Ethine Ch 01

Quick note from the author: those aficianados of urban fantasy amongst you might recognise the shared universe with Holly Black's books 'Tithe' and 'Ironside'. The story was largely inspired by my reaction to reading both those books and feeling that one character in particular was rather hard done by.

My apologies to Mrs Black for mangling her universe.

******

Rain lashed down in unending waves, sheeting across open spaces, turning the ground into an unending shallow lake chaotic with dancing ripples. She was soaked through, her flimsy dress utterly sodden, clinging to her like an icy shroud.

The alley was narrow and stank of garbage, the flotsam and jetsam of the storm plastered wetly to its gleaming surface, water dripping from the metal fire-escape that clung to the one wall like a bloated spider. Finally she could go no further. Unable to find any better shelter - shivering with cold and sobbing in utter misery - she crawled into the space between two large plastic dumpsters and curled into a ball, hugging her knees for warmth. Beyond her feeble shelter the rain came down in dirty, freezing drops - thick with the stink of iron, of rot, of decay. Close around her the smell of rotting food in the noisome alley was so overpowering that it was all she could do not to retch.

Leaving Faerie she had not imagined how quickly things would turn sour. She knew only that she had to get away - had to escape from the monster her brother had become, had to get away from the accusing glances, the hateful stares of her erstwhile friends in the Seelie Court.

She knew she deserved it, she knew that she deserved everything they did and more. She had killed the queen, had driven her sword through her heart and handed the Court into the hands of her fiend of a brother. But knowing this didn't make the spite any easier to bear - the myriad small cruelties from people she had thought of as her friends, each one hurting all the more because of who delivered it. If only they knew, she thought. If only they knew that she loathed herself more than they ever could; that for all they hated her, she hated herself more.

In the terrible hours after the queen had died she had hacked off her hair, chopping at it maniacally with a knife until only a rough shadow of her former locks remained. For a while that was enough, the humiliation of people sniggering at her, pointing - even spitting at her. Her brother had been horrified but she hated him, too, and delighted in the look on his face.

After that she had taken to scratching herself, cutting herself, hurting herself whenever it got too much for her. Inflicting pain on her flesh to numb the pain in her head, to feel, strangely, the pleasure of not hurting any more once she stopped cutting. Like all fay, she healed quickly and didn't scar, but from that point on her arms were nearly always covered with red scratches and healing cuts and she had had to keep herself covered.

Even in this misery, there were still occasional kindnesses shown her - from Kaye who tried to make time for her but didn't have enough for herself; from an Unseelie knight with green eyes who'd faced down some of her tormentors, escorted her home. She hadn't even asked his name, had turned aside from him, from his attentiveness. She didn't deserve kindness, couldn't they see?

Eventually she couldn't face it any longer. She had to get away, away from Faerie - from all of it. Nobody cared about her, nobody wanted her there - how could they - she didn't care about herself. That she had nowhere to go, knew next to nothing about life outside of the Bright Court hadn't seemed so big a problem then. Now...

Ethine pulled her knees up, hugging herself. She felt sick, weak - barely able to maintain even the most token of glamours to hide her nature. She couldn't seem to stop herself from shivering. With a moan she allowed her head to fall against the side of one of the dumpsters. No matter how bad things were, they had to be better than they were back home.

She woke with a start, not certain when she'd fallen asleep, befuddled.

A rough hand the size of a shovel had grabbed her ankle, squeezing it so hard it hurt.

Before she could think to react the hand yanked her leg hard and she was dragged from her hiding place into the narrow rain drenched alley - her head hitting the floor with a painful thud, her slight body dragging along the soaking concrete. She had just enough time to scream before a second hand seized her hair - pulling hard enough to make her whimper - forcing her up onto her knees. Instinctively she clutched at the massive fingers - her hands fluttering like tiny birds against the rough skin.

"Pretty prize," a rumbling voice said. "Pretty fairy."

The fingers twisted in her hair and she was forced to look up into her captor's face - rough, green, skin like leather: a troll, his face enormous. A second hulking creature stood just behind the first, black saucer eyes glinting with malice.

"Please," she said, her voice weak with terror.

"Bring her," said a new voice, cultured, softer but no less brutal.

