A Witch's Feast (13 page)

He stepped over the threshold and gaped. Carved stonework arched hundreds of feet above them. The hall was at least the size of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
I must be dreaming.
It wasn’t possible for something this vast to fit into a narrow tower.

 
“We need to make you presentable.” Holding a palm near Thomas’s chest, the penguin muttered in Angelic.
 

Thomas stared as his shirt transformed from rough brown wool into a silky, grass-green jacket embroidered with pearls. It fit snugly, apart from the puffed shoulders, and lace sleeves that flounced around his wrists. Gold trousers bloused out at the thighs, tied with green ribbons around his knees. Further green bows decorated his shoes. A cap sat on his head, and he pulled it off to find it made of green velvet and covered in pearls. He gritted his teeth, shoving the cap back on his head.
I look like a twat.
He schooled his face into a pleased expression.

“Are you coming, then?” the penguin asked gruffly.

“I didn’t think the cell was adjacent to a grand hall like this,” Thomas muttered, squinting in the bright light. His heels clapped unsteadily on the marble floor, and a part of him cringed.
They put me in high heels.

 
“It isn’t adjacent.” The man glanced back at Thomas. “You don’t expect us to trudge up and down hundreds of stairs in the Iron Tower, do you?”

It wouldn’t do your waistline any harm.

“We use portals,” continued the guard. “Saves time.”
 

Late afternoon light poured through tall, arched windows, each one bearing the Throcknell herald in stained glass. Below the heralds were interlocked Bs. Queen Bathsheba and King Balthazar, of course. No doubt the previous windows with Queen Morella’s initials had been replaced soon before her execution.

Thomas peered out the windows at a grassy courtyard. They had arrived at the ground level without descending a single stair.
 

Across from the windows, marble statues towered over the hall, nearly the height of the ceiling. A woman with flames erupting from her hair pulled open the front of her dress, revealing a sun symbol on her bared chest. It blazed in the amber light. Thomas stared, his mind foggy.

A hand pushed him from behind. “What’s the matter—never seen tits before?”

The other guards burst into barking laughter.
Apparently, that joke was hilarious
. Thomas faked another smile.
 

A statue further on depicted a figure covered entirely in a cloak, decorated only with a few stars. Next to that, a mournful man in military garb displayed a pair of slashed wrists—the penitent blood god, no doubt. As they walked through the hall, he recognized Druloch—a man’s strong body intertwined with a tree, an ecstatic look on his face.
 

Thomas’s stomach rumbled. Was he really about to feast with a magical royal family? But why had they been starving him if they’d meant to send him home all along?

His high-heeled footsteps echoed off the flagstones. Closer to the far end of the hall, an elegant goddess statue rose from sea foam, a crescent moon on her forehead, and another muscular goddess reclined on a mountain range with a serene expression.
The earthly gods.

Each statue was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. And there were seven of them.
Seven points, seven towers, and seven gods.
Maybe that was all the zodiac wheel had meant, just a coded reference to the gods.
 

At the end of the hall, a short flight of steps led up to an immense set of wooden doors. As they approached, the doors swung open with a groan. The fat guard motioned for Thomas to walk up the stairs, and he stepped up the marble staircase into a hall—if it could be called a hall. It looked like the nave of a ruined abbey, all crumbling stones overgrown with vines. He’d never seen anything so stunning in his life.
 

Maremount wasn’t old enough to contain actual medieval buildings, so the Throcknells must have designed it to look ancient. Thomas had to admire their taste. Towering stone walls formed a long rectangle, each with peaked windows that overlooked gardens. There was no ceiling—just high arches enclosing the room like a stoney ribcage. And from these arches, a rainbow of wildflowers grew
downward
through some enchantment.
 

In the center of the hall stood a banquet table, and the setting sun cast it in a nectarine light. A half-dozen people sat around the green-clothed table. Flowers grew from the table itself, and around them, gold platters held colorful cakes, roast turkeys, rabbits covered in sauces and plums, and pies shaped like lion’s-heads. Tendrils of steam curled into the air, wafting aromas of baked meat and breads, and Thomas had to restrain himself from tearing a leg off a browned turkey to gnaw on like a caveman.
Isn’t there some legend about not eating fairy food? Does that apply here?

The guests’ clothes were even more outrageous than his own: they lounged in gold tissue-cloth, green and blue velvet, ribbons, their hats sewn with rubies and emeralds.
 

At the end of the table sat the King and Queen. Bathsheba’s pale, shimmering skin reminded him of moonlight, a contrast to her warm golden gown. A snow fox panted by her side, its black eyes alert. To the left, Asmodeus slouched in his black robes, his viper coiling around his hat. He glared at Thomas, his receding chin wrinkled with distaste.
 

Thomas almost didn’t notice Celia sitting by his side. She was clad in a simple blue gown, and her face had a vacant look. She seemed to avoid his eye.
Guilt, perhaps.

He turned to the King.
Is there some rule about not standing in the presence of royalty?
 

King Balthazar stood, thrusting out a hand. Jeweled rings crowded his fingers. His neatly trimmed beard was the color of hay, and red veins discolored his nose. A mountain lion—his familiar—rested by his chair. “Thank you for joining us, Thomas Malcolm. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a high-backed wooden chair across from Celia and Asmodeus.

Wildflowers grew through the tiled floor, reaching toward their counterparts above. Thomas pulled out a dark wooden chair, the seat clothed in red velvet. He tried to catch Celia’s eye, but she was staring at the sky with a dreamy look, her eyes half lidded.
 

The King smiled. “You must be wondering why we asked you here.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I was surprised. I thought you were going to execute me.”
Too blunt. The first thing sleep deprivation destroys is social filters.
 

