Felun

Felun coughed uncomfortably. His collar itched. His hands did, too. Beside him, Iolite beamed behind her veilment. She looked the very picture of a society witch, minus the hat—the pale hair of her human-disguise had been scraped back into an elaborate bun, glittering with jewelled pins.

“Just the four of us,” she told the steward. Iolites—false-gemstone iolites—flashed at her wrist as she handed him their tickets, each embellished with runes and gold leaf.

Saiphenora and Silverwater were at his side, each wrapped in their own veilments. Suria had woven the image of a sharp-jawed young man for Silverwater and a sullen-looking youth for Saiph—or perhaps that was the effect of her own expression. The two of them were as fancied up as he was, in spiraling embroidery and velvet ruffles.

Felun held his breath as the steward inspected their tickets. They were completely forged—Suria had growled over the churlishness of the forger, and the…resistance he’d put up when she’d broken into his workshop to retrieve them. Personally, Felun hadn’t found the anecdote reassuring in the slightest.

The steward straightened up and punched holes into the corner of each ticket with a clockwork device clipped to his finger.

“Have a nice evening, ladies,” he said, giving Iolite a nod. “Gentlemen.”

Golden light spilled from the flung-open doors of Glister Academy, setting the marble steps aglow. Iolite led the way and inclined her head at other high society types. He just kept his head down and tried to look uninteresting. An almost imperceptible film of enchantment washed over him between the space of one step and the next, and he tried not to shiver—it was a hint of the Academy’s protective dome. It might be best to remember that this place, decorated as it was, had no shortage of mages at its disposal.

More stewards smiled and waved as they finished walking up the steps, half a dozen on each side. Felun found it uncomfortable—there’d been events like this back in Shenzhou, but nothing that commanded lines of servants grinning so falsely at the guests.

The lines of grinning servants disappeared as they passed through the main hall and up the double stairs, replaced by a sprawling line of carpet over the flagstones. The path was lined with red ropes passed between stanchions, and the insides of the Academy were all cream and gold, fashioned in a way that Felun wrote off as simply fancy—tall rooms with pointed windows and looming doors, built to look grand and forbidding. No doubt Yuying might point out every architectural term she knew if she were here. He wondered, a little guiltily, if mother had allowed her to apply for an academy after he’d left. Then he yanked his thoughts back to the surrounds as they passed beneath a massive arched entrance, warded against damage and decay.

Runes flashed over each window and door: not visible out of necessity, but as a subtle warning. They reminded him, just a little, of parts of the Shadowsong castle—though perhaps less overtly hostile. The signs here were more suited to helping the place withstand the crush of time than to repel intruders. He stowed that mental note away before it could blot out his train of thought with memories of crowns and blood and breakage.

Felun glanced up and saw glowing sigils laced the vaulted ceilings, temporary signs for cooling. Chilled air wafted down the back of his jacket as he passed beneath a swarm of them. His Breaker-sense stirred at a loosening in the wards; looking down, he realised the carpet had ended as flagstones merged into floorboards. Faint music trickled out to them as they approached the ballroom, riding upon undercurrents of clinking glasses and tinkling laughter.

“Ah,” Iolite said, clasping her hands together. “Now doesn’t this look like a feast?”

The ballroom sprawled out below them like a basin of polished hardwood, small scores of couples waltzing through the emptier center. Crowds fringed the sides, clustered in corridors of conversation. An outrageous array of cloaks and gowns and hats leaped out at him as the guests milled about like a sea of coloured glass. Recliners had been set out along the walls, alongside long tables piled high with food. There were even chandeliers overhead, each one like a snarl of winter-bare branches dipped in gold—if Yuying were here, she’d be yelling with sheer excitement.

“Saiphenora, Silverwater—you two spread about,” Iolite instructed in a low murmur. “There is a little time before things become suitably busy—we move to reconvene at…half past ninth hour. Felun, you stay next to me.”

Normally, he’d be insulted at being treated like a child, but on this instance, it wasn’t too bad. Parties weren’t his thing. Also, from what Silverwater had told him—and from the spells he’d studied on short notice, each of them humming through his head—he was going to want this to go as straight-forward as possible.

Silverwater disappeared into a throng of ludicrously-ornamented socialites. Saiph made straight for the nearest refreshment table, bowing under the weight of cakes and pies. Iolite steered him into the thick of the crowd.

