Page 1 of Lord of the Hollow Court
Chapter One
Ill Omens
Braam, Lord of the Hollow Court, strode through the foyer of Hollow Hall, hand grasping the raven head of his walking stick and sharp eyes missing nothing. Though the rugged contours of his tawny features remained serene, he noted every strand of web, every bejeweled bat wing suspended from the pillars and the black bowers draped across every arched door frame. Much of it, he found lacking.
"More glamour in the glamours, Misman," he told his butler, rapping the cane on the beachy travertine stone tiles. "Hollow Hall must seem as rich as the best courts of our size."
Not for the first time, Braam wondered whether he ought to glamour the tiles to appear as an autumnal forest floor instead of the ever-present mist he'd already decided upon. The pigeon blood ruby on his finger weighed more heavily tonight, the gold band like a vise. Had it ever been such a weight on his father's finger? He longed to know, to have the council of anyone who'd stood in his position before. Far too much depended on tonight, with too little time remaining to remedy any errors.
Misman inclined his head toward his lord. "The servants are confused, m'lord. They were under the impression the Samhain revel should be frightening. I believe your lordship requested a haunted graveyard theme."
Braam replied with a brow. "I want it as resplendent as a fae lord's tomb." A hint of threat flashed across his features. "All I see here is a pathetic human graveyard."
"Of course, sir," Misman said, bowing quickly. Though his brow arched in a tacit reminder that Braam was behaving badly, Braam made no attempts to correct his behavior. After weeks of planning, he simply could not manage one more thing, least of all his own moods.
This night teetered on the brink of disaster.
Raking his fingers through his blue-black hair, Braam stalked into the throne room, irritation twisting his features. His cane beat a rapid rat-a-tat upon the tile as he moved, an indicator, on his hip's better days, of his temperament. As the Samhain revel drew near—and perhaps his court's final hours with it—the servants had long since learned to scatter depending on the cadence. Thus he saw no one as he walked, through the pine and dew scents of pixies hung fresh in the air. He suspected they were hiding behind the garland of poison-dripping apples.
Not only were the fae of the other courts soon to arrive—including the High Fae who so looked down upon the Hollow Court—he had apetitioner.Who among the folk he ruled would be foolish enough to trouble him today?
As Braam slipped through a heavily webbed door, a glittering spider fell to the floor with a clang.Perfect.With the help of his silver-buckled shoe, he swept it toward himself and plucked it from the sand-colored tile. It was a fair piece of low fae craft work from the only category of fair folk permitted to craft. Coated in druzy smoky quartz, he thought the spider an elegant little thing, and just the touch his costume for tonight needed.
Braam tightened his grip on the head of his cane as he took in the surrounding decor with fresh eyes.I've behaved poorly,he admonished himself.And have since the letter arrived.Every detail made his tyrannical ways more evident: his folk within Hollow Hall and without it knew the importance of tonight without such harsh reminders, each of them bearing the weight of the High Fae’s attention this Samhain night. They were as painfully aware as their lord that this would be their final chance to prove their worth to the Council.
Each element of the décor represented hours of work by dozens of hands. Misman had seen to it that hundreds of little crafts lay around Hollow Hall, so many placed casually or half-hidden, as if the Hollow Court was so rich with craft they need not prominently display it like the High Fae with their prizes. A collection of golden goblets on a side table were set with step cut rubies, the collaboration of both jeweler and smith, then enchanted by Braam himself to appear to drip with blood. The webs were spun from diamonds from Herkimer village, the bat wings sewn from heavy velvet. His people had made an admirable effort. An exceptional one, it might be said.
So why did Braam suspect it wouldn't be enough?
With a huff, Braam stalked into his throne room, throwing open the double doors to make room for him and his cane. The entire T-shaped room was made up as a dragon's lair, Hollow Hall's decorative steel weapons enchanted to flow fresh blood from gleaming edges, though in truth they were dull to the touch. Above it all, an impressive dragon skeleton with black moonstone bones hung suspended from the upper balcony—another glamour, rather than an expensive import from the Thornforest Court of Madagascar, whose Lady preferred bargains over coin.
