted to, because the hero asked her to, Lalum did not understand. But did it matter? She felt something else. Happiness. She helped the hero, even if he didn't know it. She helped him... Oh, she was so awful, wasn't she?

—

Jay barely got out of bed—Day 5 now—before the courtiers came. In all shapes, sizes, and colors they barraged him, expounding their endless titles and meaningless pedigrees before attempting to butter Jay with effusive praise. Some were more brazen, some were less, but they all obviously wanted something from him, either immediately or in the future.

Most of the clowns he saw in the queen's court showed up. The rotund Tintzel, freshly appointed archbishop after the previous turned into a plant, basically begged Jay to pontificate at the neighboring cathedral "on the subject of God's love and promised salvation for all people of all worlds"—a naked attempt to get Jay to affirm orthodoxy to a kingdom wracked by sectarian heresy. Then the Dracula-esque Duke Mordac, who seemed as loath to schmooze as Jay was to be schmoozed to, tersely inquired if Jay would visit his manor to "discuss matters." By contrast, Duke Meretryce rambled every pleasantry known to man, promised Jay his exact desire—access to the castle vault—and prophesied a long and mutually prosperous partnership between the two before he finally left.

After that, a parade of lesser nobles and representatives sputtered a lot of the same. He received five different envoys from a certain Duke Malleus who threw themselves on the floor to plead forgiveness for the absence of their master, who was apparently en route as quickly as possible. Bishops appeared, and merchants, and members of various guilds, and even a pleasant-faced and well-dressed fellow who after all the opening ceremony lowered his voice, shifted his eyes sidelong, and asked if Jay met Astrophicus at the monastery, what he thought of the ex-archbishop's "teachings," and if he agreed that Whitecrosse had no God.

Oh, and the women. Any noble's unwedded daughter, sister, cousin, niece, or aunt was presented to him as "a great beauty," no matter how blatant the untruth. One desperate aristocrat brought his elderly widowed mother, caked layers of makeup giving her a distinctive circus clown appearance.

The only consolation was that Shannon suffered the same onslaught. In fact, after receiving Jay's total silence for several awkward moments, many of the nobles left him only to immediately approach her with the exact same gaudy salutations they'd employed on him. Jay didn't care to listen to her conversations, but she at least spoke to them, so he hoped the rest of the long parade would catch on and skip him entirely. They didn't.

Queen Mallory did not appear.

Jay rubbed the buzzing pain on his face where she struck him as he sat down to a breakfast feast at the elaborately-clothed dining table that stretched at least fifty feet. (Shannon ate at the other end, divided from him by a teeming mass of sycophants—and the Fool, who danced and jested atop the table's center.) With one well-placed kick the queen had killed the good mood Jay had been in since the monastery. All of the hangers-on here knew she kicked his ass, they smiled and begged his favor anyway, but he knew in the back of their mind they were all thinking: What a loser. What a weakling. What an idiot.

And he was an idiot. He should've expected it. Makepeace said his mother was more like him than Mayfair, after all. But Jay blindly marched in, high off himself, and got destroyed. Hey-there-little-buddy once more.

Now what? He bit into a thick chunk of ham, which he hated to admit tasted really good.

"—esteemed personage as yourself to bestow upon us equally-esteemed patronage—"

He should look at it more positively. The queen being a dumb jock like Makepeace meant her logic was simple. She was currently besieged on all sides by nobles hoping to claw away her power. With the arrival of the hero negating the advantage of her heroic bloodline, her right to rule was now founded solely on her strength. If Jay turned it around and defeated her in a fight, she'd no longer have any standing at all. She'd have to accede to his demand and open the vault.

"—collected knowledge of Whitecrosse, young hero! Is that not a fabulous thought?—"

It was a video game type of logic: Beat me and I do what you say. But the court was so absurd that type of logic wasn't out of place. It gave Jay an easy route to achieving his goal—so how would he beat her? It wasn't like he'd gotten close and only needed a luckier break. In a video game, you could go grind random encounters for a few hours to beat a hard boss (not that RPG bosses were ever hard). Sure, Jay could train his muscles or even learn technique, but that took months if not years. Who knew what horseshit Shannon would pull in that time.

