Young Immortals

Sixteen: The Silvers

The palace is quiet in the early hours. When I cross paths with Silas, we are the only two people in the hallway, and it is the first time we have been alone all week. A smile spreads across my face, sweet as honey. "What can I do for you, your highness?"

 Then, in the middle of his reply, I walk away. Nothing connects us but the last two pages of my sketchbook – two pages he can not afford to waste. Without the constant threat of exposure hanging over my head, colors are more vibrant, food tastes better, sleep comes easier. 

All is well in the Green Court – more or less.

When I reach the studio, all conversation gutters out, tension instantly filling the chamber. I continue to my usual desk, used to the treatment by now, and my desk mate, a middle aged pixie, practically trips over herself to clear my way. 

At noon, as everyone files out for lunch, I catch up with Hunkletoad outside the studio. "Going to eat in the dining hall?"

"No," he says quickly.

"No?" I know he is going to eat in the dining hall. He knows I know. And yet, we both pretend otherwise. "Oh."

The silence stretches. I shift my weight from toe to heel. Hunkletoads fidgets with his sleeve, not quite meeting my eyes.

I open my mouth –

"Well, take care now."

He is gone before I can reply, and as I head for the garden to eat alone, I pass the windows of the dining hall, where Hunkletoad sits in the middle of the resident artisan's table, laughing at a joke.

While the RAs vary in discipline, species and age, they always follow the same routine, which is more intense than ever in the final weeks leading up to The Goblet's selection – work, eat, sleep, and avoid Isobel Perez at all costs. 

Aerwyna gave me a new set of dresses, trading my maid's smock for the style the other RAs wear, but even if I painted my mask silver, I doubt I will ever close the distance between us. 

I cannot say why. Perhaps being handed one of the spots they worked so hard for is more than they can forgive. Perhaps copper clashes with silver. Or perhaps the fault lies solely with me...

A flash of pink catches my eyes. Even in the packed dining hall, I easily find the source. All I have to do is follow the sea of turning heads. Nearly every fae openly stares at the group of selkie girls in colorful dresses weaving through the tables, their arms locked, sunlight gleaming off their dimpled cheeks. 

It's hard not to. They would be the most beautiful girls in the room in any other setting, but in the Green Court, surrounded by the most beautiful creatures to ever grace the earth, their flaws become all the more apparent. Their dresses are gaudy and ill-fitting, their skin has uneven tan lines and acne scars, and their bodies are asymmetrical in every way.

There is only one reason a mortal is allowed to roam the palace halls without a mask – the upcoming ball. Since fae age fifty times slower than the average mortal, fae-on-fae conception is challenging, if not impossible. More often than not, fae outsource the labor of motherhood every couple of decades, using elaborate balls as means of recruiting fertile mortals. 

It's not coercion or entrapment -- or so the fae claim – but rather an exchange of goods. A child for a gold, title, land, enchantment, or whatever boon the mother wishes.

Sometimes she knows exactly what she wants. Sometimes she only realizes the glitz and glamour of the high court blinded her after it is too late. But instead of telling them any of this, I keep walking. If they're at the palace, they've already struck the deal, and once a deal is struck with the fae, no force short of death can break it.

In the statue garden, I weave between marbleized gods and angels to sit on a bench below a pomegranate tree. I grab one of its fallen fruits and pick at the seeds more than eating them, until a shadow covers the sun. 

Silas stands over me and in front of one of the angel statues, so it looks like the wings grow from his back. He might have looked like an angel himself, if not for the blood from his morning drills splattered across his shirt.

"You eat in the gardens now?" Silas says, taking the seat beside me. His legs extend a foot longer than mine, and when he leans back, we are almost the same height.

"There are other benches," I point out irritably. "And I like the open space."

"It's miserable out."

There is nothing I can say to that, because he is right. The Green Court only has one season – eternal summer – but the morning wind is chilly and my dress is light. It's obvious that the only reason I am out here is because I am not welcome in there.

"I haven't seen the troll around much. You two on the outs?"

I shrug, looking down at my hands. Now that I do not have to constantly worry about Madame, I am starting to miss the easy comradery I had back in the academy. Besides Aerwyna, I haven't made a single friend since entering the Green Court.

"Well, he's no loss. All he did was use your help and take credit for your work."

"That wasn't really my work," I mutter, digging the toe of my slipper into the gravel. "I know how to employ a full gradation of values. And properly balance my frame. And –" 

 I swallow that third thought, realizing I should lay off poor Hunkletoad's artistry. A gust of wind blows through the gardens, and I shudder, running my hands up and down my bare arms.

"Cold?" Silas says. His tone wobbles, almost as if he is trying not to laugh. He unwraps the blanket covering his blade and offers it to me.

I can slap his hand away. I can walk away without another word. Now that he has given up his ammunition, I can do whatever I want. But so can Silas. He hasn't bothered to correct the rumors, nor have Aerwyna and Eldor, so the palace still believes I am his lover, making me the safest mortal in the Green Court. 

Walking around under his protection is like walking in a ray of light. Not even fae ten times my status dare give me an order now. The same ones that turned their noses at me lower their heads as I walk by.

I hesitate, then accept the blanket without really looking at him. "Thanks."

"Who else will be thanking me tonight?"

"At the ball?" He must be referring to the tournament's prize – the golden rose – which will all but guarantee the hand of any maiden he desires. "I don't know, who?"

"Likewise, that is why I asked." He leans back, a mercurial smile sliding across his lips. "Which fair maiden shall I give it to?"

If he wants to watch me squirm, he is in for disappointment. Silas publicly taking a lover will not diminish my standing much. The fae are rarely satisfied with one relationship. They celebrate delight like humans celebrate virtue, and their most popular princes have the most voracious appetites. 

That is why Eldor settling down with Aerywna stirred rumors of his impotence and sloth. Any lesser male would have taken a few ladies on the side just to silence the whispers, but he stayed faithful to his wife – much to the realm's embarrassment.

"Someone equal in height," I reply. "One should never dance with a partner below their eye line. It's poor form."

"Who does that leave me, then?" Silas laughs. "Eldor? Or should I roll out my last opponent, so I might look up?"

"Whatever you like," I reply. His partner of choice matters little to me. 

*** Updates next Friday***