An Artificial Night

“And if I’m not?” I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.

“If you’re not a Rider, you’re ridden,” said the Centaur, smiling thinly. “You won’t come back here, if you’re ridden. You’ll go to the stables, and do your waiting there.”

That didn’t sound promising. “What—” A heavy grinding filled the air as the flame of my candle turned a brilliant white, blazing up another foot. The children stepped back, laughing, suddenly at ease. “What the hell?”

“You’ll understand now,” said the Piskie, through her laughter.

And everything changed. The walls of the Children’s Hall dropped away, transforming the shattered ballroom into a clearing ringed by warped, almost menacing trees. Riders lurked in the shadows of their branches. The candle flame abruptly dwindled to a tiny blue spark, and just as abruptly the children were upon me, pinching and shoving as they surrounded me on all sides. They pulled me back when I tried to break away, jeering at my distress.

A deep voice rumbled in the distance, drowning out the voices of the children: “Send me the intruder. Let her be seen.”

Still laughing, the children pushed me forward, and I saw Blind Michael.

He was tall—no, he was more than tall; he filled the sky. His arms were tree trunks, and his feet were the roots of the earth, and standing in front of him, I was less than nothing. I was dust and dry leaves skittering across the sky, and my only hope was that he would open those arms and let me hide under them until the world ended. His smile was the smile of a benevolent god, kind and merciful and willing to forgive all my sins. Only his eyes broke the illusion of peace: they were milky white, like ice or marble, and seemed almost as cold. I snapped back to myself for a moment, almost remembering who I was and why I was there; for that instant, I knew what I was looking for.

And then the glamour slammed back over me in a wave of glory, and He was my entire world. The children moved out of the way as I stepped forward, letting me pass. I wasn’t theirs to torment anymore—I belonged to our mutual god, and I was His and His alone. I was barely breathing as I realized the magnitude of my devotion. I would live for Him. I would die for Him. I would kill in the name of His glory . . .

A sudden wind whipped through my hair, snarling it around my face as the candle blazed white again. The air was abruptly filled with the sharp, ashy stink of burning hair. I jerked the candle away from myself, ready to throw it aside—I didn’t need it anymore, I was home—when a thin line of wax blew free and spattered on my lip, filling my mouth with the taste of blood.

There wasn’t much blood in the wax, but there was enough to let me break the glamour he was throwing over me. Blind Michael wasn’t a god; he was just a man sitting on a throne carved from old wood and decorated with yellowing bones. He couldn’t block the sky if he tried. Oak and ash, what had I been about to do?

I sucked in a breath, almost choking on the taste of burned hair, and said, “No.” My head was pounding, but there wasn’t time to deal with that now. I could have a migraine later, when it was safe to collapse. “I’m not yours. You don’t get to take me that easily.”

“Don’t I?” he rumbled, and his magic rolled over me again. For a moment, His voice was the shaking of mountains. The moment passed, and the glamour passed with it; it’s harder to catch someone after they’ve escaped you once, even if they only made that escape by accident. Thank Oberon. “I am older than you can dream, child. All things are easy to me.”