"—of course we teach all the usual topics: grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, Latin—"

What he needed was a quick power boost. He'd hoped Makepeace's shield would compensate for losing Olliebollen's healing, but during his fight with the queen he barely used it. It was awkward and ungainly to hold when swinging a bat and made his strikes slower, weaker. The queen was too fast for the shield to make a difference. No, he needed something else. Another relic? Maybe some of these rich old dukes had one in storage. Or he could go find another fairy. Or—

"—or, if none of those strike your no-doubt discerning fancy, we have my personal specialty: magic!"

"Magic," said Jay. It was the first word he spoke since waking.

He looked up. The particular courtier oozing unctuous grease before him now was familiar. It was another one of those present in the throne room: the Prime Astrologer, DeWint. Compared to the other nobles, who possessed a more medieval or Renaissance style, DeWint's flowing and shining robes were evocative of a wizard. As he spread his arms out in oratorical flourish the maroon exterior gave way to a deep black interior that sparkled where gem-like constellations had been set into the fabric. His cuffs and collar were both enormous and embroidered gold; on his strangely effeminate fingers were stacked rings, each displaying a gemstone of a different color.

"Magic! Magic, young hero! The unlocked potential of the cosmos! An erudite scholar may harness to his will—"

"Shannon reject you already?" Given the guy's behavior in the throne room, Jay suspected he was one of the noticeable group of bachelors who prioritized speaking to his sister over him.

DeWint's face scrunched. "Erm! Hum! Well! Your—lovely and—rather charming sister—while not immediately receptive to the invitation to study under my tutelage—"

"Alright I get the picture. So do you teach relic or animus magic?" Animus seemed to be the word they used for fairy magic. Which was apparently prohibited in the kingdom, since it turned you into a monster or plant, but maybe DeWint knew a safer way to use it.

"Pah! Is that what you think of the renowned Prime Astrologer DeWint? Relics! Mere baubles, props to assist those with neither learning nor aptitude. And animus! Trickery of the fae! Were you not clearly uninformed, I might take offense to such a question. I suppose I shall let it pass this one time, my youthful and inquisitive pupil."

"I didn't agree to be your pupil."

"Yes, hum, anyway—the magic I teach is far more respectable than either of those. It is the magic of the stars: the magic of astrology! The stars are God's domain; only with their power may humankind attain a closer link with divinity!"

Ah. Jay got it. This was the "Christianity Approved" type of magic. But—"Olliebollen never mentioned this type of magic."

"That's cuz it's fake and dumb," said a familiar voice from within DeWint's robes.

A rustle amid the constellations and a head emerged from an unseeable pocket, the head as shiny and big as any of the flashing stars. Olliebollen Pandelirium.

DeWint shoved her back into the depths of space and made furtive glances left and right. "Aie! My fae friend, you cannot reveal yourself so openly here!"

"Why's Olliebollen in your pocket," Jay said.

"Ah, I see you're already acquainted with the sprite. I wondered if perhaps your lovely sister was harboring the thing without your knowledge. Ahem!" DeWint, confirming nobody had noticed, puffed himself into an inverted teardrop and slapped his fist against his chest. "You may thank me and my rapier-sharp clarity of mind that your diminutive companion remains among us at all. When the queen pummeled our lovely Shannon—"

"She beat up Shannon too?"

"You did not know?"

Jay had stopped paying any attention to his surroundings after he received what felt like a lead weight to the crotch.

"Ahem, anyhow! The servants carried Lady Shannon away, I of course followed knowing something or other of medicine, and when a maidservant attempted to relieve the stunned lady of her garments the discovery was made. It caused quite an uproar among the help gathered, but I stepped in as an expert in all things magical and spirited the sylph into my pocket for safekeeping. Fortunately I also possessed a few pence on my person to keep any witnesses from speaking of the incident. Many lack my more... liberal proclivities toward the fae. Such a creature must remain hidden from sight in a human city, you understand?"

"Sure." Jay figured this DeWint character was more likely than not one of Sansaime's chief customers, although he wasn't a plant so who knew. "Kill her or sell her and I kill you."

DeWint drew back, pale-faced, then regained his bombastic composure. "I am a devotee of science and learning! No scholar would commit such criminality, I assure you, especially not to such a rare and fascinating—if somewhat damaged—specimen. My aim was merely to hold onto the creature until a proper time when I could return it to Lady Shannon. In private, of course."

In private—of course. That story, at least, was more believable than DeWint realized. "Olliebollen—he hasn't done anything weird to you has he?"

"Not yet," came the reply from the cosmos.

"Keep it that way. Now what's this about astrology being 'fake and dumb'?"

