It had been years since he heard a bane shade cry, but hearing it now felt familiar as his last breath.
I think I greased my knee joint too well.
The inane thought raced through Taric’s head as he breathed heavily through his nose. He could smell machine oil and beeswax and instead of making peace with his imminent death, all he could think of was figuring out where it could be coming from.
“Who dared….” The two quiet, nearly pleasant words sliced through all other sound. “Bring an Iron Warrior into my court?”
Abruptly the yellow-eyed princess dropped Taric and half-turned to fall into a deep curtsy.
Stumbling and gasping, Taric barely caught himself before he could inadvertently end up on his own knees.
Then found himself face to face with the devil himself.
Brown, round doe-like eyes that should have seemed warm and kind flicked coldly over Taric, taking in every visible tattoo, scar, and soot stain. Antlers similar to his second daughter rose from the Eldritch King’s silver crown, drawing his height even taller, steepening the slant of the disdainful, searching look. The Eldritch King’s robes flickered faintly with sparking light with every motion, like barely restrained lightning.
“He is my shoemaker,” Syrano’s voice rang out as he pushed forward to stand by Taric.
Soft chitters and coos traveled through the court as a measure of tension left the room.
But on the dais, the bane shade’s head was thrown back, her mouth gaping wide, her eyes flung open to stare at nothing, veins black in her translucent skin as hair and veil whipped wildly in a violent wind, her wail eerily silenced. Her mouth remained stretched open, blind eyes wide and staring. No sound came from her throat.
That unnerved Taric more than anything else he’d seen.
Figures in black armor streamed down the center of the Great Hall, masked in raven beaks and feather cloaks sweeping in their wake, curved black swords in their hands. The king’s Raven Guard.
They created an open aisle down the center of the room as the court shrank back from them. At the same time there was shuffling and jostling for better positions; sharks smelling blood in the water.
“Shoemaker?” The king smiled, his tone faintly mocking, but there was danger in the twist of his lips. “Mortal cobblers certainly have changed.”
“Blacksmith,” Taric corrected flatly. “And I’ve come to -”
“Blacksmith,” the king repeated, the mocking tone stronger.
If the court was quiet before, it was achingly hollow now. It was as if every creature in the room collectively caught its breath.
“Could it be,” the king said musingly, “that you think a fragile mortal could succeed where so many of my best have failed?” The king arched a pale brow.
Taric faltered. “What?”
The faery king turned to take in the court. “Night after night you fail me,” the faery king boomed out. “Day after day, you die. Is it such a difficult task? All I ask of you is to tell me where my daughters dance. How do they escape their locks to defy me? Has it come to this, that a…” the king glanced over his shoulder at Taric and said derisively, “human… has stepped forward in your stead?”
Syrano’s lip curled in affront. “Your majesty -” he tried. A flick of a glance left him silenced.
“Each night, my daughters escape from the locks that keep them safely in their room,” the king said. “Each night they leave their room and dance the night away. All I ask is that you tell me how I may keep my daughters safe,” he said in grieved tones. “How do they escape their locks? How do they escape their room? Where do they go to dance at night? Only tell me this, and I would give you my kingdom.” The king swept an elegant hand toward the dais. And then his kneeling daughter. “Is that not why you made so bold as to lay hand on my daughter?” The king’s smile widened, displaying fangs as his cold eyes froze.
“Your majesty -” Syrano began again, but the king held up a slender finger and Syrano fell silent.
“Do you not intend to answer my challenge, shoemaker?”
Taric hesitated, thoughts whirling. The princess’s yellow eyes could have burned holes in his chest if she’d had the power.
“I do,” Taric said quietly. In the same instant that Syrano said, “I will.”
"Oh," the Eldritch King breathed. "This. This amuses me."
“Very well.” The king swept up the stairs to the dais. “Let the shoemaker see what failure brings.”
The Raven Guard turned as one to face the back. Taric realized uneasily that their axes now locked him and Syrano into the center aisle, at the center of attention.
More Raven guards entered through a side arch, two of them carrying a small fae between them.
“No! No, milord, please!” the little green gnome squeaked. “I almost found the secret! I came so close!”
The king lightly waved his hand.
As one, the princesses lifted aside their skirts, displaying the ragged remains of their shoes.
“Ah, but your shoes have failed you,” the king sighed. “Now, look what you make me do.”
The Raven guard dropped the gnome, who tried to scramble away, but the black blades were swift. The small, lifeless body slumped to the obsidian floor.
“Now, then.” A small smile flicked across the corners of the king’s mouth. “Let us see what your shoemaker has wrought.”
Syrano sprang to release the seals on the cases, as if the slow, spreading stain on the floor didn’t exist. “Dancing shoes unlike any other.”
Clicking and whirring on gears and springs, the cases unfolded, segment by segment, to reveal the shoes within. Each set of shoes had its own compartment.
Several of the princesses leaned forward with gasps of admiration, eyes seeking out the shoes meant for them. Even the king himself betrayed a flicker of interest. Taric’s eyes strayed to the last princess, looking for the last princess’s reaction, but she betrayed nothing.
“Metal,” the king said neutrally.
“Steel,” Syrano said with a slight bow.
“But what is this?” the king said. “You have miscounted. I have twelve daughters, not eleven.”
“What?” Syrano whipped his head around to count the shoes in their compartments. The last contained a jewelry box.
Syrano snatched up the box and wrenched it open. He emptied the contents into his hand. A glittering cascade of steel and starlight. Syrano looked to Taric, bewildered.
“Allow me,” Taric said.
Taric plucked the “shoes” from Syrano’s hand and straightened them out, displaying them on his palms. Loops of fine steel chain connected rows of diamonds.
“These,” he said, looking into a pair of bright yellow eyes, “are made for dancing barefoot.”
Comments (0)
See all