The Truth of Things Unseen

Darkling Trade

The throne room was a riot of colour and noise. Chattering courtiers moved everywhere, pressing against each other, standing in small cliques and sharing gossip. Many of them were masked or wore the faces or hooves of animals.

A woman with a cat’s head, a vivid blue gown and small iridescent wings jostled Llaneth. She barely acknowledged her, moving on to chat with a group of slender men who wore the faces of insects and the cloven feet of goats.

Some of the courtiers glanced up as she pushed through the door, but they quickly went back to their conversations. She was not noteworthy. Only half royal. A princess with no armour, whose own heart sill beat within her breast. A fourth-born who would never inherit anything. She was barely worth their attention, but she didn’t mind.

“Better a book than a battle,” her mother had once said before tucking her into bed. That had been years ago, before Llaneth had learned there were worse ways to die than war.

She looked for her sisters and saw them at once. Fentallion leaned up against a pillar close to the high seat, her raven dark hair lit by a sunbeam, her eyes narrow and watchful. Lenadriel stood with her, eyes wide, golden hair artfully tangled around her ears. True princesses, both of them, with hearts of armour that would never fail, shadow and witch-fire running through their veins.

They shone with the dark light of the Flame to which they were bound. The bustling courtiers kept their distance, and the pillar where they stood was a little empty island in the middle of a busy, chattering torrent of people.

She made her way over to them, brushing each pillar lightly with her fingertips as she passed it, counting them, enjoying the pattern and the texture. Coloured light poured in through the rose window, collecting colours and shadows as it fell, splashing still more patterns across the black and white marble floor.

Pattern, everything was pattern — in the dance of light and the swirl of the motes as they orbited the high-stepping courtiers. Pattern in the shapes and swirls in the wood, each blonde line a summer, and all of it passing unnoticed and unremarked beneath the feet and swishing skirts of the nobles who had come only to watch the show.

And here were her sisters, one fierce and dark, one merry and golden. She was but a poor imitation of them. She fingered the narrow grey band that represented her connection to the flame, the unliving flame that gave her family power. It was a narrow thing, just a chain with a flame sigil engraved on each loop, and her power was small compared to theirs. Just a whisp of fire.

“What's going on?” she whispered.

"Hush," Fentallion replied, leaning in and glancing conspiratorially from side to side. "A darkling creature has come down from the mountains. Lucre says it wishes to trade."

"It brings a pack," said Lenadriel, smiling. "Gifts for us. Treasures from the Darkling Realms."

“Pfsh, Darklings do not trade.” Fentallion made a soft warning sound in her throat. She was always on guard. Her armour was faster even than Meriviel’s, and she would not suffer any threat to her father.

Llaneth could sense the heat of the Flame rising around her. She flickered, and for half a heartbeat, Llaneth caught sight of her true form beneath the veil, fell and fae.

“Where is Father?” She asked.

“The King is late,” replied Lenadriel. “Listen for the Dathal Bell. You know what to do when it sounds?”

Llaneth nodded, though in truth, she could not remember. There were so many rules and customs at court. She was always happiest when the doors were closed, when she could be a sister or a daughter rather than a high princess.

A silvery bell chimed out, cutting across the conversations. The room became still. A hidden door opened behind the throne, and the king entered, flanked by two guards. He was a slender man, finely made, with a narrow beard that framed his handsome face. He wore a simple grey tunic that fit him well. A narrow sword hung at his hip.

Nasnarieth. High King of Erin. Her Father. Llaneth’s heart swelled with pride as she watched him ascend the high seat, her eyes pricked with tears. He climbed easily, two steps at a time and sat with effortless grace, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the seat, chin resting on half-curled fingers.

Llaneth was suddenly aware of a change in the room. Horrified, she glanced around and realised that everyone else was kneeling, heads bowed, arms crossed in salute, and she was standing over it all like a grinning idiot. She felt blood rush into her face, glanced once more up at the man on the high seat, and caught him smiling down at her. He placed a finger to his lips and mouthed the words, “I won't tell anyone.” She flashed a grateful smile back up at him.

Then the silver bell chimed once more and the room came to life again in a great bustle of skirts and silken stockings. Everyone stood at once and the room was once more a-bustling with excitement.

At the king's signal, the door was thrown wide, and a troop of Whitecloaks marched through it, leather-shod feet tramping in unison, swords oiled and drawn. Between their tight ranks, Llaneth glimpsed something dark and ragged that flapped and swayed, though there was no wind.

Everyone backed hurriedly away from the centre of the room, creating an open space. Fentallion yawned, and Llaneth understood why she had picked this space near the pillar. The courtiers flowed around the three of them, a river of silk and lace flowing around an island of hidden armour. No one would touch an armoured witch, no one would even come near them. In a moment, Llaneth found herself at the front of the crowd, looking out into the open space where the whitecloaks guarded the creature that had come down from the mountains.

The King raised his hand, and the soldiers withdrew in unison, leaving the darkling alone in a patch of sunlight in the centre of the floor.