"Poppycock—"

"It just is," said the Milky Way. "It's literally fake. Humans can't do magic unless they cheat, that's just the rules."

"Will you shush! You are supposed to be hiding! Besides, your slanderous claims contribute nothing to the conversation at hand. Young Master Hero, I can see the glint of inquisitive curiosity in your eye. You are a pupil at heart, are you not? No need to answer, uncanny perceptiveness of personality is only one of the many powers of astrology. Pay no heed to the faerie. There is of course enmity between these sprites—who some claim descend from devils—and the righteous, God-bestowed arts of the celestial spheres. Enroll in the academy, allow yourself to become my pupil, and I shall reveal those secrets to you!"

Wielding the strange, two-pronged fork that served as silverware, Jay crammed the last bite of egg on his plate into his mouth. He shoved his chair back and stood. "Sure. Let's go now."

"N—now?!"

"Now. And it better not be bullshit."

—

It was fucking bullshit.

There were three large buildings in Whitecrosse: the castle, the cathedral, and the academy, all bunched at the summit of the big hill around which the entire city was built. Rather than leave the castle to go to the academy, though, DeWint dragged Jay down a few flights of stairs into a dark, dank, and damp basement, illuminated by a flickering candle DeWint waved in front of him while babbling about whatever he fucking felt like. It became frigid, like they were in an icebox, and everywhere something seemed to be crawling: rats, although sometimes the something sounded much bigger.

Then they reached a staircase, ascended, and they were in the academy—DeWint notching a too-friendly wink as he relayed that the catacombs under the castle secretly connected all across the city—where they traversed a long stone corridor barely more lively than the one from which they'd just emerged until they reached DeWint's "favored classroom," as he called it. It was more like an office, crammed with books and baubles in equal amounts of excess, astrolabes and the like. DeWint hadn't shut up the whole time and Jay hadn't said a word but the moment Jay dragged a heavy and elaborate chair out from under a pile of junk and sat down he said: "Show me how to do magic."

Even still DeWint had to hem and haw. He opened with an obviously canned lecture, something that felt designed to get a child excited, a lot of forceful and flowery language as to the overwhelming power of the cosmos, the heavenly spheres, and of course the Creator who dwelled therein—mostly the same crap he'd already given Jay in the dining hall, which Jay took as a bad sign. He took DeWint himself as a bad sign, and honestly was not optimistic anything good would come out of this, but Olliebollen was so biased and cagey when it came to magic that he interpreted her "fake and dumb" as an endorsement in DeWint's favor.

He shouldn't have. After DeWint dragged some beakers and vials and ceramics onto his desk, tossed a few rudimentary materials into them, and caused a parlor trick flare of yellow sparks, Jay was pretty sure where everything was going. He wondered if Makepeace and Mayfair—maybe even Mallory—sat through this exact same lecture, since DeWint had at one point mentioned he served as tutor to the royal family atop his duties as Prime Astrologer and Chancellor of the Academy.

"So where's the magic?" Jay asked.

"Ehem... I take it you're—not impressed?" DeWint put down whatever ridiculous astrological instrument he'd been using to "divine the hero's horoscope."

"Can you command lightning to rain from the sky? Summon a tornado? Maybe a blizzard? Anything like that?"

"Well—actually—if a learned astrologer consults these charts, he may see the weavings of God's will and predict—perhaps even influence!—such meteorological occurrences with a rather high degree of efficacy!"

No wonder Astrophicus resorted to fae magic.

"And you can't buff someone's strength? Make them more durable? Heal them even?"

"Er—well—as I mentioned—I am also one of the most forefront scholars in the field of medicine—"

"I told you," said Olliebollen in outer space. "Fake. And. Dumb."

Jay rose, cracked his neck by rolling it around his baseball bat, and turned for the door. DeWint tried to stop him, although the words tumbling out his mouth became an unintelligible mush. Oh yeah—should Jay ask for Olliebollen back? Nah. DeWint intended to return her to Shannon, and inflicting the blowhard on his sister for even a few moments would be sure to annoy her. That alone would make this trip worthwhile.

He reached for the knob and the door flung open with tremendous force. In any other circumstance it probably would've slammed him in the face, but he already got his face slammed once in the past twenty-four hours so he summoned out the dregs of his soul the superhuman reflexes necessary to stop it from happening again.

In the open doorway, exuding an aura of overwhelming perfume, presided the girl from the queen's court with the eyepatch and peg leg, who in no other regard looked like a pirate. The one who collapsed after laughing too hard. Jay never heard her name or title, but imagined he was about to now.

