The Office of Shadow (53 page)

They would never guess. How could they? Only Hy Pezho could be so
audacious. Never in the wildest dreams of any of Mab's great thaumaturges
would Hy Pezho's solution occur.

That was what put him above all others: He dared what no other would.

Thoughts of revenge sustained him for a very, very long time.

In an instant, nothing then something. Everything. Pain, blood, sound.
Harsh smell, rank spellcraft odor. Darkness, but only the mundane kind.
Only a lack of light. If he had eyes, they'd be blinded by the brilliance of this
blackness.

But he did have eyes. They rolled in their sockets.

His chest hurt. A chest! Why? Something familiar digging at him.

Breathe. In. Out. Yes.

Fingers, legs, arms, a neck. Movement, restricted. Restrained? Injured?
Where was he?

Sounds, musical. Lilting familiarly. Tinkling. Tinkling laughter.
Laughter.

Mab. Queen. Lover. Empress.

Nemesis.

Her voice. The sounds were her voice, and in the voice were words.
Words to hear with ears.

"Awake, Hy Pezho," she said. He thought that was what she said.
"Awake now and serve your empress as you once feigned to."

He was tied to a table. Helpless.

A shiver, joyfully afraid.

He pissed himself.

Bliss.

Hy Pezho sat up, testing his new body. It felt different from his old one.
Leaner, stronger. He was in a small room, a thaumaturge's workshop. Mab's
workshop. What horrors had been wrought here in this very room?

Mab was smiling at him. She wore no glamour, and the sight of her true
face chilled even him.

"Clever," she said. "You're a clever, clever boy, Hy Pezho."

"That's what made us such good friends," he said, trying his voice. His
speech was slurred a bit, but only because he hadn't attempted it in so long.

"I should have known that the great Hy Pezho would have found a way
to cheat death," she said.

"So your coterie of thaumaturges have admitted that they can't duplicate
my masterpiece?" He chuckled. "Even with the carefully crafted blueprints I
left them? Or are they still plugging away at it?"

"I've killed them all," she said.

"Ah."

"And this new body of yours, Hy Pezho, has been built with some protections, so I pray I will not have to kill you as well. Kill you in the true
death."

"I live to serve," said Hy Pezho. And with horror, he realized that he
meant it. He wanted nothing more than to serve her. Would die to serve her.

"What have you done to me?" he said.

"You've been given a great, great honor," she said. "I've brought you
back not in a frail Fae body, but in the body of my most loyal and faithful
and mighty servants."

Hy Pezho looked down at his arms. Long, thin, strong. No.

No.

"You're Bel Zheret now, Hy Pezho," said Mab, her tinkling laughter
falling on him like sparks. "Congratulations on your promotion."

She leaned over him and took his face in her hands.

"Now let's get started building some more of those Einswraths, shall
we?"

"Einswrath?" he said, fighting the urge to comply with her every whim.

"That's what they've dubbed your masterpiece," she said. "A lovely
name, if a bit religious for my tastes."

Hy Pezho laughed out loud. "And so much more appropriate than you
can possibly know."

"Do tell."

Desiring nothing more than to please her, nemesis no longer, Hy Pezho
explained exactly how the Einswrath worked. He wasn't sure, but he thought
that she-Mab, who had seen everything-grew pale as he spoke.

"You're a madman," she said.

"I am bold," he said. "There is a difference."

Each city in Faerie has its own variation on the Procession of the Magi during the solstice festival, but my
favorite is in the small city of Hawthorne-by-the-Sea.
Rather than the solemn function seen most places, the
procession in Hawthorne is a bawdy, ribald affair, replete
with laughter and inebriation, in which the townspeople
dressed as the magi are insulted and openly mocked by
the citizenry as they make their way around the square.

The first in line is a "general," representing Leadership. This is a plum assignment and is given to the fattest
man in Hawthorne. He barks orders that no one heeds,
and does his best to run the parade into walls and blind
alleys.

Next comes a "Master of the Gates," representing
Folding. He complains that walking does not suit him, for
he can fold where he wishes.

