Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(19)
Isbe has never hated anyone so much in her life. If she could see his eyes, she might tear them out.
“We didn’t come back for Gil’s luck,” she says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “But you still owe us. You promised us a story. It’s time to pay up.”
9
Binks,
a Male Faerie of Modest Nobility,
Who May or May Not Be Important to This Tale,
Except That He Happened to Be in the Right Place
at the Right Time
You can often tell a bad day by its smell, and this one stank. Yet Binks crinkled his nose in delight; he’d won a feisty game of clovers that had gotten him through the castle gates, and today he was attending the royal christening of the baby Aurora, an event to which only an elite few were invited, and where only the most delectable of crumbling cakes, juicy bird meats, lemony fishes, and pungent wines would be served.
Binks was mostly here for the wines. Barrels from previous centuries would be excavated from Deluce’s famous cliffside cellars and served in achingly tall goblets. Perhaps a round or two of card games, as well—klaberjass, say, or latterlu—would leave his pockets full of gold and his luck at an all-time high. He could never be sure which fed which—the luck needed to win at gambling, or the gambling needed to acquire more luck.
Binks noticed he was not the only faerie in attendance. Right away he recognized Claudine, the gourmand, with her bright white-blond hair and plump cheeks. She had little power but seemed to have maintained political influence simply by knowing everyone in the kingdom, for she never missed a party, as far as Binks could tell. Claudine’s tithe was, generally, taste; she went around collecting more and more of it—and of course, enjoying it—and the evidence showed in the red of her cheeks and bulge of her ever more prominent behind.
When it was Claudine’s turn to bless the child, he watched as she approached the cradle, offering the quietly mewling baby a sweetness of temper and beauty of face, in exchange for the child’s voice.
King Henri and his wife, Queen Amélie, looked at each other in surprise, and Binks knew he wasn’t the only one who had forgotten this predilection of Claudine’s. Though she mostly collected taste, she was also proud of her singing voice and desired to maintain it. Her voice had been the very thing that used to garner her invitations at the highest level of court. It was rare for a faerie to have more than one tithe, and Binks suspected she was showing off.
He watched as Queen Amélie nodded at King Henri, who stepped forward and announced: “Very well. A princess of sweetness and beauty should have little need of a voice. In fact, more daughters ought to make such an exchange, I’m sure.”
Claudine granted her gift and reclaimed her spot, humming softly to herself, even as the baby girl inside the cradle went eerily silent.
Next was the faerie Almandine, whom Binks couldn’t quite place until she separated herself from the crowd. She was willowy and seemed to flow rather than walk. She was a known sensualist. It was said her entire estate had been transformed into a replica of ancient Roman baths and that she spent most hours of most days bathing in the nude and accepting new lovers, both human and faerie, both male and female, into her private quarters.
“My gift,” said Almandine, her eyes trained smugly on the child, “is a dancer’s elegance and grace. And the price I seek is the girl’s sense of touch.”
Once again the king and queen put their heads together to discuss the offer before finally agreeing to this exchange as well. “Surely it will save her from ever feeling pain,” the queen said, gazing fondly down at the quiet, tightly wrapped bundle that was her daughter.
And so Almandine granted her gift and accepted her payment. Binks wondered whether the rumors of her lust were true, and if so, whether she’d be interested in his company later in the evening. But before his thoughts had a chance to unfold from there—and indeed, before Violette, the third faerie, had a chance to grant a final gift—the heavy double doors blew open with a slam.
Binks got a direct view of Malfleur, queen of the LaMorte Territories, as she stormed into the hall, Vultures flapping in her wake. The scar over her left eyelid glared white against her pale skin, accenting her exquisite, angled beauty rather than marring it.
He was not, it must be said, altogether surprised by her appearance. Everyone knew Malfleur was obsessed with youth, and what could be more appealing than the youth of a princess possessed both of wealth and beauty? Everyone knew that in exchange for the military protection her army offered, she’d tithed away the youth from many a female in her own kingdom, leaving them shriveled and old.
Malfleur kneeled down beside the cradle. “My dear Princess Aurora,” she began in a voice deceptive in its softness.
“No!” the king interrupted her. “We will give up much, but we will not stand for the loss of her youth. You were not invited, Malfleur. Please see yourself out.”
Malfleur looked up at him placidly, then cocked her head. Even from several yards away, Binks could practically feel the clever cogs in her mind spinning and throwing off hot sparks.
“Of course,” she said, standing and bowing. “I cannot ask a tithe without granting something in return.”
The queen too stood. “We do not want your gift, Malfleur.”
For just a moment, Malfleur’s eyes snapped thin like a cat’s. “Well, that makes things easier. Gifts come at a cost, but curses come for free.”