Her one eye blazed as her fluttering robes subsided around her. Weight bearing down on the smooth white staff she used as a cane, she flung out her hand and hurled an object past Jay's head.

"There! Your stupid book back!"

Jay didn't remember any books. But it was DeWint who dove for the whizzing object, bouncing it off his hands so that it whipped at a new angle into his chest, at which point he was able to reel it to him like a nurturing mother. "Careful—Careful! This tome is a priceless work, written in the time of John Coke!"

"That merely makes it old; not a worthy word in it." Her eye scanned the room, sized up Jay briefly, squinted. "Truthfully DeWint I was hoping you'd be away so I wouldn't have to see you. What is this, you lured the poor hero to your private office? Better watch out hero, don't think the old goat's only got eyes for ladies." Amused by her own innuendo, she chortled a dry, airless, almost silent laugh that she accentuated by a repeated bobbing motion of her head, assumedly an attempt to avoid hyperventilating again. The laugh sounded like: Fehfehfehfehfeh.

"Oh Viviendre!" DeWint placed the book gingerly on his desk. "Must you be so cruel to your ill-starred tutor? Have I not showered you with every affection under the sun? Have I not treated you as the princess you rightly are?"

"Cut my head off and fuck the stump DeWint. I returned your book; now I take my leave."

Swiveling on her peg, she hurriedly clacked back into the corridor. Jay, also leaving, decided to follow—not only because he'd get lost if he tried to find his way back on his own, but also because the staff Viviendre used as a cane, white as bone, reminded him of another staff he'd seen recently.

DeWint attempted pursuit, sputtering in astonishment at Viviendre's parting remark. Without even looking, Viviendre snapped a finger at an attendant who'd lurked unseen in the corridor until then, commanding with only a single terse word: "Jreige." Whether that was the guy's name or a word in some foreign language, it did the trick and he barred DeWint from exiting his own office.

Down the corridor Viviendre hobbled fast, but she still only hobbled. Even walking casually Jay kept pace behind her. Eventually he sped up to avoid drowning in the overpowering perfume left in her wake, a scent so sweet it made him sick. Reminiscent of Charm's animus: vat of milk and honey.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Went her bone-white cane.

"You're from California right," Jay said.

Instantly she yelped in terror and whirled on him, hand to her chest. Jay wondered what got her so worked up until he realized he'd been walking on her blind side the whole time.

"Putain de merde! Do I look like a woman with a strong constitution?! Do not sneak up on me—bastard!" Then her face instantly turned to a grin: fehfehfeh. "Surely you aim to kill me, hero. Your 'fight' with Queen Mallory set me into hysterics that nearly tore my lungs apart."

Jay recalled she'd passed out long before the fight and disregarded the remark. "You're the princess of California."

"Why now, I suppose you know everything. How'd you guess? DeWint tell you?"

"You're well-dressed, so you're clearly nobility. You and your henchman are the only people in this city with dark skin, so you're not from here. And California is the only country other than Whitecrosse I've heard anyone mention so far."

Viviendre reached a curved stairwell and proceeded to ascend it at an even more laborious pace than she walked. "Rancorous applause! You are correct; I am indeed Princess Viviendre de Califerne. Younger sister to the king and next in line to the throne. Not that it matters, fehfehfeh."

Right. Makepeace mentioned this girl, once. What'd he say exactly? Something like, "The king of California is crazy; his sister's sane but in some ways that's worse."

"So that staff in your hand is a relic."

"My!" Viviendre stopped. "You sure like to ask whatever the fuck you want, don't you? Didn't Mallory teach you your lesson? Or do you think I'm an easier mark?"

"I saw the Staff of Lazarus at the monastery. Yours looks similar."

She planted one palm against the stone wall for support and hefted the staff at his face, waving its glass sphere just under the brim of his hat. "Maybe it is, and maybe I simply want people to think it is so they piss off. I assure you, if I did have a relic, you wouldn't want to see me use it."

Jay guessed he probably didn't. "Fine."

Three steps above him she was nonetheless only barely matching his height. She maintained her stance, her severe expression, but when her balance wobbled she sagged to the side to catch herself and cracked a self-deprecatory fehfehfeh.

"So you're the hero, hm. What's your actual name again?"

"Jay Waringcrane."

"Right, right. Jay Waringcrane." She resumed her arduous climb. "Damn these steps. Anyway, don't go thinking all relics look the same. They don't."