Important-looking people caged him in on all sides, chattering and tittering at each other with feigned politeness. Servants stepped through the crowd, dressed in crisp white uniforms.

“Some sparkling wine, sir?” one of them asked him, indicating with his trayful of fizzling flute-glasses.

“Thanks,” Felun said, gingerly. He took a sip. It tasted awful.

The servant gave a shallow bow and whisked away, leaving him holding a mostly-full glass and feeling inexplicably foolish. Iolite nudged him with her shoulder, and they walked deeper into the crowd.

What were they supposed to do now? he wondered. Actually talk to people? A young woman caught his eye in passing and smiled at him. He smiled back, hoping he didn’t look like an idiot. Suria had also laid illusions over him at Iolite’s request—she’d done his last, after the three full veilments. By then, she’d looked dead on her feet. Still, the results looked convincing in the mirror. Felun thought, not-at-all-bitterly, that she’d made his face resemble Yichen’s.

He shook his head, stowing away thoughts of Yichen and Yuying and…everyone else.

To his relief, they only navigated through the stream of gala-goers to make their way to an outer balcony. The area was quiet and empty, for which he was thankful—though his outfit felt too warm away from the cooling runes, almost stifling paired with the summer night air. His hands still itched, sweating under illusioned-away bandages. He set down his glass onto the balustrade and shifted uncomfortably, picking at the cuffs of his shirt. At least Glister had dry summers. Silver linings.

“Is everything alright, Felun?” Iolite asked. She’d settled herself against the balustrade to look out over the gardens, chin propped in palm. His bottomless bag dangled from her shoulder, illusioned to look like a woman’s purse. “Do feel free to speak up if there is an issue. You are, after all, a valued member of our team.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Thank you.”

“That is excellent to hear,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. “Please raise issues if they arise. Synergy operates upon communication—and it would be unfortunate if anything were to go amiss tonight.”

“Right,” he said. “Sure, sure—of course.” He wondered, not for the first time, how much of her so-called concern was for her own benefit. How she would react if he started talking about empty eyes and broken faces, the corners in his nightmares and severed arms rotting from the fingertips upwards.

“I would advise you do not imbibe too much of that ethyl,” she added reprovingly, nodding as his abandoned glass. “It impairs the concentration, I am told.”

“Yeah. It doesn’t taste great, either.” He tipped the contents over the edge, where they spattered onto the leaves of the ornamental bushes below.

They waited in near silence for what felt close to an hour. A few people filtered out to the balcony now and again—some with a cigar in hand, others with a lover on the arm—headed down the adjacent stairs leading down to the garden. Felun lapsed into a drowsy waiting state honed over years of literary recitals and character dictation, scribing words until his fingers hurt.

The night air sat like an overstuffed blanket, thick and stifling. Spires loomed beyond the walls of manicured hedges, and nightingales chirped in the distance. Eventually, the clock struck nine. Time continued to pass in a crawl; whoops of celebration emanated from back in the ballroom. The music gradually changed tempo, turning jauntier, a little more drunken in rhythm. Felun pictured the guests loosening their cravats, sipping more heavily from their cups of wine. Some would sprawl in the provided settees, drawing out the slacks of their belts by a couple of notches and guffawing amongst themselves, glutted on good food and two-faced conversation. There’d be less trouble evading attention the longer the evening wore on—that was how these things usually went.

“Come, now,” Iolite finally said, pushing off the balustrade. He nodded quickly and followed.

She led him right back into the crowd, slipping through gaps like an oiled fish. It was a good—if unpleasant—thing she’d grabbed onto his wrist. He might’ve lost her in seconds otherwise.

The emerged into a shadowy, curtained corner, half-hidden by the side of the double staircase. Iolite brushed the curtain aside to reveal a corridor, cordoned off by rope and stanchion. Surprisingly, the rope was just rope. Felun didn’t need to break anything—they just ducked across and walked down the corridor. He kept an eye out for stray enchantments, but here it was just the usual armour: wards for preservation, helping historical bricks stand up to the test of time.

They slipped into the first room along—used for storage, by the looks of things. Saiph was already there, perched on a crate with a half-eaten slice of pie in hand.

“Hello,” she said, scowling. “Silver seems to be taking his time.”