Before she could make sense of what was happening she was being dragged by her hair along the alley, stumbling and sobbing as she struggled to get off her knees. A grey van was waiting at the end, its rear doors gaping wide.

In the moments before she was thrown inside her hands were forced painfully behind her back and tied with brutal strength, a filthy rag was forced into her mouth, making her gag. Then, whimpering and petrified, she was handed like a bag of garbage from the troll to a green-skinned hobgoblin in the back of the van and dumped unceremoniously onto a tarpaulin on the floor.

******

The Night Court was practically empty as he picked his way through the hall, the wound to the roof through which the truck had come still obvious. He breathed in the familiar smells of damp earth, drink and, fainter, blood. Abandoned now; without the crowds, the music, the hall was somehow diminished - its glamour hard to see. It was an unusual location to meet, he thought. The hall hadn't been used since the fateful attack by the Seelie Court, so why here?

He reached the remains of the raised earthen dais, dropping to one knee in a graceful motion. On it Roiben, King of the Seelie and the Unseelie, was standing, speaking to a small goblin - its skin the green of moss - in tones too low to make out. He remained still - kept his eyes downcast - as Roiben finished whatever discussion he was having. It wasn't subservience that kept him thus, though, rather he was afraid that his distaste for his king would be too obvious to see if their eyes should meet.

As the minutes ticked by, his mind wandered, his eyes drifting over the room, alighting on minor things - a discarded cup, a crumpled hat forgotten in a slough of earth - before flicking on. He barely noticed when the goblin left and Roiben's attention was turned on him.

"It's not pretty is it?" Roiben said, gesturing for him to rise. "I doubt that we can ever return to this place, now."

Calan looked about, shrugged dismissively.

"My Lord, you summoned me." Businesslike.

For a moment their eyes met, little warmth on Roiben's face. Then he seemed to collect himself, his face relaxing.

"Yes... I have a...a task for you."

"I am yours to command," he said, his voice even - though he struggled to keep the dislike from it.

Roiben stepped down from the dais, his silver shirt seeming to flow like metal, his eyes bright, like burnished silver.

"It is not a command I had in mind...more a request." His lips pressed into a razor thin smile, an unreadable look in his eyes. "My sister, Ethine, has gone - disappeared from the Bright Court this past week."

Unnoticed, Calan felt his breath hitch.

"When she left I had hoped that, given time, she would return. Or that word would come, at least. There has been nothing." He paused, looking once again at Calan. "I would ask you to find her."

Calan swallowed. "My Lord, forgive my impertinence, but I think we can both agree that I am not favoured in your Court." Roiben inclined his head slightly, inviting him to continue. "This is your sister. So why me, an Unseelie knight?"

For a time there was silence. Roiben looked about the hall with unseeing eyes.

"You were a changeling, were you not?"

"I was." Though now it seemed a lifetime ago.

"How old were you when you returned to Faerie?"

"Twenty." Old enough to finish school, old enough to serve time in prison. It was old for a changeling.

Roiben looked at him, his quicksilver eyes thoughtful. "You understand the mortal world - that will give you an advantage in finding her."

Calan knew that wasn't the reason, while changelings were not common amongst the gentry, they were hardly unknown. He nodded thoughtfully.

"She has gone Ironside, then?"

"Yes. That was the word the goblin brought me. We've tracked her so far, then she disappears."

Calan nodded. For a while the silence in the hall stretched.

Finally, with a sigh. "That is not the reason I asked for you, Calan," he said quietly. "Understand that I have to know this before I see you leave." He paused again. "On Hart Island, when Ethine and I fought - when I had knocked her down and held my blade at her throat - I saw the look upon your face."

Calan watched him closely and at last Roiben turned to look at him, his eyes intense. "You hated me - would have killed me, I think, if you had been able to."

Calan let his eyes drop, staring at the floor; he didn't deny it.

"Then, later, when Talathain tried to kill her - of all the Seelie and the Unseelie gathered there you were the only one who moved to try and save her," he said, his face distant, pensive. "I saw the stricken look on your face - your relief when I took that blow in her place. I have to know, Calan, am I right?"

