At noon on Wednesday, I was at a spa in St. Maarten, getting a massage—V’lane’s latest gift from whatever Human Dating Manual he was reading. Was it any wonder I was rapidly losing any sense of reality? Monsters and mayhem and massages, oh my.
When it was over, I dressed and was escorted to a private dining room in the hotel where V’lane met me on a terrace overlooking the ocean. He pulled back a chair and seated me before a table drenched with linen, fine crystal, and finer food. Mac 1.0 would have felt many things: flattered, flirtatious, in her element. I felt hungry. I picked up a knife, stabbed a strawberry, and ate it off the blade. I might have used my spear but, as usual, it vanished the moment he appeared. I felt more naked without it fully clothed than I did nude, and if given the choice, I would have walked through the resort bare as I’d been born, if it had meant keeping the spear.
For the past few days, V’lane had been in his most humanlike form when we’d met, heavily muted. He, too, was trying to get on my good side. Ironically, the more he and Barrons tried, the less I trusted them both. Heads turned when the Fae Prince moved through the public places he took me. Even turned off, women stared after him with voracious eyes.
I dug into the spread with gusto, piling a plate with strawberries, pineapple, lobster, crab cakes, crackers, and caviar. I’d been living on popcorn and ramen noodles too long. “What exactly is the Sinsar Dubh, V’lane, and why does everyone want it?”
V’lane’s eyelids lowered halfway and he looked to the side. It was a human look, secretive, contemplative, as if he were sorting through a wealth of information, trying to decide how much, if anything, to share. “What do you know of it, MacKayla?”
“Virtually nothing,” I said. “What’s . . . in it . . . that everyone wants so badly?” It was hard to think of it as a book, with an “it” for information to be “in” when scored into my mind was the dark shape of the Beast, not pages at all.
“What did it look like when you saw it? A book? Ancient and heavy, bound by bands and locks?”
I nodded.
“Have you seen the creature it becomes?” He absorbed my face. “I see you have. You neglected to tell me that.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Everything that concerns the Sinsar Dubh is important. What legends do humans tell of our origins, sidhe-seer?”
It was a sure sign he was displeased when he called me by title, not name. I told him what little I’d learned from the Irish Book of Invasions.
He shook his head. “Recent history, grossly inaccurate. We have been here far longer than that. Do you know the history of the Unseelie King?”
“No.”
“Then you do not know who he is.”
I shook my head. “Should I?”
“The Unseelie King was once the King of the Light, the Queen’s consort, and Seelie. In the beginning, there was only Seelie.”
He had me. I was riveted. This was true Fae lore straight from a Fae. Stuff I doubted I’d ever find in the sidhe-seer archives. “What happened?”
“What happened in your Eden?” he mocked. “What always happens? Someone wanted more.”
“The king?” I guessed.
“Ours is a matriarchal line. The king held vestigial power. Only the queen knew the Song of Making.”
“What’s the Song of Making?” I’d heard of it from Barrons and seen references in the books I’d been reading but still didn’t know what it was.
“Impossible to explain to your stunted consciousness.”
“Try,” I said dryly.
He gave me one of his affected shrugs. “It is life. It is that from which we come. It is the ultimate power to create, to destroy, depending on how it is used. It sings into existence . . . change.”
“As opposed to stasis.”
“Exactly,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed, “You mock me.”
“Only a little. Do Fae really only understand those two things?”
A sudden, icy breeze buffeted the terrace and tiny crystals of frost settled over my plate. “Our perception is not limited, sidhe-seer. It is so vast it defies your paltry language, as does my name. It is because we comprehend so much that we must distill things to their essential natures. Do not presume to think you understand our nature. Though we have long consorted with your race, we have never shown our true face. It is impossible for you to truly behold us. If I showed you—” He stopped abruptly.
“Showed me what, V’lane?” I said softly. I popped a bite of cracker spread with lightly frosted caviar in my mouth. I’d never had it before. I wouldn’t be having it again. Rhino-boy was more palatable. I hastily downed a strawberry chased by a gulp of champagne.
He offered me a smile. He’d been practicing. It was smoother, less alien. The day heated up again; the frost melted. “Irrelevant. You wanted to know of our origins.”