“With all due caution, I am sure. Saiphenora, really—have you been consuming sugar all evening?”

Saiph shrugged, speaking around a mouthful of blackberry filling. “Can I take off this veilment yet? It itches.”

Iolite made a displeased sound as she shrugged the illusioned satchel off her shoulder and passed it to him. Then she withdrew an egg-sized gemstone from some hidden pocket in her gown, and a vial of bright blue potion from another.

“Take three steps backward,” she suggested, and Felun obeyed hastily.

She yanked the cork out with her teeth and poured the potion over the gemstone. A hissing sound erupted from the back of her throat, and the gem began to glow with pale spell-light. Spokes of rune-string emerged from its surface before lancing through the air to form a translucent dome, spanning six feet on all sides.

Iolite spat the cork into her palm and hefted the gem in her other hand, frowning. “Sufficient,” she said. “Not that we should use it as a crutch—”

The door cracked open, and Silverwater slipped in. Felun froze in place, eyeing the expanse of inattention field. Silverwater’s eyes slid over them at first, then snapped back, locking with focus.

“Ah,” he said. “An excellent working.”

Iolite didn’t preen, but she did smile grimly. “Thank you, Silverwater. Now, as aptly demonstrated: I must remind you to exercise caution and silence. This inattention field, like all inattention fields, will prove far less effective if one is given reason to suspect it exists.”

Saiph straightened up, swallowing the last of her pie. “Can we remove these accursed costumes already?”

Iolite nodded. “Place them into Felun’s satchel.”

“Uh,” Felun said. “That’s a great idea, but I don’t know if I can carry the weight.”

Already, the bag hung heavy in his grip. Adding Silverwater’s outfit, he could manage—but he wasn’t sure about Saiph’s and Iolites; those looked like they’d been sewn from about a thousand yards of fabric apiece.

“I can carry it,” Silverwater said.

Felun whirled around to see Silverwater had already shrugged off gala outfit and veilment both—now he stood in his true form, knives strapped to every limb and down the length of his tail. He was tall for a faery, Felun supposed, but he was still more carapace than muscle.

“You can? Thanks. If you’re sure.”

“What of your fighting ability?” Saiph scoffed, gesturing at his knives.

Silverwater blinked calmly. “If they come close enough, I will use the satchel as a distraction. The added weight will serve as an effective bludgeoning tool.”

“So long as you do not lose it,” Iolite broke in smoothly. She reached for a hidden clasp and peeled her gown off in one fell swoop, some of the ruffles tearing in two—her veilment went with it, shucked off like an outgrown exoskeleton. She stepped out of the outfit to reveal her orange slime-creature of a knapsack, wrapped around one shoulder like a quivering pauldron.

Saiph shrugged and followed suit. No questionable bag on her end—only a bow and full quiver.

Felun stripped off the outer layers of his own outfit—coat, cravat, cufflinks—leaving just the shirt and trousers. The material was a little more dressy than he’d like, going into a job, but it would be his runes doing the real job of protecting him, anyway. He fished his book and runequill from his satchel before passing it to Silverwater.

Silverwater took three vials from the frontmost pouch, downing one himself before passing one each to Saiph and Iolite. Then he got to work stuffing the gala clothing into the satchel. Once he was done, he hefted the filled bag onto his shoulder with apparent ease. Felun brushed aside a reflexive stab of envy; all three were, after all, drenched to the gills with lab-grown honey.

They made their way down the rest of the corridor, filed in a close-tucked line: Silverwater first, followed by Iolite holding the inattention-field. Then Felun, with his book floating close by his side and Saiph at his back. Walking like this, careful to keep within the inattention-field, was slow-going. Up several flights of steps, down another, grander-looking, corridor, through a grand, empty hall lined with vases…

Silverwater stopped and held his hand up at a junction between their corridor and another, intersecting at a perpendicular angle.

“Approaching foyer,” he murmured, barely audible. “Guards to the right.”

Saiph said something back in the faery language. Felun’s neck prickled as there came a scraping sound behind him, arrows rustling in their quiver.

“No,” said Iolite. “You will have ample opportunity for that later.” Her palm began to glow with spell-light, and her spines tilted in concentration. “Diversion,” she spoke into her hand. “Upper East Wing. Now.”

