Page 75 of Quicksilver

“All right. Then I'm happy. Let's go.”

“Leave the fox. He'll only be underfoot.”

I started to protest, but Onyx had fallen asleep amongst the cushions on one of the beds that hadn't been slept in, and he looked too peaceful to wake, anyway.

“And what about me?” Carrion demanded. “You're just going to keep me locked away in here forever?”

Fisher snorted. “You haven't been locked in here at all.”

I glared at him over my shoulder. “You didn't check the door?”

“I just assumed...”

“Urgh!”

Kingfisher spun and strolled purposefully out of the room. “You're free to come and go as you wish, boy. Do whatever the hell you like. Though, I doubt you're gonna get very far with only one boot.”

17

CAHLISH

“Whatisthis place?”

I'd been picturing Cahlish as a war encampment. A sea of tents pitched amongst the snow. Campfires sending pillars of smoke up into the sky for as far as the eye could see. It was nothing of the sort. This place was a stately home. Beautiful. Beyond the bedroom Carrion and I had woken up in was a sprawling house full of open-arched windows, light, airy hallways, and pretty rooms that went on forever. Portraits hung on the walls featuring dark-haired males and females, many of whom bore a striking resemblance to Fisher. The furniture was lovely, the overstuffed chairs and sofas sagging in a relaxed way that suggested that this place had been lived in. Loved in. Birds sang outside. The sun shone, bouncing off the thick mantle of snow that covered the grounds of the estate, so bright that it looked as though the grounds were studded with a million diamonds.

“My great-great-grandfather built it a long time ago,” Fisher answered in a brusque tone. The heels of his boots rang out as he marched down the hallway. “It was my home before Belikon commanded my mother to the Winter Palace to marry him.”

When Everlayne had told me how her mother had come to be at the Winter Palace, I hadn't spent much time considering what her life would have been like before that time. Nor had I considered what it must have been like for Fisher. How old had he been when he'd traveled to Belikon's seat of power? Just ten years old? Eleven? I couldn’t remember. The differences between Cahlish and the Winter Palace were stark. He must have hated leaving this place.

A peaceful quiet hung in the air here. It felt safe. Calm. The rooms and hallways were all abandoned. It wasn't until we descended a curved staircase, the stone steps worn smooth and dipping in the middle from so many feet, that we encountered another living thing: a small creature, only three feet tall, with a round, protruding stomach, glassy amber eyes, and the strangest skin. It looked as if it were formed out of the last dying embers of a fire—rough and charcoal-like, with tiny fissures that ran all over its body, the edges of which glowed, flared, and faded, as if a flame might kindle there at any moment.

The creature carried a silver tray bearing a steaming pot and two cups. When the creature saw Fisher, it yelped and dropped the tray, sending the pot and cups crashing to the ground. “Oh! Oh no. Oh no, oh no,oh no!” The creature's voice was high-pitched though decidedly male. He wore no clothes to speak of, but that didn't matter. He didn't appear to have any body parts that required covering. Eyes wide as could be, he staggered back from the mess he'd made—the shattered porcelain at his little smoking feet didn't seem to be the source of his panic.

Kingfisher stunned me to silence when he dropped to his knees and started picking up the shards of broken cup. “It's all right, Archer. Hush, it's all right.”

Archer's mouth hung open. His gaze met mine, and I was amazed to find that there was a tiny ring of flickering firesurrounding his jet-black pupils. He pointed at Fisher. “Youseehim?” he squeaked.

I eyed Fisher. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“He's...” Archer gulped. “He's really there?”

Kingfisher stopped what he was doing, his head hanging, and for a second, I found myself transfixed by what I saw. The gorget only protected his throat. The back of his neck was exposed, the ends of his dark waves not long enough to cover it. His skin was pale apart from a single, stark black rune visible between the base of his skull and his shirt collar. It was complex, all interlocking fine lines, loops, and curls. Most of the runes I'd seen on the Fae had been ugly-looking things, but this...

Kingfisher looked up at Archer. The rune disappeared. “Stop fretting, Arch. You're not hallucinating. I returned home late last night.”

Archer threw back his small head and wailed. He trampled right over the broken tea service in order to get to Fisher. Throwing his thin, fiery arms around Kingfisher's neck, he sobbed hysterically. “You're here. You'rehere!”

“Whoa. Steady now.” I waited for Fisher to shove the little creature away, but he wrapped his arms around him instead, hugging him close. “You'll make everyone think we're being attacked.”

Archer leaned back, pressing small hands to Fisher's face, patting him everywhere, as if to make sure he reallywasreal, leaving black smudges all over Fisher's cheeks and forehead. “Imissedyou. So, so much. I wished, and I hoped, and I—” Archer hiccupped. “I wished, and I hoped.Everyday.”

“I know. I missed you too, my friend.”

“Oh no, ohno!”Archer leaped back, patting frantically at Fisher's chest. “Your shirt, Lord. I've singed your shirt!”

Kingfisher chuckled softly. There was no hint of malice in laughter. No mockery or cold, cruel edge. He just...laughed. “It'seasily fixed. Stop fretting. Here.” Suddenly, Fisher's shirt was no longer fabric. It was smoke. It writhed around Fisher's torso for a moment, then became a shirt again, un-singed and perfect. More smoke pooled around Fisher's boots, rolling across the floor, concealing the broken pot and cups. When it dissipated, the pot and cups were whole again, sitting back on the silver serving tray. “See. Good as new,” Fisher said.

“You're too kind, Lord. Too kind. Butyoushouldn't need to fix my mistakes. I should be more careful. and—”