Hours had gone into every detail of the creature, with crafts folk from Boogard pouring into the manor each morning to get it right. The dragon was all the more genius because the bulk of tonight's guests would never find their way here. When they did, their delighted screams would surely reach the High Fae ears in the ballroom.
The ballroom itself had a flock of bone and garnet wyverns, still being strung by faerie servants, and citrine lava men crawling from the floor. Some had spellwork upon them to travel the length of Hollow Hall, surprising and hopefully tripping some of the guests; Misman had come up with the idea of random patches of slime to follow them. There were two dozen hands prepared to spring from the walls, eyes that would float after guests, and bats to chase them out of restricted wings, each one a combination of craft and glamour. Those who went further would find themselves beset by a murder of crows so life-like they could peck holes in the offender's tails or gown.
These were the sorts of thrills everyone expected from Hollow Hall, as if it was a carnival attraction and not a proper fae court. Yet if Braam did not deliver, the pressure to be absorbed into the Court of Claws was bound to push the Hollow Court to the breaking point.
Thus, he was hardly in the mood for petitioners when he settled onto his throne, which was already glamoured by him to appear made of human bones. Braam tossed his cane from one hand to the other, then, crossing ankle over knee, balanced it across his lap. Everything needed to beperfecttonight.He had not a moment to spare for this ill-timed fool.
It was all the more unfortunate, then, that his petitioner was High Fae—or something rather like it.
His height gave him away, and the soft blue-gray hue of his skin. But there was a low fae-ness to him, and perhaps a humanness in him, too—Braam could see it plainly in his limp. A full-blooded High Fae would heal far more quickly than that, whereas Braam's hip, and the havoc it wreaked on the leg below it, were proof of the low fae's inferior healing abilities.
The man wore a hood as he approached, not having the decency to remove it. Immediately sensing a trick, Braam did not shut the doors to the throne room with his magic, letting the hidden pixies in the hall keep their eyes on the proceedings within. Reliable as ever, Misman appeared moments later, hovering at the door. A touch of wickedness curved the line of Braam's lips. Whatever this High Fae was up to, Misman was more than capable of handling it.
As if aware of the additional eyes upon him, the petitioner pulled his cloak tight. He approached Braam's dais, his right foot dragging just a touch behind him—physical ailments being common amongst both demi- and low fae—though, peculiarly, he used no walking stick to assist him. If Braam's courtiers were in the balcony instead of the pulley system for the bone dragon, they would have jeered at the man for pretending he needed no walking aid. His people resented the High Fae stigma regarding the human-like frailties of the low fae. Not using a support when one was needed was practically rude.
When the man neared, Braam saw the frayed edges of the petitioner’s cloak, and the stains upon its hem. What sort of High Fae was he to appear before a Court's Lord in such a state?
Well, if the man was searching for sympathy, he would not find it in Braam. This was not just a petitioner before him. This was a traveler. Braam would bet the dregs of his fortune he didn't belong to a court—and this was no time to have trouble from one of the free fae.
Braam shifted uncomfortably on his gruesome throne. Between the shape of the supplicant's bony nose and the cunning glimmer in his black, beady eyes that Braam did not quite trust, this fae had a decidedly rat-like appearance. Braam would remember that face if ever he'd seen it before. He was certainly not a subject of the Hollow Court. For the fae, unexpected travelers were always an ill omen, and Braam needed no more of them tonight.
"What business do you have with me?" Braam asked peevishly.
A slow grin spread across the traveler's angular features. "I come not with business, but with a bargain," he replied.
Braam leaned against the arm of his throne, the glamour giving way so that he perceived the plush velvet beneath. He was not impressed. "I'm not inclined toward any bargains."
