XXIX. Zhanedd in Ailfion
Sir Richard atte Lee lies at the feet of the Queen. He is naked save for a collar connected by a chain to Nicnevin’s throne. His memory of how he arrived here is a chaos of impressions—of things done to him and with him, handed off to one creature after another like a jug of wine, and like a jug of wine there’s a little less of him each time. Some of the creatures have assumed shapes not their own, even stolen them from his memories. Some have somehow changed him to match them before they make use of him. He no longer knows if it has been hours or months, but he is drained, feeble, certain that he is near death. They will never let him go. They will use him up. He knows this because, at some point in his various transformations, something happened and he began to understand their speech. He can now overhear their silent, humming conversations.
He raises his head as the one who captured him arrives.
Zhanedd in that strange shiny armor strides in like some military captain reporting to their commander, in this case the Queen. He looks back at her. She is seated on her dais under a richly textured baldachin, and dressed in a long red gown sewn with columns of pink pearls. The flush of rose at her throat all but glows, extending up into her cheeks, making her large golden eyes seem almost to ignite as they track the Yvag’s arrival.
On the opposite side of the Queen stands the strange creature called Bragrender, its forever-transforming shape—warping from grotesque to exquisitely beautiful—hypnotic and stupefying to behold. The creature can pin you to the spot—at least, it did so to Sir Richard when he looked directly at it. He had to be dragged away. The Queen and the other creatures do not react so strongly to it.
The Queen interrupts his drifting thoughts, scowling at approaching Zhanedd. “You have no dights. You were tasked with acquiring them.”
“True, I have none.” Zhanedd stops to strike a defiant pose. “And that is thanks to your various fledgling, meddling knights, who’ve repeatedly interfered in the belief that they will triumph easily over the humans.”
The Queen stiffens. “Well?” she says. “And why wouldn’t they?”
Zhanedd makes a dismissive gesture. “Surely you must know that Kunastur is dead. I passed through a gate in time to watch his head severed from his body by a human wielding one of our marvelous blades.”
The information appears to surprise the Queen. She glares down at Sir Richard and for a moment he thinks she’s about to kick him.
Zhanedd says, “So you did not know.”
Lips unmoving, she speaks to Zhanedd. “The humans are dolts. They do occasionally intrude; once in a great while they manage to overwhelm one of us or stumble into our way.”
“Are you presenting an excuse for the loss of our precious dights?”
The Queen seems to grow taller on her throne. Sir Richard flinches.
“The loss of the dights is a perfect example,” she says. “They know not what or where we are, nor have enough sense to organize any resistance. Using them as an excuse for failing to acquire our property is beneath you, Zhanedd. You come to us empty-handed and seek to be rewarded for it.”
Sir Richard can hear the resentment boiling up inside the Yvag knight. Apparently, so can the one called Bragrender, which stares fixedly upon Zhanedd. He wishes he knew what these dights were, other than something precious that’s been taken from them. And there is some manner of bond or relationship between Zhanedd and Nicnevin that he cannot quite distinguish, something akin to a master and apprentice or parent and child different from the Queen’s relationship to the Yvags who’ve passed him among them. If he knew more about Yvag relationships, he might understand, but he’s too exhausted to pry, his mind too tired to do more than passively listen. If they come to blows over this, he will lie here helplessly in the middle of their battle.
“Empty-handed,” Zhanedd repeats, “against doltish mortals like him.” She points at Sir Richard, and he clenches, anticipating that this will be his end. Instead, Zhanedd says, “Let me begin with your soldier Tozesđin, who decided he alone would recover the dights rather than informing me of their whereabouts as he should have done. He, like so many others, knows I am a changeling, but one singled out by you for special treatment. He refused to obey me, and warned me off instead, telling me to ‘stay away and let the genius that is Tozesđin triumph.’”
“. . .” The Queen emits a sound like a slapped hornet’s nest.
“The genius that is Tozesđin now has no head.”
The Queen waves the news away dismissively.
