Young Immortals

Five: Eternal Gratitude

Silas tilts his head. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get your drawing equipment."

I blink, reeling from my sudden shift of fate. He must have spared me out of pity, because what drawing could possibly atone for what I have done?

"What kind?" I ask quickly, before he changes his mind. "Charcoal or–"

But he is already heading out the door. I throw a handful of charcoal sticks and papyrus into my stachel. Then I hurry after him, making sure to keep a respectful distance between us. Silas glances at me over his shoulder, looking me up and down. "What are you doing?"

"Coppers walk between three and five paces behind members of the royal family unless given permission, Your Highness."

Silas eyes me for a half a second longer, then smirks. "Permission granted."

He doesn't say anything else as we leave the servant's quarters and enter a tea parlor. He twists a coat rack, and the book shelves slide open, revealing a hidden tunnel. Alone in the darkness, he speaks again. "It just so happens that our interests align."

The deeper we walk into the tunnel, the dirtier the air. It becomes smoky and thick, and a mix of voices grows louder, but they're too far to make out any individual words, especially over the banging drums.

"You need my silence, and I need a scribe–a discreet scribe. Sounds fair?"

It's an unusual request, but I'm in no position to refuse. Not if I want to avoid whatever twisted fate the fae call corporal punishment. "Yes. Thank you for this second chance, Your Highness. I am eternally grateful."

"Well, content aside, your drawings were quite good," he replies, smiling like a chivalrous knight from the story books. "Would have been a shame to lose such talent."

Without meaning to, I find myself smiling back. Then I round the tunnel, and the first thing I see is a pair of pale blue buttocks jiggling at the ceiling. And it's far from the only one. A group of selkie, in various states of undress, make a brothel out of the dim tunnel.

Some are carnal with their urgency. Others lap wine and sweat off their partner's stomach, twisting their bodies in and out of positions that no human could ever bend. One leans their head backward, between the crux of their legs, to wink at me. I jerk my head away, my heart slamming against my chest.

As an artist dedicated to studying form, I'd hardly blush at a little skin, but the girl who grew up in manors and ballrooms stares at Silas, silently urging him to pass the selkies faster to reach our real destination. Silas meets my stare with that princely grin of his, oozing charm.

"Draw well," he says.

With that, he walks, leaving me standing in the middle of the tunnel like a fool. Once I remember how to move my limbs again, I find a quiet corner and start drawing. If following Silas' orders keeps me alive, it is a small price to pay for my life, and I will not judge or comment on his strange, weird, and immoral perversions.

When sunrise comes, I trek to the gardens, half asleep. I hold back a yawn as I work on Aerwyna's coronation portrait, my attention half on the princess and half on the sparring grounds. For the first time, I'm not watching Devlin.

"Oh my," I say, making a show of squinting my eyes into the distance. "Prince Silas swings at Prince Eldor rather hard..." To be honest, Silas swung no harder today than any other day, but I needed an excuse to naturally bring him up.

"Silas knows where to draw the line." Aerwyna's hand wanders to her flat belly, a wistful look in her eyes. "I would trust him to spar with my own children, if I had any."

I turn back to the portrait, biting my tongue. When night falls, Silas summons me to the tunnels again, and again the next night, and again the next, until our nightly rendezvous become habit. I spend my days painting for the princess, my nights drawing for Silas, and with whatever scraps of time I have left, I sleep.

Sometimes the selkies change for other species, but their activities never do. They make love to each other and themselves while I crouch in a dark, dank corner, immortalizing every line of their bodies in charcoal and papyrus. In the longest, most tiresome hours, I rack my brain for anything I could have done to avoid this situation.

That way, the next time I draw Devlin, I don't get caught.

I thought getting a new assignment would be a relief. That is until Silas shows up to my bedchamber, scroll in hand, and asks for an exact replica. I smile as he gives me the scroll. When he unravels it, I nearly choke. 

The end hits the ground and keeps rolling until it reaches the opposite wall. Strange, foreign symbols pack the scroll so densely it is more black than yellow.

"Alright," I say, my voice thin. "When should I have it done by?"

"Sunrise."

"Sunrise?"

"Sunrise."

I look at the scroll again. It's so long, I must turn my head around the chamber to see it in its entirety.

"It's crucial you're not a minute late, understand?:

"Is that a bit much for one night?"

"It is," he agrees. "Draw well."

So I spend the night drawing. It is not well. Halfway through, I splash myself with a bowl of cold water to stay awake, and when that stops working, I tie my ponytail to the door handle, so every time I nod off, a sharp tug jerks me awake. Time passes in a hellish blur, until a few minutes before sunrise, I trudge down the halls like a drunk, my fingers and wrists smudged in ink.

I open the door to Silas' office to find company. Two scholars stand in front of Silas' desk, dressed in shapeless wool robes that sweep across the floor. The fireplace crackles softly against the back wall and lights them in orange and red hues.

"Copper," Silas greets me, holding out his hand. "Just in the nick of time."

My eyes half shut, I mutter something unintelligible about delightful second chances and hand him two scrolls—the master copy and my new rendition. Silas shifts the scrolls behind his back until their order is indistinguishable then lays them across his desk and addresses the scholars. 

"Look at the scrolls, but do not smell, taste, or touch. Can you say, from sight alone, which is the fake?"

The scholars circle the scrolls, examining them from every angle and refraction of light. After a few minutes, they reach the same conclusion.

"There is not a doubt in my mind which is the fake," the first scholar says.

"Nor mine," the second agrees.

On the count of three, they point. The first scholar points to the scroll on the left, and the second scholar points to the scroll on the right. A long moment of silence passes. Then we all look at Silas. While the scholars brace for punishment, I pray for reward. I do not care for praise, but I would die happy for a few days off.

"That is all," Silas says.

For a moment, no one moves. It takes us a second to understand the dismissal, and another for the scholars to scramble for the exit. I leave last, and as the door swings shut, I glance back – just in time to watch Silas toss both scrolls into the fireplace. I gasp. My hand shoots out, catching the door.

"You said it was crucial!" I blurt out.

Silas turns from the fire, arching a brow. Flames ripple across his eyes, lighting the hollows of his face like a skull. I freeze, realizing I just raised my voice at a prince. Silas doesn't seem like the type to get bothered easily, but he doesn't need to be that offended in a world where spilling a drink can cost you a limb.

"It was," Silas replies. "My chamber won't heat itself."