Seanan McGuire - An Artificial Night

There were things to hope for, even in the misty darkness. If I was very lucky and very good, He might come. He was as big as the sky and as bright as the moon. When He walked the mists parted, and I could see the plains that stretched forever under the twilight sky. I would have done anything for Him. I would have died for Him. I think I told Him that once. I remember His hand on my hair, and His voice, as deep and wide as the ocean, rumbling, “You’re almost ready.” I cried for a long time after that. I didn’t know why. Something about promises.

Time passed. I don’t know how much, and I didn’t care; time had no real purpose. All that mattered was the mist, and the hope that soon, He would come again.

When the mists cleared enough to remind me that I had a physical shape, I realized someone was dressing me. Something was coming, something as important as the moon I could remember seeing against … some other sky. The thought hurt, so I put it aside; something important was coming, and that meant He would be there. Everything would be fine, as long as He was there. I smiled, letting unseen hands pull boots onto my feet. That didn’t seem polite, and so I sang, “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse …”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the someone, and stroked my hair, pulling it back and pinning it. The voice was almost familiar, the way the faces I sometimes saw when I slept were almost familiar. “It’s almost time to go. I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t worry.”

“… with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,” I sang, closing my eyes. It hurt to watch the mist for too long. It would start dissolving if I did, showing me glimpses of a world that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the way the world was supposed to be; it made me want to bite and scream. Something about children and candles.

“How many miles to Babylon?” I muttered. “It’s threescore miles and ten.”

“Shhh,” said the voice. “You need to be quiet. No more rhymes. No more words.”

“Can you get there by candlelight?” What was she talking about? Words and the mist were the only things I had.

“Snap out of it!” she whispered and slapped me. I froze. Sometimes He hit me when I sang songs He didn’t like. I never knew what songs would make Him hit me until they were already sung and it was too late to take them back. Once, when I sang a song about a woman named Janet and the white horse her lover rode, He started hitting me and almost didn’t stop. I bled into the mists for hours after that, bright blood like rubies on my fingers.

I didn’t like it when He hit me. It hurt. And it confused me, because as much as I hated it, I didn’t want Him to stop. When He hit me, the mists cleared enough that I could start grasping concepts beyond the world I knew, things more complex than mist and half-remembered songs. So I cringed at the blows and remembered what caused them, so that I could make Him do it again whenever I wanted Him to. Whenever I was willing to gamble pain for sanity. When He hit me, I hated Him. When He stopped I hated myself for hating Him.

But I always made Him hit me again.

There was no more pain. I opened my eyes. The mist was empty, eddying in slow swirls. “Hello?” The mist caught my voice and threw it back, drowning out the songs. “Hello?”

No one answered. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering harder. This wasn’t right: I was never alone. There was always someone in the mist, ready to chastise or soothe. They never left me alone. Something might hurt me. Something might frighten me. Something might …

Might …

Something might wake me up.

“How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten …” I whispered. I remembered someone else saying the same words; a woman with dark hair and eyes like the mist. She put a candle in my hand, she told me the route to follow for my there-and-back-again; she promised the candle would protect me. There was danger, yes, always danger, but there was a road I could follow. I remembered the oily sheen of her skin, the tapered nails that crooked so naturally into claws …

The Luidaeg.

I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. The Luidaeg. She gave me my candle and set me on the road to Blind Michael. I was safe as long as I held the candle and stayed on the path. I was safe until … oh, root and branch, what had I done? More important, what was I doing? I tried to stand and fell, catching myself on the chair.

A voice behind me said, amused, “Well, that worked better than I expected.”

I froze, sorting through the possible speakers and discarding them. Finally, I asked, “Acacia?”

“It’s me; now hush. I need you to get up.” Her hands were firm on my shoulders. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Where am I?” I could hear her, but I couldn’t see her; the mists blocked everything.

“My husband’s private hall.” She guided me to my feet. “It’ll be all right, but you need to move.”

“I can’t see.”

“You’re enchanted—he has plans for you, and they don’t include escaping.” There was a dark amusement in her tone. “Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told, and she dragged a soft, damp cloth across my eyelids. I opened my eyes when the pressure faded, squinting against the sudden brightness. The mist was gone. We were in a small room cluttered with broken furniture and heaps of discarded tapestries. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, and footprints led to the chair where I’d been sitting. There were no windows; the door was ajar, and had no locks. They’d held me prisoner, and they hadn’t even needed iron bars to do it, because I gave myself to them. I was an idiot.

Acacia was kneeling in front of me, a frown pulling the scar on her cheek taunt. She watched me look around, concern evident in her expression. “Can you see me?”

“I can,” I said, looking back to her. “What did he do to me?”

“He coated your eyes with faerie ointment brewed to blind, not reveal.” Her smile was bitter. “He’s not very original, I’m afraid, but what he does, he does well. Including the taking of other people’s toys.”

“I thought he was a god.” I almost gagged on the words.

“I know. He does that to everyone; even those of us who should know better.” She ran her hand over my hair and straightened, saying, “We need to go. It’s All Hallows’ Eve, and he’ll be coming for you soon.”

“What?” I stared at her. Had it been that long? It couldn’t have been … but the mists had been so thick. For a moment, I was ready to go with her. Then I sobered, shaking my head. The thought of freedom was like a drug, but it didn’t change my promises. “I can’t.”

“I know you gave your word. Do you know what you swore?”

“To stay.”

“You never said you’d Ride. My woods are part of his land. Now come with me. I can’t free you, but at least you won’t be his.”

I studied her before offering my hand and letting her lead me out of the room. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you didn’t have to take her my rose, and because his plans for you would be bad for us both. Now hurry.”

I fell silent, letting her guide me through the halls. We were halfway down the hall when Acacia gasped and shoved me behind her. I hunched down, trying to make myself small enough to be overlooked. I hadn’t seen whatever startled her, but I was sure it wasn’t anything friendly. Very little in Blind Michael’s lands was friendly.

Armored feet scuffled on the floor, and a voice said, “Lady Acacia? We did not expect to see you here.”

“Do you question my right to pass?” she demanded. Her voice was cold and convinced of its own superiority: the kind of voice purebloods use on changeling servants.