70. Banquet at the barracks

Ada couldn't keep from trembling as she ascended the ladder toward Wysthaven. Her dress gathered beneath the plain navy slippers she wore on her feet, and her knives bumped against her thigh as she climbed. Above her was Lark, who moved with grim determination into a looming darkness.

When Lark's breathing grew heavy, and Ada's arms were beginning to tire, a gust of air suddenly whipped into the ladder shaft. Along with it came the shriek of grinding stone, which echoed so loudly that Ada had to resist pressing her hands against her ears. Moonlight trickled down from above, gilding the final copper rungs that rose into the city.

Wysthaven's streets stretched out silently from the compass. There were no people on the cobbles, nor light from nearby windows. In the sky hung a full moon, its pale body draped in clouds that smothered the distant stars.

"This way," said Yue, already through a narrow archway. "And stay quiet."

Ada and Lark followed her without a word, their footsteps sounding unnervingly loud in the otherwise empty night. Yue swept them between the shadows, leading the way through a city of rough, crumbling walls and slick gutters. The inner city had hidden its darkest alleyways well in the night's swirling mists, although Yue seemed to uncover them all.

They crept through a walled garden, past a small hawthorn tree whose crimson fruit dripped juice as thick as blood, and came out into a private backstreet. At one end was a pronged gate, and between its bars came the thrum of voices, along with the rattling of chains.

"Through the gate is a courtyard, and the Barracks will be directly on your left," said Yue. "Not that you'll miss it. I'll wait for you here for two hours. A minute later and you're on your own."

"I suppose we ought to get on with it then," said Lark, in a mock-cheerful tone. He smoothed down his waistcoat, and Ada saw that his hands were trembling.

"I suppose you should," said Yue, though not as coldly as before. She stared a moment at Ada, then slunk back into the walled garden without a farewell.

Alone in the moonlight, Ada looked over at Lark, now fumbling with the neck of his cape, as if missing the weight of his lute against his back.

"Is this the part where you tell me you never had a plan after all?" said Ada, trying to sound lighthearted. "Because I should probably have done some stretches if you expect us to force our way in."

Lark huffed, half a laugh and half a rasp for air. "I might not fight as well as Solen, or brood as well as Raeph. But if there's one thing I know, it's class, and sometimes, that's all you need."

He straightened to his full height, becoming unmistakably fae as his body stretched upward like a mast through the mist. His cloak flapped behind him, though his hair remained neatly combed back from his face, shining bright as the fox on his breastbone. Caped and captivating, he looked to Ada like a lost prince of childhood fairytales.

"Walk by my side," Lark said, and then added guiltily, "and if you mustn't, don't talk."

"Ok." Ada stepped next to him, and when he crooked his arm, she reached up and placed her hand lightly on his elbow. "Let's find Solen."

Together they walked up to the gate and gave a tentative push. It swung back soundlessly onto a city square, buildings rising up on its every side and each one of them jutting out with wide balconies and stone beams. Upon the balconies burnt a mass of candles, their wax weeping down into webs.

The Barracks was colossal. Its grey brick body was held aloft by columns of rock, the space within falling down into the ground, though blocked behind a lattice of metal. Nothing grew around the building, for there were no plots of earth nor pottings of soil. The only sign of life came from the young man standing before a large set of chained doors.

Lark came toward the Barracks with leisurely steps, letting his eyes fall upon the fae when they reached the doors as though only having noticed him. He was younger than Ada had thought, scarcely a teenager with thin limbs and narrow shoulders, which were weighed down with a tangle of chains.

"We're here for the ball," said Lark lazily, though he tapped his boot against the ground as if bothered by the boy.

"You're late," replied the Hound. "Everyone's s'posed to be here by now."

"It takes time," drawled Lark, waving a hand down to his cape, "to look like this."

The Hound's eyes caught upon the golden fox which glimmered upon Lark's chest in the candlelight. Then his nose scrunched up and he shuffled back in his rumpled black robe, almost tripping over as he bent to retrieve a thin sheath of papers.

"W'as your name?" the boy asked, rifling through what Ada realised was a list of names.

Lark raised an eyebrow, but the Hound kept his stare determinedly on his list. "Vulpent"

The boy flinched, but still, his eyes remained on his paper, reading through a scrawl of titles.

"Vulpent's already here," he said slowly, eyes flickering up before he stepped back toward the doors.

"I'm a son of Vulpent," Lark replied in a bored voice, then swept a hand through his red hair as if to punctuate his point. "Now you can let us enter, or you can find my father and see what he has to say to you about this foolishness."

Ada had never heard Lark speak so harshly, much less to a boy so young. She couldn't help but feel pity for the fae, who could hardly stand straight with the chains that had been wound around his thin neck.

"Who's that?" he asked, and any crumb of compassion fell away to fear as the Hound peered around to examine Ada.

She had no idea if Min's Veil was working, for at that moment Ada felt more human than she ever had in Wysthaven. Before she could speak, Lark strode in front of her.

"My guest for the evening," he said, giving the Hound a pointed look.

The boy's face flushed a pale pink, and if he had thought anything strange about Ada, he didn't mention it. Instead, he stepped back and knocked thrice on the large doors. Three booms sent trembles through the mist, which curled back as the chains clattered to the ground and the doors shuddered open.

Lark spared no look to the boy as he strode through the doorway, nor did he flinch as he passed the two more Hounds standing silently on the other side. They had entered into a long foyer, which was marked with more columns of bare rock leading toward growing music and voices.

They reached a short flight of stairs, and then suddenly emerged into a vast chamber. It had been made into a poor mimicry of a ballroom, with a dusty chandelier hung from a high ceiling and crushed scarlet curtains drawn across as shivering walls, hiding whatever lay beyond. The floor had been scrubbed to look like polished marble, although old stains were still smeared between the tiling.

Half of the chamber was entirely filled by a banquet table. It was laid with troughs of thick soups, platters of sliced meats and carved fruits, silver trays with birds flayed open and stuffed with truffle. In the centre of it all was a whole pig, its eyes plucked out and its mouth gaping around a bright red apple. A carving knife stuck out from its skull like it had been freshly slaughtered.

Hundreds of fae drifted around the chamber, talking, dancing, and eating in long, languid movements. Most were draped in exquisite finery, some in silks so sheer you could see their bodies beneath, others wrapped in wisps of wool as white as bone. Adults drained crystal goblets of wine, their lips stained red and raw. Children likewise drank milk and syrup, teetering between the legs of their parents as though in honeyed delirium. All were decorated in jewel-studded gold, which twisted around their forms like filigree. These were the fae that Ada had pictured from old rhymes and stories: horrifying and haunting and breathtakingly beautiful.