I wanted to know about the Book. But I was eager to hear anything else he was willing to share. “How do you know the history of your race, if you’ve drunk from the cauldron?”
“We have stores of knowledge. After drinking, most seek immediately to become reacquainted with who and what we are.”
“You forget to remember.” How strange. And how awful, I thought, to be so paranoid, to have lived so long madness settled in. To be reborn but never truly wiped clean. To come back fearful, in a place of such strange and treacherous politics. “The Seelie King wanted more,” I prompted.
“Yes. He envied the queen the Song of Making, and petitioned her to teach it to him. He had become enamored of a mortal of whom he did not wish to be deprived until he had sated his desire for her. It did not appear to be waning. She was . . . different to him. I would merely have substituted another. He asked the queen to make her Fae.”
“Can the queen do that? Make someone Fae?”
“I do not know. The king believed she could. The queen refused, and the king tried to steal from her that which he sought. When she caught him, she punished him. Then she waited for his obsession to pale. It did not. He began . . . experimenting on lesser Fae, in hopes of teaching himself the Song.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“A human might grasp it as an advanced form of genetic mutation or cloning, without DNA or physical matter to mutate. He tried to create life, MacKayla. And he succeeded. But without the Song of Making.”
“But I thought the Song is life. How could he create life without the Song?”
“Precisely. It was imperfect. Flawed.” He paused. “Yet it lived, and was immortal.”
I got it, and gasped. “He made the Unseelie!”
“Yes. The dark ones are the Seelie King’s children. For thousands of years he experimented, concealing his work from the queen. Their numbers grew, as did their hungers.”
“But his mortal woman must have been long dead by then. What was the point?”
“She was alive, kept so in a cage of his making. But trapped, she withered, so for her, he created the Sifting Silvers and gave her worlds to explore. Although time passes outside them, within them it does not. One might spend a thousand centuries in there, and walk out not one hour older.”
“I thought the mirrors were used for travel between realms.”
“They are used for that, too. The Silvers are . . . complicated things, doubly so, since they were cursed. When the queen felt the power of the Silvers spring into existence, she called the king to court and demanded he destroy them. Creation was her right, not his. In truth, she was disturbed to discover he had grown so powerful. He claimed to have made them as a gift for her, which pleased her, as he had paid her no tribute in eons.
“But the king gave her only a portion of the Silvers. The other he kept hidden from her, for his concubine, where he planted lush gardens and built a great, shining white house upon a hill with hundreds of windows, and thousands of rooms. When his mortal grew restless, he made her the amulet, so she could shape reality with her will. When she complained of loneliness he made her the box.”
“What does it do?”
“I do not know. It has not been seen since.”
“Are you saying he also made her the Book? But why?”
“Patience, human. I tell this tale. The king’s experiments continued. Eons passed. He created more . . . aberrations. Over time, of which we have a fortunate abundance, they began to improve until some of them were as beautiful as any Seelie. The Unseelie royalty were born, the princes and princesses. Dark counterparts to the Light. And like their counterparts, they wanted what was rightfully theirs: power, freedom to come and go, dominion over lesser beings. The king refused. Secrecy was a necessary part of his plan.”
“But someone went to the queen,” I guessed. “One of the Unseelie.”
“Yes. When she learned of his treachery, she tried to strip him of his power but he had grown too strong, and learned too much. Not the Song, but another melody. A darker one. They battled fiercely, sending their armies against each other. Thousands of Fae died. In that age, we still had many weapons, not merely the few that remain. Faery withered and blackened; the skies ran with the lifeblood of our kind, the planet itself upon which we lived wept to see our shame, and cracked from end to end. And still they fought until he took up the sword and she took up the spear and the king killed the Faery Queen.”
I inhaled sharply. “The queen is dead?”
“And the Song died with her. She was slain before she was able to name her successor and pass on her essence. When she died, the king and all the Unseelie vanished. Before dying, she had managed to complete the walls of the prison, and with her last breath uttered the spell to contain them. Those Unseelie that eluded the spell’s radius were hunted by the Seelie, and killed.”
“So, where does the Book come into all this?”