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A direct summons from Sorrowlord Zathuda is something you would only wish on your worst enemy – never on yourself, because you like yourself too much. Nevertheless, an order must be obeyed. So you show up at the Shiver Keep in your finest dress (a younger and prettier Zathuda, obviously), trick your way past the guards, and dutifully ascend the absolutely interminable staircase to the aerie. Right on time. Very punctual, very disciplined, incredibly boring: just what Zathuda looks for in his assassins. Ugh.
Even though you are exactly and precisely on time, Zathuda has beat you to the aerie; he stands with his arms folded, radiating impatience and blood-soaked satisfaction. His dark armor is splattered with red; the maw of his dragon-beast is equally coated, a macabre lipstick. Standing in front of Gloamglut, petting at its bloody muzzle with both hands, is a girl.
She turns around when you reach the aerie; her eyes go wide with shock. Green eyes. Piercingly green eyes. Green hair, green dress, green vines tangling themselves around her like choking hands. She has adorable fuzzy ears, twisting horns – a satyr, then, with what you’d imagine are matching hooves hidden under her skirts. She looks like an Exandrian pastry, with layers of fresh fruit and cream. She was made, seemingly, to eat up.
You bow to her. In Zathuda’s voice, you say: “My lady.”
“You will not disrespect me so,” says the real Zathuda; his voice has gone dark and cold. But! At the same time, the satyr laughs.
Still in your bow, you flick your eyes to Zathuda to catch – yes, there, an imperceptible softening. There is something tender there, stretching between your patron and the faun. And anything soft is exploitable. You catch your smile before it reaches your mouth, you swallow it; you rise from your bow and let the form melt slowly away. You give the satyr time to admire you. The opalescent beauty of you.
“Apologies, my lord,” you say. “The guards refused to believe that I had business with you, so I had to improvise my entrance.” You tilt your head so slightly to the side. “Did you not tell them I was coming?”
“Who are you?” says the satyr.
Zathuda’s face, tilting towards threat, seesaws nauseously backwards. “This,” he says to the girl, “is one of my assassins.”
“You have assassins?”
“One of?” you say.
“Innumerable,” Zathuda says. “And should this one fail to serve its purpose, I—”
The girl looks at you. “Hi,” she says, and smiles: a pickled plum, a rose crushed in a fist. “Can all of his assassins do…” she flicks her hand towards you, up and down your body. All sorts of meanings to take from that; you do the kind thing, the noble and generous thing.
“Not nearly as well,” you say, and wink.
“Enough,” says the Sorrowlord. He says this sort of thing all the time. It never—
He draws Dusk Hunger; black flame drips from its edge like drool from a hungry mouth. Right! Right. You look at the girl again, mime locking your lips and throwing the key to her. She catches it; delight tickles your belly. You would smile, but you’ve gotten rid of your mouth. For authenticity.
“You will listen to me now,” Zathuda says. Oh, your Sorrowlord: a black hole, an apocalypse, a heat so hot it’s frigid. You could burn yourself on him. It’s easy to forget that, because usually he is so interminably boring. But then, like this...that black voice speaking, solemn and slow and furious: “This is my daughter. Fearne Zathuda.”
(Behind him, the girl – Fearne – ‘s ears flick, as if surprised.) (You are equally surprised, so you don’t blame her.) (She shouldn’t be surprised, though, should she?)
“I have brought you here, Yu Suffiad, to guard her. To protect her. She will surpass the Court with her power, her beauty, her cunning mind – but as of yet she is not ready for this purpose. She is still young. Unshaped. You will protect her with your life, so that I might shape her. Do you understand?”
You point to your lack of mouth.
“That does seem unfair,” says Fearne Zathuda. “What if they have questions?” She leaves the Sorrowlord’s side in one big leap, lands in front of you; she holds up her hand, with your imaginary key. Carefully, tenderly, she puts it in your mouth and unlocks it.
With your reformed mouth, you murmur: “My, you’re good with your hands.”
Your reward: a surge of delight in her face. The green of her eyes turns to arsenic.
“My lord,” you call past her. “I am by far the most talented of your assassins, to be sure, but I am an assassin. Not a guard. If you see threats in her future, I’m happy to eliminate them for you. But what is it that you think that I can—”
“Yu Suffiad,” he says; he draws out your chosen name like strands of honey. “The prickling thorn in my side. The dagger at my back. My daughter must learn cruelty. You will teach her.”
Because Fearne Zathuda is still standing close to you, you see her flinch. Just an instant – but you see it, and you let her see you seeing it. Her nose twitches; she winces, looks away. Her jaw sets. Frustratingly, you understand Zathuda’s point. (You hate it when he makes good points.)
“It would be my honor,” you say lightly. “If.”
“Do you think you are in a position to make demands?”