“But not of the consequences of his meddling. I had captured and interrogated one of the involved humans. I followed him across Nottingham to where he was keeping the dights, in one of their gaols, which is also where Tozesđin was claiming his victory right up until the moment they cut off his head. I might have pulled victory out of this defeat, but your superior Yvagvoja running Passelewe determined that he would take the dights instead. I am sure that voja has returned by now to explain how he failed, given that Passelewe is dead as well, along with Simforax. But you know that.”
The Queen sits absolutely still. Sir Richard would be anywhere but caught between these two.
“My point is not merely to criticize, my Queen, or complain about how unfairly you’ve treated me in this after having assigned to me the task of recovering your dights. Nor is it the almost constant prejudice I deal with among your various soldiers. I know, because you have told me, that few changeling-bred Yvags even recollect their transformation. Thus many of those who affect a superior attitude are themselves changelings and unaware. You might consider making them aware to teach them some humility.”
Instead of the Queen, Bragrender speaks. Even its unvoiced words sound inhuman. “Enough. What is your point, Zhanedd? Time is passing.”
“It is this: We are making a mistake in treating the humans as hapless, bumbling creatures that occasionally wrest a victory from us. My opinions of your knights aside, this one small band of mortals has slain all four of these as well as the lich of our Yvagvoja of Doncaster. And they seem now aware of our regenerative abilities. There is nothing accidental in this. We have an enemy.”
“Who?” asks the Queen.
“I cannot be sure. It might be more than one. However, one of them when interrogated gave up your image.”
“Mine? How is that possible?”
“You told me once of changelings who did not transform right, who went insane after immersion.”
The Queen looks at Bragrender, who answers for her: “Especially during the time the pool became corrupted. Yes, what of them? They were all put down.”
“Are you certain?”
No one says anything for so long that Sir Richard glances up at Nicnevin.
Finally, through Bragrender she replies, “A few in Þagalwood were lost. But we know what happens to the unprotected in Þagalwood. The situation resolved itself.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, I want to speak with Passelewe’s voja about the sheriff’s encounter with this same human as well as the others. He might be some manner of changeling, too. Possibly one who eluded you.”
“And now sides against us with humans?” she asks, her tone suggesting how absurd the idea is.
“It’s a theory. Passelewe established rapport with him, which is why I must speak with his voja.”
“What is the name of this supposed changeling?”
“He goes by Robyn Hoode, but I believe this to be a false identity.”
Sir Richard mishears the name at first. But it’s not Robert Hodde they’re speaking of. A false identity, though. He can’t help thinking of his brief acquaintance, Sir Thomas, hopes that he has escaped the campaign the Queen is waging, fled to another country.
“In any case, the dights are still kept from us, and all of the gates you’ve opened throughout the forest have turned up nothing, because none of those outlaws had anything to do with the theft.”
“My gates yield a trove of teinds at the very least and terrorize the gowks. They’re all as weak as this.” The Queen places a foot against Sir Richard and idly pushes him onto his back. Unprepared, he blinks in confusion. “This one is almost used up.”
“I don’t suppose the Þagalwood assemblers have produced any other dights yet?”
“I am told, one has been completed.”
Zhanedd’s eyes glisten. The knight says flatly, “Then I want it.”
“You? Why should I give it to you, Zhanedd?”
“You assigned me this task. Had your knights not interfered, I would have the missing ones by now and we would not even be at the mercy of the strange assemblers. Besides, from our experience so far, if you give it to anyone else, you will lose it as well. Whereas I have a plan of attack and a target.”
Through Bragrender, the Queen derides Zhanedd: “One target is the same as any other.” But she sits tapping her fingers against the arm of the throne. At last she says, “Very well. I will entrust the new dight to you. See that your plan is successful.”
Zhanedd bows and withdraws from the throne room.
Sir Richard finds the Queen’s golden eyes contemplating him as if he was her next meal. She looks to the other creature in the room, the one Sir Richard dares not look at.
“Of course, we won’t do as she suggests, either, will we, Bragrender?”
The terrifying, constantly shifting creature faces her and then glances down at him. Once converged, he cannot look away from this horrifying thing, and almost immediately he finds his mind emptying, like sand through a net.
“Now, now, don’t devour him, my pet.” The Queen cups his jagged, ever-changing cheek. “Our toy may yet prove useful before we bid him farewell.”