The darkling creature hissed and cowered like an animal brought to bay, though as far as Llaneth knew, it had come willingly. It wore a tasselled black cloak that shifted constantly. Beneath the hood, there was nothing, no face, no eyes, just a hollowed-out chaotic space that hurt to look at, as though the heavens had been turned inside out. As though the green world and all of Erin were nothing but a patch in the dark, and the hood a window onto a truer world of silence and shadow.

"It smells of blood," whispered Lenadriel.

"Fresh blood," replied Fentallion.

"What do they eat?" asked Llaneth.

Fentallion shook her head. "I don't know. I've never seen one this close before. I don't like it. Be ready."

Llaneth wished Meriviel were here. She would know just what to do, but she was away warring in the South and would not be back for weeks.

Nasnarieth held up his hand for silence. "You may show us what you have brought," he said.

The darkling muttered and hissed. Its fingers fluttered like moths. It reached deep down into its ragged pack and pulled out a golden toy.

It was a horse, the size of a man's hand, marvellously intricate. The darkling set it down, and it cantered up and down before the throne, then lay down and died until Llenadriel, entranced by the sight of it, clapped her hands delightedly, where at once it stood and pranced once more.

"Oh,” Lenadriel said, clapping her hands to her mouth. “It is beautiful! May we buy it, Father? I will have it in my room!"

Fentallion nudged her in the ribs. Nasnarieth held up his hand to still the surprised conversations that had started up again across the room.

"It is a fair trinket," he said, addressing the Darkling that stood impassive in the centre of the room. "What do you want for it?"

Fentallion leaned in and whispered to her sisters. “They don’t value gold,” she said in an undertone. “Father will have to offer something else."

The darkling creature hissed and moaned. Swaying and grovelling, its no-face twisted until Llaneth felt she was falling into it and had to look away.

The King laughed as though he had understood. “Nay, that is too much," he said, though he did not look angry, for the horse had brightened the mood in the room. "I will give you three days for it, no more.”

The creature hissed again.

“You bargain too hard. We will treat more on this later,” said the king, frowning. “Keep the trinket for now, and show me what else you have brought us.”

Fentallion leaned towards Lenadriel. "Watch for the trap," she whispered. "Ready your armour. Strike quickly when it moves."

"It seems gentle. How do you know there will be a trap?" said Llaneth, watching the darkling rummaging.

"There's always a trap," replied Fentallion, watching the creature with dark brooding eyes that flashed as the power of the flame moved within her.

Fentallion raised a hand and curled her fingers into a fist. The hand flickered and became a black gauntlet. For a moment, Llaneth saw through her to the spiralling void, and she sensed the undarkened flame that burned at the centre of the pattern. Sintarael. Then the vision was gone, and it was just her sister once more, Fentallion, with grey eyes and black hair with lights in it like the stars at midnight.

The darkling reached into its pack once more and pulled out a golden boat as big as a dinner platter. The sails swelled and cracked in a wind that was not blowing. Llaneth almost thought she heard the distant sound of gulls and the cry of sailors at the docks. Again, surprised conversations broke out across the room.

"It is named Ariannre," whispered Fentallion. "A fair name. It means falling star."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"The flame is so weak in you," tutted Lenadriel. "Can you not read it written on the side? And why name a ship that way? It is already on the water. There is nowhere for it to fall to."

"Another toy," said the King dismissively, though Llaneth could tell he was impressed. "What do you want for this one? The Kingdom in a bottle?"

The darkling hissed again.

"A sou'wessterly? These are needed for the wars. I will give you a good nor'westerly gale. You may ride it for three days and you will be satisfied."

The creature made a motion with its head, and the King looked visibly annoyed.

"You have shown me only toys. I will waste no more time," he growled. "Show me something real, or I will have you thrown into the chasm."

Once again, the creature reached deep into its pack, further down than seemed possible. When it withdrew its hand, it held a small gold-painted snake with enamel black eyes. The thing was plain and battered. It did not move or slither about the floor. It drew no excited gasps from the crowd. The paint was chipped in places, revealing the wood beneath. The darkling advanced towards the throne, brushing aside the swords of the Whitecloaks who had suddenly become frozen, and held the poor-looking thing out to the king — and the king took it silently, greedily, as though it were the greatest treasure one could ever know.

The creature withdrew back to the middle of the floor and stood silently swaying.

The king's expression grew misty. "Now this. This is real magic. I would trade you for this. What do you ask?" His voice was small and distant, hardly like her father’s voice at all.

The creature heaved and moaned, rocking slowly from side to side. A smell filled the room, a scent of death and decay. The king sat on the high seat holding the little snake up to his face, eyes blurred and misty, staring into its eyes.

"It speaks the truth," he whispered. "It always speaks the truth. I would possess this thing."

The darkling hissed once more, and the king closed his eyes, moaning.

"What did it ask for?" whispered Llaneth. Then, more urgently. "What did it ask for!"

