Page 2 of Lord of the Hollow Court
"But you must hear this one," the traveler said, mouth turning down in a frown pronounced by un-fae-like lines. With the usual drama of the High Fae, he lowered his hood with painstaking slowness.
Braam shot forward on his throne, nearly dislodging his cane. A crescent of pockmarks curved down the man's cheek onto the smooth grayness of his jaw. A handful of the pocks had made it to his neck.
He had the Fae Wasting.
"Away from me!" Braam shouted, wincing as he rolled to standing, unintentionally spearing himself with pain from his hip. He grappled for his cane as it clattered onto the dais, the tile most likely cracked beneath the round of carpet.
The traveler laughed harshly. "Peace, Lord Braam. In all of my studies, I have not encountered one of your descent with the Wasting. It infects only those descended from the Elder Courts, whose courts' magic is not strong enough to protect it."
He means the colonizers.Braam leaned back, uneasy. Like so many fae in the oldest, smallest courts of what was lately called the United States, he had a more than generous helping of old world blood in his family line, leaving him with little more than a touch ofaureumin his complexion from the now near-mythical Golden Fae of the Americas. He was far less confident about the distinction this traveler made. How much colonizer blood was too much? Clearly, stronger courts like the once mighty Roanoke had not been spared, its bones transformed into an English settlement that had not fared much better. As far as Braam was concerned, no low or demi-fae was safe from the wasting.
This traveler had brought far worse than an ill omen into his court.
Braam caught Misman's eye, urging the butler to keep his distance. Behind him, the pixies fled from the hall in a flurry of flitting double wings. The free fae were unpredictable at best—and known to be careless like this. A grimace remained on Braam's face.
“I have the Wasting, as you can well see,” the traveler said, “but I hold too much magic for it to conquer me."
Braam's grimace faltered. "How can that be?" The man was pale as flour.
"I am a sorcerer, trained by the masters of the Elder Courts," the man replied. "I have heard of the Colonial Courts' sickness and came to study it, only to catch it myself. So it is I have a bargain to offer: I know the whereabouts of the diadem known as the Heart of Lindendam."
"My mother's diadem," Braam said at once, focus narrowing on the rat-like High Fae. Slowly, he returned to his throne, sitting with an angry twinge of nerve pain in his leg. His eyes did not leave the traveler the entire time. "It has not been seen in a century. How is it you know its location?"
"All magic has a signature," the fae sorcerer said, a touch smugly.
Could High demi-Fae lie? There were too few of them to know. That sounded like an evasion to Braam—as if this sorcerer knew the family heirloom's whereabouts but not its exact location. Besides, there was something in his smile that was too oily for Braam to like. Yet the lure of the diadem—said to be imbued with the magic of the Elder Courts before the fae crossed the Atlantic—was too strong to dismiss. He had a court to save, after all. And the Fae Wasting to keep out. He found himself scowling at the sorcerer.
"And you can trace this signature?" Braam pressed him, arching a skeptical brow. "Is that what you suggest?"
The fae sorcerer bowed his head. "I knowofits location. I would procure it myself, except it is not mine to take."
How convenient.
"Tell me," Braam demanded.
"Ah, but that would require a bargain. Sorcerers rarely give such valuable information for naught."
Braam's expression shuttered. He was Lord of the Hollow Court. He would not risk his folk and his seat in a bargain with a High Fae sorcerer. "I am lord of this land, and the diadem is rightly mine. I will make no bargain for its return."
"Then you will not hear my terms?" the sorcerer asked, his dark eyes utterly unreadable.
Something that was not pity stirred in Braam. His foul mood curled around him like a serpent, its fangs turning inward on him until he felt a wicked plan taking shape. Why not pretend to hear the man's offer? There was something greater afoot here. Braam leaned back, inclining his head ever so slightly to indicate he should proceed.
"I will tell you the location of the diadem," the sorcerer said, "and in exchange, you will allow me to heal myself completely from its powers. Further still, I must be allowed to study it, to find the means to cure the infected."
"And if that cure requires you to draw from its power further?"
The rat-like fae tilted his head. "What consequence is that, when the diadem's return will surely elevate your court?"
A shudder ran through Braam. This was some trick of the High Fae, some effort to catch him out. He would not show how desperate he was.
Braam stood, free hand curled into a fist. The knuckles around the polished head of his cane became so bloodless his hand was translucent as selenite. "You would dare to bargain for what's rightfully mine, and so brazenly, too?" He would make the High Fae rue the day they sought to trick him. "I find I have an entirely different bargain foryou."
Braam drew himself up. He might not be High Fae, but he was something just as good: a Golden Fae Court's Lord, who drew from the power of the bountiful nature around him.
"Until this moon has vanished from the sky," Braam declared, a golden sheen of magic twining around his hands, "I curse you to the shape of a beast of burden."
The smarmy mask the sorcerer wore shattered. His eyes widened, panic gripping him. For just a moment, Braam's heart squeezed. As a horse, the sorcerer would be unlikely to spread the fae wasting. Still, Braam recognized his flaw in its worst form. A vile instinct led him to take this punishment a step too far.