A "Master Toucher" follows, representing Awareness,
riding a touched donkey, which is in reality two boys in a
costume. The donkey wanders back and forth, ignoring
the Master Toucher's commands, and insulting him in the
foulest language imaginable.

Each magus comes in turn and is ridiculed.The spellhardener representing Binding, carrying a floppy sword
made of reeds. The blind Glamourist. The bargemaster
representing Motion, who bears a heavy log on his back. A fearful, accident-prone thaumaturge for Resistance. A
faux hunchback for Poise, an idiot for Insight, an alwayswrong seer for Premonition, a mean-spirited brute for
Empathy.

The final mage is always an Elementalist who pretends to eat horse dung, claiming that he transforms it
into roast beef in his mouth. He typically gets the biggest
laugh.

The last in the procession is a hooded figure who
represents no Gift; the meaning of this figure is lost to
the ages. Some say that he represents Death; others
believe him to be an avatar of the fabled Thirteenth Gift.
No one I spoke to in Hawthorne could tell me what that
Gift might be.The crowd does not acknowledge his presence, and when the parade ends, he slips off into the
night without revealing his identity.

Stil-Eret, 'The Unruly Eastern Provinces;'
Travels at Home and Abroad

Fate is fond of her little reversals. All the better to stab
you in the back.

-Master jedron

ilverdun awoke in his tattered bed at Whitemount, feeling unbearably
hung over. He sat up, his mouth dry, his ears ringing, his stomach
twisting in his belly. He leaned over and retched, but nothing came out.

On the table next to the bed were a pitcher of water and a small loaf of
fresh bread. He drained the pitcher without bothering to pour it into the
nearby glass and wolfed down the bread. A fresh change of clothes awaited
him on the floor.

He had been plagued by dreams. Sela. Ironfoot. Preyia. Falling in flames.
Bel Zheret.

He stood up long enough to dress, but then his head started to spin
again, and he sat back on the bed. How had he gotten here? He couldn't
remember. Everything since his last visit here was a blur, a melange of disconnected images swirling in his mind.

The door opened and Than entered. No-not Ilian. Jedron.

"It's about time you woke up," he barked. "This isn't an inn, you know."

"What happened?"

"My guess is that you had one too many whiskeys last night and now
you've come to learn the evils of drink firsthand."

"I don't remember how I got here. How did I get here from Elenth?"

"Elenth?" said Jedron, his brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"The last thing I remember I was in the Unseelie city of Elenth. We were to meet a priest named Virum, but then the Bel Zheret appeared and ... I
don't remember the rest."

"You're talking nonsense, boy. You've been here at Whitemount for the
past six weeks. And if you're done hallucinating, it's time to get back to your
training."

"What?"

"Training. It's what you were sent here for, remember?"

Silverdun's mind reeled. "Are you saying ... ?"

Jedron snickered, then laughed out loud. "You gullible fool," he said
through chuckles. "I had you going there for a second, didn't I?"

"Damn you, Jedron!" shouted Silverdun. He picked up the water pitcher
and flung it at his old teacher. Jedron caught it handily and threw it back at
him, hitting him square in the forehead.

"Get up," he said. "You've got to get back to work."

"I don't understand," said Silverdun. "What happened to me, you old
bastard?"

Jedron was already at the door. "Oh, that. You died. Come on."

Silverdun followed Jedron down the stairs of the castle. Nothing had
changed since his first visit there months earlier.

"Jedron?" Silverdun shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just shut up and follow me. I have something to show you."

Silverdun sighed and followed. His weeks at Whitemount were jogged
back fully into memory by his presence here. He'd forgotten just how much
he disliked this man.

"Wait," said Silverdun. A flash of images came to him, and the memory
of pain, and fear. "I remember. The Bel Zheret stabbed me. I felt him pierce
my heart!"

"I know," said Jedron. "I heard all about it."

They left the castle, and the sunlight hurt Silverdun's eyes. The sea
around them was a deep blue, and as he looked to the east, he could just make
out the spires of the City Emerald.

"You can gather wool later," said Jedron, glaring. "I have things to do."
He went to the steps leading to the pit and started down them. Silverdun followed, muttering a string of obscenities under his breath.