Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“It’s not important,” I say, though I’m touched by his words. There’s more to this guy than I first thought. “I kind of think there are bigger things at stake.”

He sighs. “Maybe.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” I say. “The Dream Trade, I mean.”

The question’s been nagging at me ever since he mentioned it, and after last night’s spying venture, it sounds like there’s more to it than just sustenance. It almost sounded like some drug cartel, the way the Summer Court was willing to kill just to have it stop. But they’re just dreams. Surely there are other ways of making people imagine.

Kingston takes a bite of his apple and stares up at the sun. “I told you, dreams are what keep the faeries alive. If people didn’t dream about them, they wouldn’t exist.”

“So they’re figments of our imagination?”

He chuckles. “Ask Mab that and find out. No, it’s more like a symbiotic relationship.”

“Last night when I was in the woods, the guy said the Dream Trade must stop. What if this isn’t about killing us? What if the Summer Court just wants Mab to stop hogging all the faerie food?”

Kingston grins at me. “I’m sure Mab already thought of that, and it’s really not so cut and dry.” He tosses the apple aside and stands, reaching his hand down to me. I take it; his grip is warm and slightly sticky. He pulls me to standing. “It’s time you saw the Wheel,” he says.

I don’t question. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he takes me around to another trailer. His touch tingles, and I don’t know if it’s magic or my imagination or some combination of both. I half-expect him to take me to some invisible, hidden door, but it’s just another bunk like any other. Door number zero.

“Now,” he says, looking over his shoulder with a conspiratorial grin, “You can’t tell anyone I showed you this. Technically speaking, Mab and I are the only ones allowed in.”

I glance around. There’s no one nearby — they’re all at lunch or practice. I’m hoping my streak of rebellious bad luck isn’t still with me.

“Maybe we shouldn’t — ” I begin. “I don’t want her more pissed off.”

“Pussy,” Kingston says. He squeezes my hand, though, and pulls open the door, stepping inside and dragging me in behind him.

The door closes silently, and at first it’s as dark as Mab’s trailer. It smells of hay and barn wood and summer heat. Kingston snaps his fingers and a flame appears, balancing on the tip of his index finger.

The flame floats out of his hand and disperses to all corners of the room, lighting a couple dozen candles along the way. The room glows with warm light, its contents slowly coming into focus.

It’s about ten feet square — much larger than the trailer, which makes me think we’re not actually in the trailer at all — and the walls are wood. The floor is cobblestone with tufts of hay scattered across the smooth grey stones. The room is entirely bare except for a single structure in the middle of the room. It’s wood and round and clunky and covered in threads. A loom.

It’s so ordinary it’s a letdown — not that I’ve seen any looms in real life. I could easily imagine Rumpelstiltskin sitting on one side, turning a pile of straw into gold. But there’s no one there. Still, the giant wheel — easily my height — turns slowly on its own, pulling a myriad of strings into place, the shuttle sliding back and forth at a lazy pace. Kingston takes me around to one side, to where the completed pattern is working itself out and draping into a large wicker basket.

“This,” he says, “is what all the fuss is about.”

I stare at it.

The fabric the loom produces is beautiful, sure. It’s a rainbow piece of cloth covered in twisting patterns and colorful swirls, but it doesn’t look special. Probably not worth creating an entire circus for. Definitely not worth killing over. Sabina and Roman and Melody’s bodies flash through my mind. All that suffering and loss, all for a bit of pretty silk?

“That’s it?” I say. I can’t help but sound disappointed. I was picturing some beautiful golden Wheel of Fate or something encrusted with diamonds. Something more up Mab’s alley. This? This is just something out of a heritage museum. It’s borderline pathetic.

“I knew you’d say that,” Kingston says. “Which is precisely why I brought you here.”

A pair of tiny scissors appears in his hands. The blades glint in the candlelight. He reaches down into the basket and snips, pulling out a tiny square of cloth. It’s barely the size of a thumbnail.

“This,” he says, holding the square with the scissor blades like a tiny morsel, “would sell in the Night Market for a minor favor or a day’s worth of subjugation.” He holds it out. “But I’ll give you a taste for free.”

“It’s a scrap of fabric.”

“Just touch it,” he says. I reach out. He drops the tiny blue square of cloth in my palm.

Lights explode across my vision and suddenly I’m no longer in the trailer; I’m soaring through the clouds, light shining from the heavens. My arms are stretched out to the sides and I’m giddy, laughing, bubbling with happiness. I swoop down, break cloud cover and smile at the brilliant green fields that stretch all the way to the horizon. I bank right, coast into a beam of soft sunlight —

And I’m back. My arms are stretched out to the sides and there’s a giant grin on my face. I quickly drop my hands and try to force away the dopey smile. Definitely not quickly enough.

“Flying dream, eh?” he says. “Should have thought as much. Blues usually are.”

I look down at the fabric in my hand. The tiny bolt is now grey. The moment I move, it dissolves into ash.

“One use only, I’m afraid,” he says.

“What was that?”

“A dream,” he says. “Energy. Pure, creative, spontaneous energy. Mortals experience it as visions. For the fey, it’s like oxygen.”

I look at the loom.

“So this, what, converts dreams into fabric?”

Kingston shrugs. “Something like that. It solidifies energy, focuses it into something tangible. I’ve seen Mab store it in crystals and books and skulls, whatever takes her fancy. This is just easier to regulate. She can sell by the yard and make a killer profit.”

“You make her sound like some sort of drug lord,” I say.

“What’s the point of drugs if not to dream?” he says, and I can’t think of any way to counter that.

“Anyway, that’s the Trade. Mab converts all dreams in the tent into this, which she then sells or distributes to the other fey. Her own Court gets a discount, while Summer is taxed. But they need it, so they pay. Mortals don’t dream as much as they used to, and Summer’s still putting all their effort into the publishing industry…which wasn’t their best idea.”

I watch the loom weave its slow pattern, imagining it working double-speed when the tent is full and imaginations soaring.

“I still don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” I say.

“It’s sustenance for them,” Kingston says. He moves in a little closer. “Entire civilizations have been destroyed for less. Religion, ideology, love.” He looks at me, a wild glint in his eyes. “Love is usually the one everyone feels is worth dying over.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I ask. I don’t know where the words come from. I only know I want him to answer without words, the way I’d like to draw him close and breathe him in.

“Have you?”

I reach out, my hand only an inch from his arm.

And then there’s a knock at the door. Kingston jerks back and walks over to it. Damn my shitty luck.

“Should I hide?” I ask. Even as I say it, I know there’s nowhere to hide in the space.