To his relief, the King threw back his head and laughed. “Of course we wouldn’t kill one of my daughter’s friends. We wanted to speak to the man who buried the Wampanoag king.”
 

A woman in a canary yellow gown grinned and clapped.
 

“It’s quite a feat,” he continued, “and we owe you a great debt for ridding our city of the Harvester scourge. Also, my beautiful wife was terribly curious to meet someone from the other side.”
 

When Bathsheba smiled, her teeth were a dazzling white against her ruby lips.

Thomas took a deep breath.
I have no idea what royal protocol is… Screw it.
“What’s happened to my companion? He was taken from our cell. Your Highness.”

The King and Queen stared at him. In person, Bathsheba’s icy gaze was no warmer than her statue’s.

King Balthazar’s face was impassive. “We sent the boy home.”

Thomas glanced at Celia again. While Asmodeus stared at the girl, licking his thin lips, she plucked a flower from the floor and began threading it through the tines of a fork, singing softly to herself.
 

Thomas blinked.
Has she lost her mind?
Something was very wrong with her. Either she’d been given some sort of magical lobotomy, or she was pretending to be stupid because she didn’t trust her own father. Neither was an enticing possibility.
 

He replayed Oswald’s warning in his mind:
Never trust a Throcknell.
 

The rich scent of roasted and spiced meat was enough to distract him from his fears. He gaped at the pies lining the table, and the curls of steam that rose from their centers. Sure, he was supposed to be cautious, but there was no harm in enjoying a feast.

The King gestured to a gray-haired man to his right. “We honor another guest here tonight.” Thick eyebrows swooped up the man’s forehead, and a small hedgehog perched on the shoulder of his red tunic. He nodded as the King continued, “Sir Caspar is a great philosopher visiting us from Mount Acidale.”
 

Thomas had no idea what Mount Acidale was. He flashed a quick smile, wondering how long he had to wait before he could eat.
 

The King clapped his hands. “We are here to celebrate! Let the wine flow!”
 

As he spoke the words, three women strode into the hall, each wearing a small gauzy tunic. Their hair and bodies gleamed with gold, and they carried pitchers in both hands. They moved gracefully around the table, filling goblets with red wine.
 

“Let us dine and enjoy ourselves.” The King raised a goblet, and the guests followed suit.
 

Thank God.
Thomas sniffed the wine, swirling it in his glass. His mouth watered at the thought of consuming anything, but he paused with the thought that it could be enchanted. What was the rule? If you ate the food in a fairy land you’d be trapped there forever?

He eyed the pies in front of him, and the beautiful russet-haired woman to his right.
Sod it. They’re not really fairies, and being trapped here wouldn’t be so bad anyway.
He lifted his glass, taking a long slug of the wine—a fruity and delicious red. This was the first thing he’d ingested in days, and he had to force himself to put down the glass. He didn’t want to end up under the King’s table before the night was through.

The gauze-clad servants moved around the table, cutting off chunks of duck and rabbit to serve onto people’s plates. When a large chunk of rabbit landed on Thomas’s, he tore into it with the ferocity of a wild dog.
I’ve never been this hungry before, not even after a two-day bender through Soho.
 

A scoop of a meat pie landed on his plate, followed by corn bread, stewed pumpkin flavored with nutmeg and butter, and stuffed quahogs. The bread was fresh and hot, and he dipped it into the pumpkin before taking another bite of rabbit. The meat dripped with a rich cranberry and plum sauce.

He closed his eyes, ecstatic in the rich and savory flavors. This was heaven.
Maybe they don’t need to send me home. Maybe I can stay here under the stars and wildflowers eating wild rabbit, even if I have to dress like an absolute twat.

“I see you like the food, Thomas Malcolm.” The King stared at him, a hint of amusement on his florid face.
 

Thomas looked around the room. Everyone was staring at him, apart from Celia, who jabbed at her food with a finger. Asmodeus sat inches from her. To Thomas’s right, the woman in a bright yellow gown laughed into her hand. Her hair was the color of the burnt-orange sunset above them, and it tumbled over her cleavage. Blue phlox flowers were threaded through her hair.

Thomas swallowed a large bite of meat, and nodded. “It’s delicious. Of course, I haven’t eaten in two days.”

The King tilted his head. “An oversight on the part of our guards. They’ve been reprimanded.” He leaned forward. “And what do you think of our fine city?”

“It’s beautiful.” Thomas stared at the open arches above, the sky darkening to a deep coral. “In fact, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Pleased, the King nodded, taking a large bite of cornbread. Under the food smells, the air was thick and sweet with the scent of honeysuckle blossoms.

“I’ve been enjoying the city myself,” Caspar grinned at the woman in yellow. “Very beautiful, indeed.”

Thomas tried to catch Celia’s eye. She broke of a large piece of cornbread and shoved it in her mouth, staring at the sky.

Asmodeus lifted his gaze from Celia’s cleavage and cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve recovered from your criminal episode?”

Thomas’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “The criminal episode in which I tried to prevent the mutilation of a small child?”

Bathsheba’s laughter was like the tinkling of bells. “Oh! He knows better than we do. Let’s hear what the learned gentleman has to say.”

Maybe he’d misspoken. His mind swirled with academic debates on cultural relativism.
But they were going to cut a little girl’s hands off.
“I realize that you have your own laws and customs here—”
 

Sir Caspar scowled. “Laws and customs that stem from thousand-year-old traditions. And to what ancient societies do you belong?”
 

Arsehole.
“None.” A slug of wine. It was going to his head.
Sod it.
I hate these people.
“Though now that you mention it, I come from a culture where we provide medical care to anyone who needs it, even if they can’t afford it. We don’t let children die in the streets from curable diseases.”

Asmodeus reddened. “Because you fools don’t know any better—”