Calan made no answer for a while. He breathed in the damp air, savouring its coolness, listening to his heart pounding in his chest - reluctant to admit openly how he felt. Briefly, voices could be heard in the distance. His mind replayed the scenes on Hart Island, his anguished shout, the knights holding him back as she fell - unnoticed in the chaos, useless - helpless to stop her being hurt. Then, after, the cruelties heaped on her - the look on her face, like she had died inside. His feeling of uselessness, his inability to make a difference.

He closed his eyes, swallowed a painful lump in his throat. "You are right," he said at last, his voice quiet.

"Does Ethine know?"

"What?"

"That you are in love with her," he said softly.

Calan laughed bitterly. "Of course not. She is -- was - a handmaiden to the Seelie Queen. I am a knight of the Unseelie Court. Who would support such a match?" he said, his eyes bitter, his voice catching slightly despite his efforts.

Roiben looked away, looked anywhere but at him.

"Exactly," Calan said, his voice as hard as his eyes.

"Will you find her?"

"Is that your command?" he spat.

"No. Not my command. Ethine hates me, my command would not help in this," he said. "I will merely facilitate your going if that is your wish - but you must seek her, or not, for yourself. Will you go?"

There was only a slight hesitation this time - Calan's voice quiet, lost. "Of course I will...for Ethine, always for Ethine."

For a long while, then, Roiben stared at him - his skin like pale gold, hair a stark white falling in waves to his collar, eyes green like a cat - a fay gifted or cursed with a talent for death, but not unnecessarily cruel - at least not by the standards of the Unseelie Court. Not so long ago he would have been horrified at the thought of his sister with an Unseelie knight - but when all her friends, her family, had used her so badly...

Finally he nodded. "It is strange, Calan, but you may be the one that has loved her the best of us all," he said. "For that I am grateful."

Not trusting himself to speak, Calan nodded once, ghosted a bow then turned and strode away. As he reached the end of the hall he heard Roiben speak again.

"Take care of her, Calan. Keep her safe...please."

Without turning, Calan paused. After a moment he nodded again. Then he was gone.

******

The floor beneath her was damp, its cold seeping into her bones. She was still wet from the outside, still shivering - but a new feeling had slipped in unbidden since her capture. Every part of her body was aching. Her skin felt hot to the touch, feverish, but still she shook as if frozen.

She couldn't tell if she had lain there for hours or days. Food had been brought, a thin gruel, but she didn't have the strength to eat it. She was dimly aware of the occasional presence of a goblin next to her, the feel of his cold, leathery hand on her forehead and barking words, but she was too far gone to know what was happening.

Around her she could see a number of other fay - all female, she thought - and on all sides of the open space were wooden bars. She assumed that they shared some kind of communal cage. None of the other women had approached her since she had been dragged here and dumped amongst them. She had lost track of how long ago that had been, slipping in and out of sleep almost continually.

She was vaguely aware that a number of others had been into the cage every now and then, seemingly taking one or more of the occupants away with them, before returning later. She thought she heard sobbing, shouting, but it was as if it happened in a dream, without focus, without the certainty of reality.

When she was next able to focus, when she felt a little more lucidity, it was to sense a presence near her. She tried to raise her head to see, but weakness overcame her - her body aching and shivering miserably.

"Hello dearie," said a fat old woman, plonking herself down on the ground next to Ethine. "I hear that you're sick, so I do. Poor love."

Ethine's eyes flicked up, stared up at her. Her face was round and jolly but her dark eyes seemed malicious and unkind. She was wearing a thick blue dress and a white apron, a similar white kerchief tied around her wayward grey hair. The woman felt her forehead - clicking her tongue loudly - made her stick out her tongue to more clicking. Ethine felt so weak, so miserable that she was content to allow herself to be pawed.

Eventually the woman spoke with another younger woman in a grey dress and dark hair who left, returning a short time later with a heavy wooden tumbler full of a liquid that resembled warm pitch. The younger woman helped Ethine to sit, holding her thin body up while the old woman held the cup against her lips.

The smell from the cup was disgusting, reminiscent of burnt insects. Ethine felt herself gagging, unable to force herself to drink. Seeing her reaction the old woman chuckled coldly reaching up with a podgy hand to pinch her nose painfully. Her grip was like iron, holding her still even as she tried to pull away, her eyes tearing with the sharp pain. She felt the younger woman's hands on her arms, holding them down.

