Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

Strong spirit. Just the words King Edward used to describe his son. Perhaps Breena’s on to something.

“I don’t feel like I’m in control,” I tell her. “I can’t guard him like this.”

“Emrys, you’re one of the best Fae in my Guard.” Breena is all severity. “You just need to deal with it. I know you can.”

There’s a loud, nail-biting screech and a flurry of black feathers bursts from the shadows. Everything inside me starts dropping, torn down and down by untold weight. The bird has come to speak to us.

The raven lands close to our feet, its head cocked just so. Minuscule versions of Breena and me glare out of its sharp, bright eyes as it studies us. A razor beak opens; hoarse, rough words roll off its tongue.

“Trouble. Trouble, we see. Shadows grow in Albion. Danger to the blood.”

Breena’s body is all rigid, poured full of molten iron. My own lungs are frozen; the chilled night air refuses to enter my flaring nostrils.

“Trouble we see,” the bird croaks. “Fae must be ready.”

After almost a minute of gaping at the feathery messenger, Breena finds her voice. “What—what’s going to happen?”

The bird gives another mournful cry and stretches its flightless wings. “Only shadows we see, not shapes. Be on your guard, sisters.”

The raven’s stringy black feet carry him back into the darkness, leaving Breena and me in silence. We sit, staring at the dewdrops forming on the yard’s immaculate grass.

“So the ravens have seen something. . . .” My voice is as jagged after so much quiet.

Breena stands; her heather-gray dress falls like water over her knees.

“What are you doing?”

“The only thing I can,” she says. All the weariness I couldn’t see before is soaked into those five words. “I’m going to send a sparrow to Mab. Then I’m going to go back and check on the royals.”

She’s right. Against the vagueness of such words, there’s little more we can do except tell Queen Mab and wait.

“And you, you will go back and finish your shift with Richard. The Guard needs you, Emrys. I need you.”

Back to the prince. Back to that failed spell, that connection. Back to those things I can’t explain.

I don’t argue. Instead I follow Breena back out of the Tower’s walls, casting one more anxious glance back at the courtyards. The moon’s skeleton glow calls out the ravens’ huddled shapes. Several are gathered at the base of an acacia tree. Another pair lurks beneath a cannon. All of them stare after us, their tiny black eyes glued to our every step.

And I remember how they’re never wrong.

A shiver coils around my bones as I retreat through the Tower gate.

The prince is just getting back from a night out with his Eton chums when I return to the palace. The youngling I replace is all odd looks and cold shoulders in my direction before she leaves. My abrupt departure from the garden must be common knowledge among the Guard. In any other circumstances, this knowledge would press me down, give root to several years’ worth of embarrassment. But there’s no room for this feeling with the raven’s words threading through all corners of my mind.

Shadows. Trouble. Danger to the blood.

Richard’s blood.

I stay at the far end of the living area and watch as the prince shucks off his jacket. It crumples like a dead animal on the rug, the only thing in this grand room that’s ruffled, out of place. Richard, in his once crisp, white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, still blends into the grandeur. His cut jaw and tall frame were meant for these rooms of gold crown molding and furniture that hasn’t been upholstered since the Victorian Age.

I feel the veiling spell slipping again, sifting like sand through my grasp. It shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t have to grit my teeth and weave new magic every few minutes to hide myself from Richard’s gaze.

Something’s wrong with me. My magic.

Has the venom of the machines finally settled inside me? Is the city starting to tear me apart, like it’s done to so many of the older Fae? These thoughts call up panic, stuttering my heart and electrifying my chest at the same time.

No. It’s not the machines or the sickness they bring. I’m too young. And, if that were the case, Breena would be falling to pieces too.

The revelation doesn’t bring me much peace. The veiling spell is still fighting, wriggling out of my control like an eel caught by its tail.

I’m at the doorway, bracing against its frame. My invisibility, my absence from Prince Richard’s senses, won’t last long. In minutes, maybe even seconds, the spell will yank out of my control. He’ll see me.

I could call the youngling back. I could explain everything to Breena. She’d send me back to the Highlands, back to those snowcapped peaks that slope down to the tea-stained water of the lochs. The place where I’m whole, where I can fly without limit.

But it won’t be the same . . . not if I’m sent back with this failure, this black mark on my record. The queen might think I’ve lost my talent. Or that I never had any to begin with. My position in the court would slide back so far it might take me hundreds of years to reclaim it. Maybe even thousands.

And Breena—she needs me, veiling spell or no. She has enough to deal with, running the Guard and shouldering the weight of the raven’s prophecy. I can’t make her burden heavier.

So my choice isn’t really even a choice. I have to stay here. I have to guard Richard. Even if this means I have to let him see.

Would it really be so wrong for the prince to know of my existence? The other Fae don’t have to know. . . . Maybe it would even be better if Richard knew about us, the secret world so thickly entangled with his own. If he’s aware of the threats, he might be more careful.

These excuses rattle inside me, flimsy, shattering to pieces under the laws I’ve followed for years upon years. Every shard is sharp, goading me toward the foolish. The inevitable.

They rain down, fleck harder and harder, like glassy hail, until I can no longer bear it.

By the time Richard finally turns to the door, my decision has been made. I let go of the frantically pieced spells, breaking into his reality before I can change my mind.

“Bloody hell!” he yells, and steps back into one of the chairs. He falls in a tangle of long limbs, stubbing his pinky toe on the lion’s foot at the base.

I keep still, afraid that if I move or step forward, the prince will start yelling again. Richard stays sprawled, all knots in his chair, watching me with narrowed, appraising eyes. I stare back.

“You—you’re the girl from the garden,” he says a few seconds into our gaze. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

It’s best to just be honest with him. To let everything out. If things go wrong, I can always wipe his memory.

“My name is Emrys Léoflic. I’m the Fae who guards you,” I say the words slowly, carefully—gauging his reaction.