"You know a lot about it?"

"I know a lot about everything. If not for that pernicious bitch Mayfair I'd be the top student in this whole academy. Well, she's gone now, isn't she? And Makepeace dead, hm."

"That's right."

"I had a fancy for Prince Mack, I'll admit." Her breathing grew ragged as they started on the third flight of coiling steps with no sign of stopping. "Most women did; he possessed his charms despite being a lout. Not that someone with my appealing features"—quick tap of the staff first to her eyepatch and then to her peg leg—"would draw his attention, alas."

"He didn't seem to mind when he fucked that scarred-up elf chick."

For a moment—just a moment—Viviendre tensed. But she continued to the next step, shrugging it off as like a moment of physical weakness. "Ah yes, that—elf. You say they were intimate?"

How to read that pause? Jay already suspected DeWint as one of Sansaime's primary buyers. Maybe as "top student" Viviendre involved herself in the fairy trade too.

"I heard them," he said, "unfortunately."

"Fehfehfeh. Then maybe the rumors were true. Mack, Mack, Mack. The philanderers of Whitecrosse shall struggle now that only DeWint remains to hoist their banner. Fehfehfeh—fehfeh—hrrk, krrrrkkk!"

She leaned against the wall and dry-retched. Jay looked up the stairs and back down where they came, anywhere except at her, wondering where they were going—and why he was following her, if he didn't intend to pry into her relic any further. He'd acclimated to the scent of her perfume by some point.

"Need help," he asked.

"Of course I do, shit-for-brains." She flung her arm out like a hook and after staring at it a second he looped his arm around hers and assisted her back to a standing position.

Maybe he could use this Viviendre girl for something. Her unique position as a foreign princess placed her outside the typical ebb and flow of Whitecrosse court politics. Plus, she seemed talkative enough that if he stayed around she might blab about her relic sooner or later. Or something. Really, it was just refreshing to finally talk to someone who didn't seem to want anything from him.

(Seem being the key word.)

But with their arms linked and their bodies closer, the perfume became pungent again and he turned his face aside to keep from gagging. Fuck, was she slathered in the stuff?

"So Jay," she said. "Your hat. The crest, what does it mean? Family heraldry?"

"It's the logo of the Cleveland Browns."

"And who or what is—"

"It's a shitty football team."

"And what is—"

"It's a sport. They have sports in this world?"

"Nnnnngh. Sport. Any idea how many fucking jousts they've forced me to watch? And all their other silly contests—hunts and so forth. It's only ever enjoyable when someone gets a lance through the throat. Do people die horribly in football often?"

"No, they just smash their skulls together and get brain damage."

"Oh! That could be fun though, couldn't it?"

Jay realized he'd never actually seen a football game. "Maybe."

They—finally—reached the top of the stairs. A single door awaited them. Jay pushed it open and bright light of day poured from a milky sky. The immediate draft forced him to grab his hat before the wind could carry it away. Viviendre's vast collection of jewelry swayed and tinkled: earrings, bracelets, pendants, even a large gold cross strung from her neck (despite Meretryce or someone calling the Californians pagan Mahomet-worshippers). Her hair—she had lots it, black and thick so as much as possible covered her face—tossed in the wind as she staggered out and seized the parapet of the tower they stood on, a tower almost as high as those extending from the castle to their left.

All of Whitecrosse fanned before them. Not only the city and its dense agglomeration of misshapen structures, not only the walls that ringed it, not only the farmland and fields that rippled with long shining streaks; but also the mountains, and the forests, and the shoreline, as though this world were so small that all of it fit within the horizon.

The tower itself was empty. "Why'd you come here?" Jay said.

She shot him a look. With her hair flowing, it was easier to see that she was not a particularly pretty girl, although she did her best to conceal that fact with layers of makeup. "I didn't ask you to come."

"That's not what I asked. Why'd you come here?"

She leaned on her cane and breathed deeply, stopping midway when she coughed. "The air is fresh. And nobody else is here—usually."

Turning back, she took in the view.

"And," she said, hesitantly, as though she wasn't sure she wanted to say it.

"And?"

"It makes me feel like I can fit it all on the palm of my hand."

As soon as she said it her hesitancy fell away, she smiled, and Jay realized after a few seconds he was smiling back. Then something skritched in the stairwell behind him and he turned to see. He wasn't sure, but for a moment he thought he saw the tip of a spider leg shuffling out of view.