Although she struggled weakly she was drained, the fever leaving her almost helpless, and she was unable to escape their hold. Finally, when she could hold her breath no longer - opening her mouth to breathe - the woman poured the foul liquid down her throat as she had known she would, forcing her to swallow or choke. It was no choice and she swallowed convulsively, the liquid burning her throat. It tasted disgusting - pretty much as it smelt - coating her mouth and throat in foul tasting slime. With the cup drained they released her and she fell to the ground again, retching but unable to bring any of it back up, her body jerking and coughing.

After a moment the women stripped her dress from her, rubbing her down with rough towels before dressing her quickly in warm, dry clothing.

"There dearie, Master doesn't want you dying on him. That'll fix you, so it will." The old woman, patted her cheek hard enough to make it sting. "Here, sleep on this - it'll keep the damp off you."

The younger woman stretched a filthy, tattered rug over the floor and the two of them laid her down upon it, stretching a thick woollen blanket that stank of damp and mould over her. Ethine clutched it to herself -shivering once again, though she could feel the warmth of the liquid seeping through her. She had never felt more alone or more miserable.

"Ah, good, good," said the old woman again, ushering the younger from the cage. "Sleep now, Old Mary'll be back to check you later, so I will."

The two moved off. She was alone for only a breath before a pixie appeared in their place, sitting down nearby. For a second Ethine imagined Kaye had come - though she couldn't imagine how that would happen - then the differences seeped in and it was clear that this was a stranger - her hair darker, brown; her skin a lighter shade of green.

"Hi, I'm Turiel," the pixie said. "You look cold, I thought we might snuggle together for warmth."

Before Ethine could protest or react the pixie wriggled into her blanket with her, curling around her back to lie like two spoons together. Although it struck Ethine that this was some kind of liberty, she was so miserable that she welcomed the extra warmth. Gradually she found herself slipping into a deeper, more restful sleep.

******

Reclining in the moth-eaten old armchair, his feet resting on a low coffee table marked with glass rings and scattered with well thumbed magazines, a dirty tumbler of warm elderberry cordial held in his hand, Calan had a profound sense of deja-vu. Opposite him the ogre, Terror, horns like a ram's curling back from his forehead, tusks protruding crookedly from his lower jaw above his greening beard- incongruous in baggy jeans and a blue sweat-top - sat in a similar stained chair, held a similar tumbler - tiny in his massive hand.

The room was small, grubby drapes hanging from the apartment's windows filtering the sunlight into dirty yellow tones. A torn and stained sofa in mismatched shades of blue completed the furnishings. In the small, equally grubby kitchen beyond he could hear Monster, the hobgoblin, moving about, mixing food or drink or drugs.

Before going to Faerie he had lived amongst these exiles, fay without allegiance to either the Seelie or Unseelie Courts, been a member of one of their transient courts - no more than street gangs in reality. Returning to that life now was like putting on old, familiar armour: everything was as he remembered it - it just didn't seem to fit as well as it used to. The life was grubbier, somehow, after the formality and rules of the Unseelie Court.

"So, tell me what you know?" he said at last, when small talk and reminiscence had exhausted themselves - swirling the cordial around the glass, watching it coat the sides and dribble slowly back into the foam. It tasted disgusting.

Terror sighed, his huge frame making the chair creak.

"Things have changed, Calan," Terror rumbled. "There's more violence, the exiles are really under pressure." He sipped his cordial. "A new guy - calls himself Sorrow - he's determined to unite all the exiles under his rule. He's taken the Bronx and he's moving in on Brooklyn and Queens. It's only a matter of time before he makes a move on the city. Truth is, he's the reason so many of us were happy to take Roiben's deal - for the protection it offers against Sorrow and his boys."

Calan chuckled, a day and a night of service for the protection of the Unseelie Court - he wondered if Roiben had realised the implications of the offer at the time. Not that he had a lot of choice, he supposed.

"There've been bigshots before, we know that," he said, grimacing as he sipped the sour liquid. He spooned more sugar into it from a dirty bowl in the table. "The exiles are nothing if not independent, what's so different this time?"