MUTARE
JARASAX
Jarasax of the Blood-Doused Hunters didn't remember his real name. When the Queen of Harvest Black kidnapped him, she shaped him and molded him so much that his memories were lost in the transformation. Like all changelings, his name was simply something he chose. And as was traditional, he chose an outlandish name to further identify himself from the fey's apathetic cruelty.
Unlike most of his kithmates, his first memory was not a particularly unhappy one. He awoke in a human form, serving as a living chair for guests visiting the Court. That might sound horrible and demeaning, but there were much, much worse fates available at the hands of the fey.
By the time he escaped, the Queen had taken a bit of an interest in him. He didn't look even the least bit human by the time he reached a 'sarian compound. The only reason he survived was because of his thick armor plating. The soldiers shot on sight.
But, thankfully, they thought it was odd that he refused to fight back, so they took him to Clarke's lab, where the lovely Mary Christina—the lab tech, not the one who ran the city now—realized that he was actually human underneath all the toys.
They rebuilt him over a few months, but there was only so much they could do. No one, including Jarasax himself, knew who he was, and toys couldn't just be unplugged. They had no idea what he was supposed to look like. So, they were forced to use his DNA as a map. It said he was male, average height, and of Middle-Eastern descent, so that's what he ended up looking like. He had no idea if any of that was true, and in all honesty, he was sure there were at least a few details that were very wrong.
“Jarasax,” his companion snapped, sharply but not unkindly. “Pay attention.”
He instantly straightened. “Apologies, Honored Mother. I let my mind wander. It won't happen again.”
The First Monster sighed. “Honestly, you're almost certainly older than I am. How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”
“At least once more, Honored Mother,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.
She rubbed her forehead. “Fine. Why don't we talk about the fey?”
Jarasax blinked. “My lady?”
“That is what you were thinking about, right?” she asked, eyeing him carefully. “I can always tell when you're thinking about them. You get a... look.” She shrugged. “We need to clear out your mental cobwebs. What's the problem?”
“I...” He cleared his throat. “Nothing, Honored Mother. Don't worry about it.”
She glared at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “It's about the Courts, isn't it? How organized they are?”
He tried not to let his reaction show on his face. Instead, he shook his head. “Please forgive me, my lady. But... I would really prefer to talk about something else.”
She gave him a careful look, then nodded. “Fine. Consider it tabled. Let's get back to the matter at hand. How are the screamers?”
“As well as can be expected. There's not really much Clarke can do to study them without invasive procedures.”
The Mother Monster raised an eyebrow. “Are my strictures really that confining?”
Jarasax shook his head again. “No, not at all.” Then he paused. “Well... yes.” He shrugged a little helplessly. “But to be honest, most of the people involved don't think there's really anything they can learn from the screamers. Dissecting dead ones hasn't found anything different from normal humans, why would doing it on live ones be any different?”
“I'm not here to give you a cost/benefit analysis on vivisection,” she said dryly. “I just want to make sure no one is being hurt.”
Jarasax shrugged a little helplessly. “Well... they're not. I mean, sometimes they bash themselves against the cages, but there's only so much the lab techs can do to stop that.”
“They're doing their best,” a cool female voice said. “More than enough to satisfy your strictures, little one.”
Jarasax didn't have the same blind hatred towards the fey as most changelings. Honestly, he liked his current life, with Necessarius and the retinue and everything else, and he was a little bit grateful towards them for giving it to him.
But the second he saw the Queen-Mother of Killing Sparrow standing there as though nothing was out of the ordinary, he had his gun out and aimed at her face.
Grateful or not, the fey were ridiculously dangerous. If nothing else, their homunculi cheapened their feelings towards death and made them more likely to use lethal force.
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The Mother Monster glared at him. “Put that down.” He obeyed grudgingly, and she turned to the fey. “You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
For all appearances, the woman in front of them was an exact clone of the Princess of Killing Sparrow he had met earlier, during the burners incident. But while the Maiden had short-cropped brown hair, the Crone's was long, reaching past her naked rear end. It was a distinct enough hair style that it was generally called a crone's cut in Domina.
The nude woman grinned. “Of course I'm not going to do anything, Honored Mother. What ever gave you that idea?”