The glow died. In moments, a distant booming rattled the walls, far-off and vaguely alchemical in sound. Felun spotted no tell-tale plume of light through the windows, but the source was obvious enough: Thorn and Curlew, busy at their postings. Maybe Winterbird, too, if her eye had healed up.

“Keep still,” Iolite murmured.

Nervous chuckles echoed from around the corner, followed by murmurs of argument. Felun frowned, estimating four or five guards by the sound of things. Iolite, Saiph, and Silverwater could probably take them—the only issue was raising a ruckus in the process. He supposed Suria could’ve cast a silence field if she were here, but fields didn’t stretch forever. And she’d been nearly keeling over from exhaustion, the last he’d seen her. He’d almost felt pitying.

An authoritative voice cut through the chatter, and the guard’s talk broke into whispers which fell into silence. Quiet reasserted itself, as did a semblance of calm.

Silverwater turned to face them, mouthing a word Felun couldn’t decipher. Iolite’s spines bristled with frustration, and she raised her hand to her face once more. Then she paused, cocking her head to one side. Her wings flashed in muted colours and her tail flicked in confusion, brushing against Felun’s ankles.

Words rang up from the left side of the junction—human words, slurred and drunken. Two well-dressed, if rumpled-looking, young women staggered down the corridor, leaning on each other and dragging their footsteps. Felun froze as they passed right in front of them, but the inattention-field held strong.

“Who goes there?” a guard’s voice rang out. Felun’s ears pricked at the sound of a blade drawn half out of its sheath, then slowly slid back in. The guard cleared his throat. “Pardon, misses. Guests are not permitted beyond the bounds of the Gala.”

One of the women giggled. “Ooooops,” she said with exaggerated enunciation. “Must’ve got turned around.”

Her companion groaned. “Shouldn’t’ve had that absinthe…” She made a graceless sound, half-whimpering and half-dry-heaving.

The first woman squawked indignantly. “Oh, stop it! You’re making a scene!”

A different guard’s voice butted in. “Calm down, ladies. Here now, let’s get you back to where you should be.”

“Oooh, thank you.” One of the women made a giggling, swooning sound—

And the hall exploded into a cloud of green smoke. Felun managed to get halfway through a flinch, before Iolite stilled him with a backwards glare. From the midst of the smoke came no sound; he concentrated and sensed the outer perimeter of a silence-field—no, two of them. One from each of those women, probably, overlapping to cover larger ground.

Two more figures rushed up the corridor through the haze, ducked low and treading near-silently. Felun watched, shoulders tensed, as spellfire glowed at their fists. If there were screams when they pounced, Felun didn’t hear them.

The smoke took a few minutes to clear but when it did, it dissipated to nothing. He guessed it was similar to a dungeoner’s tool he’d seen back in Ironport—the particles obscured an enemy’s visibility and conducted magic, enhancing the strength of spells cast in its cloud. The cannisters were expensive, though, and a one-time use. The group must’ve been confident in their ability to take on the guards to risk stronger magic sent back their way.

“Nearly clear,” Silverwater murmured from his frontmost position in the line.

Iolite gave a low whistle. “It appears we have competition. Well, no matter—let the rabble pave the way.”

They crowded up to the corner, peering round to see one of the group members—a red-headed boy—standing over four guards, two of them drifting close to unconscious and all of them thoroughly gagged. He bent to tighten a rope around one of their wrists. Of his companions, there was no sign; a deliberate straggler, Felun guessed. Makeshift rearguard like in some dungeon teams, role being to do the cleanup and then get the hell out—smaller pay cut, but less risk.

He eyed Iolite as she tilted her head to one side. He hesitated, then tapped her on the shoulder.

“What is it, Felun?” she murmured.

“The kid’s rearguard,” he whispered. “Uh, I think. If you leave him alone, he’ll run off once he’s done tying the guards.”

She shot him a baleful look. “Is that so? Well, I suppose it is understandable to your delicate sensibilities that you do not wish to watch a human child be injured.”

“You wanted me to shoot him?” Saiph muttered from behind him.

Iolite scowled faintly, spines twitching as she settled upon an answer. “No need. I believe Felun is correct in this instance. What amusing developments—let us see if these thieves are of any use.”

The four of them watched in a tense bundle as the boy finished tying the guards and scarpered off, glittery coat-tails trailing in his wake. In the distance, a clock chimed ten.