“Never, my lord.” You take a step to the side, so that Fearne no longer blocks your view – you regret it instantly, of course, because the view of Fearne is much nicer. But here you are. And here is your patron, blood-dripping, sword unsheathed.
“I only wondered,” you say sweetly, “why me? If you have—” (a perfect replica of his voice, just for one word:) “innumerable assassins. Surely any of them could serve your purpose.”
“My reasons are my own.”
Fearne says, “It’s because they’re the best, right?” She looks at you, eyes wide, lashes batting. “Isn’t that what you were saying before? That no one does things as well as you?”
She’s caught you fishing; she’s decided to put herself on the hook. Beautiful girl. Fascinating girl. You look away, before she can catch that you don’t even need the flattery to sweeten the pot. Before she can see that you’d guard her for free, just to keep your eyes on her.
“Oh, I know that I’m the best,” you say. “But my lord loves all of his knives equally, or so he’s led me to believe. Or is that not so, my lord?”
“Is that so?” Fearne says. She weighs the next word, considers it, and then flicks it like a knife to his throat: “Daddy?”
A second or two of stiff silence. And then: Sorrowlord Zathuda laughs.
The sound of it. Like a cold corpse dragged along the ground.
“Your first lesson,” he says, and sheathes his sword. “Adequately done, to be sure. Now I will only say this once, so listen closely.
“You are my most talented assassin, Yu Suffiad. And if I want my daughter to be like anyone, I would like her to be like you.” He grins: a crescent wound slashed across his face. “And myself, of course. But she’ll come by that naturally.”
The words are so satisfying. But because you can never help yourself, you go in again: “And your prettiest assassin as well. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
Dryly, he says: “When you reflect my appearance, certainly.”
“I think you’re pretty,” Fearne says. She purrs the words with an adorable attempt at allure. Oh, she’s so sweet. So sweet. So sweet. Your teeth ache with her.
“How wonderful,” you say. “I think you’re pretty.” You reach for her; you tuck a strand of hair behind one of those ears, dare to brush your knuckles over the fur. It is just as soft as it looks; when you touch it, she shivers. The sight of your fingers tangled in her hair: lovely. You hope to get used to it.
Zathuda makes a flat sound: hm. He closes the distance between him and his daughter in a twist of black smoke; you are his cleverest and his best, so you make sure your hand is good and gone from her hair before he gets close enough. As soon as he appears, he reaches and holds Fearne’s face in one bloodstained gauntlet.
“We’ll have the world, you and I,” he says softly. “I’ll see it done. My daughter. She who will eat the gods.”
Fearne seems just as baffled by this sudden bit of bullshit as you are; unlike you, she does a poor job of hiding it from her face. “Okay,” she says. Rallying: “But you’ll teach me.”
“No,” Zathuda says. “I will neglect you. That is my nature, and the nature of my court. But when you have my attention, it will be absolute. I will sharpen you to something deadly.”
And with that, he drops her face; he turns on his heel, he makes for Gloamglut. “Do not let her leave the keep,” he calls over his shoulder. “I would not see her destroyed before her time.” He mounts the beast, considers the two of you. Then his gaze rests solely on you.
“Do not fail her, Yu Suffiad,” he says. “Do not fail me.”
“Have I ever?” you say.
“Not yet.”
He always has to have the final word; that crisp t has barely left his mouth before Gloamglut screams and takes to the sky. You watch it retreat: an eye-searing splash of rainbow vomit, twisting off towards whatever Court business occupies a Sorrowlord’s time.
He’s left you with the better business; you turn to look at her again. She has her lip between her teeth.
“Yu?” she says. “Should I call you that?”
“If you’d like,” you say. “If you’d rather call me something else, I’m sure I could find a self to match it.”
“Yu,” she says again. “Are you really going to keep me here? I don’t – I don’t like cages. And this...it looks like a cage to me.”
“I have my orders,” you say blithely. “And an order must be obeyed. Even the Unseelie have their rules, you know.”
Fearne’s eyes narrow. She stares at you. You stare back. Your perfect mask of a face gives nothing away; she makes the connection entirely on her own.
“Well,” she says slowly, drawing the word out, “I order you to show me the Feywild.”
You bow to her, low. “If my lady orders,” you say, “I must obey.”
“Must you?” she says, as you rise up to face her again.
You lift a shoulder, let it fall. “For now.”
Her smile looks nothing like her father’s – to compare his to Fearne’s would be comparing a waning crescent moon to the sun. You miss it already, the moment that you see it. You doubt you’ll get many chances to see it again. Smiles like that don’t last long here – the Unseelie hate the sunlight.
“I like you,” Fearne says. “You’re fun. Now let’s have some adventures, alright?”
“Oh,” you say, “we will.” You offer her your hand, palm-up. She gives her bloody hand to you; you take it.