The First Monster sighed. “What do you want, Crone? You didn't sneak past 'sarian security on a lark.”
Killing Sparrow giggled, making sure to get her chest to bounce around as much as possible. “You sure about that?”
“Crone.”
Killing Sparrow settled down a little. “Ah, but yes, I did have something I wished to speak to you about.” She smiled devilishly. “Politics.”
“Politics,” the Mother said dully, making no effort to hide her feelings on the matter.
“The Courts are in disarray, Honored Mother. My sisters, my nieces and grand-nieces...” She shook her head. “It looks like war between the séasúir will be inevitable.”
Fifteen years ago, when the toy maker was first introduced, the owner of a sanitarium went crazy and started torturing and experimenting on all his patients. There were ninety-six survivors, who split themselves into thirty-two Courts. First were the four seasons called séasúir, then the four primary compass directions—treo—then night and day, or éadrom. Each Court consisted of three women, a Maiden, a Matron, and a Crone. The Princess, the Queen, and the Queen-Mother. Then they used the toy maker on people and animals and whatever else they damn well pleased.
That was the official line from the fey. Well, the short version. One of the easiest ways to distract them was to ask about the Courts. They'd spend hours ranting about the politics, all while dropping bad Irish at strange moments.
But it didn't quite sit right with Jarasax, and a lot of other people as well. The fey were completely chaotic and insane, and yet all ninety-six of them agreed to pretend to be Celtic fairies? It didn't help that their homunculi made an actual headcount impossible.
The prevailing theory among the changelings was that the Nameless One—the only way the fey would refer to their former psychiatrist—had used Celtic mythology as part of his tortures, imprinting it on the survivors. The fey always laughed at this suggestion, though.
But actual war between the Seasons... that was rare. Virtually unheard of. Yes, they were chaotic, yes, they were as likely to smile at someone as kill them. But that was part of what kept them at peace. When you didn't care about anything, you didn't take offense to getting attacked by monsters every once in a while. The functional immortality probably helped too.
The Honored Mother just raised an eyebrow. “What's this war about, exactly?”
In response, the Queen-Mother grinned. “The Cumadóir, of course.”
Jarasax knew a smattering of Irish, and he had to restrain himself from spitting in disgust. “The Composer. You're going to ally with him.”
“Well... maybe.” The Crone shrugged. “That's what the war's about. Spring and Summer think the song is interesting, and think we should all become amhránaithe. Autumn and Winter are not convinced.” She grinned. “So we shall go to war. Isn't that the best way to solve problems?”
Worried, he pulled his employer to the side. “Honored Mother, a war between the fey is—”
“Nowhere near as devastating as it sounds,” she said. “Don't fret. Their contest will not spill into the streets.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Jarasax,” she said calmly. “I know what I am doing.” She turned back to the Queen-Mother. “Crone. What are the rules of the war?”
“Homunculi only,” the Crone said with a grin. “And we'll keep it underground.”
The Mother Monster blinked as realization dawned. “You're asking permission.”
Killing Sparrow shrugged. “Take it as you like. I just want to make sure the cainteoirí don't interfere.”
My employer frowned. “Cain... what?” She turned to him. “Jarasax?”
“Well, uh... it means 'speakers,' but I'm not sure in this context...”
Killing Sparrow cocked her head. “Your champions, Honored Mother. The ones fighting the curfá.”
“Curfá” was Irish for “chorus,” and was the fey name for the screamers.
The Mother Monster narrowed her eyes. “You're talking about the Paladins.”
“Of course I am,” Killing Sparrow said with a sigh that made her naked chest heave. “Really, dearest, do you have to make this so difficult? I'll speak plainly.”
Suddenly, something was different. The way she stood, the way she held herself. The fey's childish exuberance and enthusiasm were suddenly gone.
“The fey are going to be busy soon,” Killing Sparrow said flatly. “There will still be monsters, but very few new ones. Just lots of old designs. Once we come back, we'll have decided whether to help the Composer or your Paladins. If you interfere, it will greatly increase the chances of us siding with your enemies. Thuiscint?”
The Mother Monster nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“Good,” Killing Sparrow said, her grin quickly returning. “Have fun, dearest. But not too much.” She began to fade back into the shadows. “You remember what happened last time.”