The king’s shoulders shook, and he began to weep. Llaneth felt the power and heat of the flame throbbing in the chamber. It pulsed in the bracelet she wore. It throbbed in her ears and blinded her eyes. Her sisters hummed with it. The sun streaming through the windows grew dark. The sounds of the palace grew muffled. The faces of the courtiers standing around the edge of the room became indistinct.

"What did it ask for!" she screamed into the gathering storm as the undarkened flame burning in her sister's hearts sucked light and warmth from the room, and they began to change.

Fentallion's armour had already formed around her, sleek and black. Seamless. She pushed past Llaneth, moving like wind-tossed silk across the floor, twin daggers flashing in her hands. Her black hair streamed out behind her, full of stars.

Lenadriel was right behind her. Her armour was of yellow gold. She was massive, her helm almost brushed the vaulted ceiling. In one enormous hand she carried a curved sword as long as a man. In the other, a mace studded with golden spikes that span with rainbows.

Llaneth stood back. She was not of the stilled, she had no armour, no sword, no form of power, and through the flame hummed around her it did not penetrate her soul. In a moment her sisters were standing over the darkling who cowered before them, raising its arms. Fentallion struck, quick as a cat, but the darkling was too fast. It melted down into a pool of shadow and flowed away, joining with the other shadows at the edge of the room. Fentallion's twin daggers slashed through the place where it had been an eyeblink before.

The doors to the throne room burst open and a wind streamed in. The creaking of a ship and the cry of a dying horse. A crash of waves and the moonlight sparking on the ocean. Then the door slammed shut again and in another heartbeat the power of the flame was stilled.

The Darkling had fled.

Llaneth took a deep shuddering breath. She was surprised to find her cheeks were wet with tears. Fen and Lena knelt in the middle of the room, their armour folding away back into the spaces between. For a second she saw through them into the void, full of stars, then their forms reknitted and were once again her sisters, whole and fair.

The king still sat on the high seat. "My daughters," he whispered in a soft voice, bereft of strength and authority. "I will not... will not trade my daughters."

Llaneth ran to him and held him, stroking his head.

"I will not," he mumbled. "I will not." His skin was cold. His body trembling with emotion.

"See," she said, holding his haunted face between her small hands and making him look at her. "See, you have not traded us, and the Darkling is gone. We have defeated it. Look there. Fentallion and Lendariel both have sent it away, never to return. It has taken its evil treasures and fled away, back to its own country."

The king reached up with one trembling hand and brushed her cheek. "I am sorry, my daughters. I am sorry. Llaneth, you were always the best of them. I am sorry."

But he kept his other hand tucked inside his robe and he would show no one what he held there.

That night, Llaneth lay in her chamber unable to sleep. Something was still wrong. The world no longer had its proper shape. She could sense the sickness of it in the texture of her bedsheets; in the dampness of her pillow. It was dark, and the city was quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. Once, twice, then yelped and was still.

There was a noise in the hall outside her room. A scraping sound, like fingernails being drawn ever so softly and slowly down her door.

"Who's there?" she called, and the noise stopped. She held her breath, listening very hard. There was nothing, no sound, and yet she sensed something, some greater darkness at the keyhole.

But she was of Erinthor; she would not be cowed. Instinctively, she put her hand to the bracelet at her wrist and felt heat flow through it and into her. The flame burned brightly tonight. She pushed the heat of it into the candle stub that rested next to her bed and watched it flicker into life. The room was empty. Her book lay open on the nightstand. Her bottles were in their proper places. She got out of bed and pulled a blanket around her narrow shoulders. Darkling or no, she would not hide. In a few quick steps, she crossed to the door and threw it wide.

There was no one there.

Slowly, she poked her head out into the corridor. The torches had burned low, and the long stone passage was lit with a red, smouldering light. She stepped out into the corridor, feeling the chill through her blanket. The breeze brushed against her legs like fingers.

She checked behind the door. There was nothing, but as she turned, she thought she saw a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye—a dark outline rounding the corner at the end of the corridor.

She snatched a torch from a bracket and followed. The smoke from the guttering tallow got in her eyes and made them sting. She held the torch higher, allowing the fumes to stream over her head. She reached the corner and stepped around it quickly. Nothing.

But wait, perhaps there was something.

Halfway along the corridor lay a pool of shadow that was deeper and stiller than the natural shadows cast by the flickering torches. It rose up silently, forming the outline of a figure, and there the darkling stood, halfway down the corridor, looking back at her without a face.

But she was of Erinthor. She drew power from her bracelet and screamed, running at the figure. The torch held high over her head brightened with power. The darkling turned and fled silently, flicking from shadow to shadow before her. As it turned the next corner, its cloak caught on a bracket and pulled back ever so slightly. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw, not a darkling but a young man standing there looking back at her. His hair was long and matted, and his clothes torn and stiff with blood. She froze, staring back at him, torchlight curling about her like smoke.

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the figure was gone.