An Enchantment of Ravens(71)
The nearest pillar exploded in a cascade of sparkling crystal shards. Then the next, and the next, and the next, all the way into the distance. Living branches unfolded from their shattered husks, aflame with scarlet leaves. Roots bulged from the floor, splitting the stones in violent upheaval, sending cracks zigzagging in every direction that struck the corners and raced jaggedly up the walls. Screams rang out as chunks of masonry sheared away from one of the balconies and came toppling down in an avalanche of sundered rock, drowning out the tinkling of falling crystal. Residue filled the air, glittering like diamonds.
I stumbled over the broken floor, but Rook steadied me, helping me over a root that still grew, writhing and distending as it inched wormlike across the ground, spilling forth hairs. He did not favor his injured hand. He couldn’t afford to.
Unyieldingly, unstoppably, his autumn trees pressed against the ceiling and spread. Their foliage muted the hall’s blinding light into the jeweled tones of stained glass. Now, for the first time, I saw what awaited us.
The Alder King. He sat slumped forward on a throne elevated at the level of the highest platforms, vines entangling him against the wall like a heart ensnared in a web of arteries. His face, his beard, his robes, the throne, and even the vines were all the same pale, powdery gray, lifeless as marble, as though he had become part of the room itself. His sleeping countenance gripped me with a terror I couldn’t explain. Somehow I knew he wasn’t as lifeless as he looked. I felt his slow awareness turning toward us, as surely as a lighthouse beam circling in the dark. And oh, I didn’t want to see him wake up.
Rook squeezed my arm, and his next step hesitated a split second before his boot struck the floor. He’d felt it too. Unlike me, he couldn’t show his fear—his weakness. Glancing at his face, I found his eyes fixed on the Alder King with haughty, slightly disdainful anticipation, as though he were merely someone the prince planned to beat at shuttlecocks. But his confidence was fake. Just minutes ago I’d seen him slumped broken and pleading against the Green Well. By now I had witnessed him holding the pieces of himself together enough times to recognize the sight instantly.
I wished that just once I could tell him I loved him and it wouldn’t be a curse upon us both.
The hall had gone silent. Fair folk stared upward like children at the autumn leaves falling. The rubble was already softened by a blanket of foliage, as though it had collapsed long ago. In the newfound quiet, yellow ivy twined over the balconies and spiraled up tree trunks, and my dress fluttered against my legs in a clear night wind. Rook’s branches snaked closer and closer to the Alder King’s motionless form, blooming red.
One of the king’s fingers twitched.
Dust trickled from his antler crown, a thin stream at first, then a cascade as he raised his head. We were close enough now to see the powdery texture of it clinging to his beard. He blinked, revealing filmed-over, colorless eyes that wandered like an old man’s.
“Why do you wake me?” he said in a dry whisper. Though spoken low, his querulous words swept down the hall and scattered in every corner like a gust of dead leaves. Heat followed, and the smell of rot. Sweat broke out on my palms. “I have been dreaming . . . dreaming of ripe grapes, and a sunset reflected on the water . . . I wish only . . .” Puzzled, he glanced around at the vines that had grown over him, imprisoning him against his throne.
“I am here to challenge you, Alder King.” Rook’s words rang out, echoing. “Your endless summer has fallen to corruption. All can see it. Masterless fairy beasts roam the forest, and your own lands decay while you slumber. And tonight,” he added in a yet louder voice, angling his body toward the balconies with his injured hand still upraised, moss spiraling down his sleeve, “a mortal has destroyed the Green Well.”
Shouts followed his pronouncement. “No!” “So it is true!” “The Green Well!” “How will we make the mortals love us now?” Squabbles broke out on the balconies. A few fair folk sank to their knees, clutching the railing in exaggerated attitudes of devastation. They all went silent at a gesture from the Alder King that sent a curtain of dust arcing through the air.
“No. What you say is . . . impossible. The Green Well is eternal.”
Somehow, I found my voice. “Fair folk cannot lie,” I reminded the king, torn between my fear and a sudden curious pity for him. “The well is gone.”
His eyes narrowed. More dust crumbled from the webwork of wrinkles surrounding them, revealing patches of papery flesh. He looked down at me. The heat simmered. Every bit of skin touching my dress itched foully, and phantom grasshoppers buzzed as pressure mounted in my skull. That was all I was to him, regardless of what I had done: an insect crawling at the foot of his throne. He meant to kill me with the sheer force of his attention. And he would have, if Rook’s ensorcellment hadn’t stopped him.
The moment he realized I was immune to his magic and why, alarm and uncertainty sparked deep in his clouded eyes. “Her will remains her own.”
Rook showed his teeth in a smile that wasn’t a smile, looking so utterly mad I forgot to breathe. “Yes. Now come down and fight me, if you can.”
An indrawn breath. Then the throne room erupted.
Screaming ravens rushed inward from every direction, clotting the air so thickly they smothered the hall in midnight darkness. Their flight was a deafening thunder, drowning out the Alder King’s roar of protest, swallowing whole the fair folk’s surprised cries. A stinging assault battered my face. I coughed on feather fragments swirling about like chaff, only the warmth of Rook’s arm reassuring me he was still there. Between the beating wings I caught piecemeal glimpses of the chaos around me. A woman on one of the balconies clawed at her head as a raven thrashed, caught in her elaborate hat. Another tumbled off, pecked at by dozens at once. Fair folk flooded the stairs, attempting to escape the onslaught to no avail, fights breaking out between them as they trod on one another’s shoes and gowns. A fair-haired girl—Lark?—grinned while she kicked a man in the shin, and then turned toward me, seeking approval.