“Tell me, daughter, did you have any trouble escorting our honored guest here this evening. I do hope you were not rough with him.”
“Daughter?” Phinnegan blurted, a full spoon perched just in front of his mouth. But the two ignored his comment, though Emerald kept her gaze on Phinnegan as she spoke. Phinnegan remembered everything that Periwinkle had told him, the stone stating its mistress as Emerald Wren.
Vermillion Wren. Of course.
“It was no problem at all, father,” she said, her eyes shifting from green to gray. “He came along quite willingly.”
“Bollocks,” Phinnegan muttered into his soup, his eyes averting Emerald’s.
“Splendid,” Vermillion responded, with a bit too much cheer in his voice. “How is the soup?” he asked, directing the question to Phinnegan.
“Actually…it is fantastic,” Phinnegan answered truthfully.
“Respect, young lad,” a gruff Aged seated beside Emerald chastised, waving his spoon at Phinnegan. “Address him as My King.”
“We mustn’t be so formal, Secondus. He is not of our world; he cannot be expected to know our customs. And besides, I am not his king for that very same reason.” He turned and the wolfish grin returned as he looked at Phinnegan.
“You may address me as Your Highness. That should please all, yes?” Vermillion looked to the gruff Aged, who nodded curtly and then rejoined his soup. Phinnegan swallowed his last spoonful slowly and then re-addressed Vermillion.
“The soup is fantastic, Your Highness.”
“Excellent, I am glad to hear it,” Vermillion responded, his teeth still bared in that harsh smile.
Phinnegan suppressed a shiver. For all his hospitality thus far, something did not feel right about this Aged. If he was indeed an Aged. He was the first Aged Phinnegan had seen who smiled thus, who wore flashy garments and had colored hair, even if it was only partly so. He wondered if the Faë went through some type of process when they went through their Aging as Periwinkle had called it. Perhaps this was why Vermillion was something that seemed in between the two extremes.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour, when everyone seemed to have finished their soup, the servants returned to whisk away the empty bowls. When they were gone, Vermillion clapped twice, startling Phinnegan.
“Time for a little entertainment, I think,” he said. Just as he finished speaking, a trio of tall, lithe women appeared in the doorway. Phinnegan caught only one word in the hushed whispers that rose up around him.
Sirens
.
Phinnegan had read about such creatures, women with the wings of a bird or birds with the heads of women, depending on who was telling the tale. These most certainly the former. But in either case, their voices were said to lead men to their deaths in one manner or another. Phinnegan was at once eager to see, and hear, such renowned creatures, as well as terrified by what the outcome might be. But he needn’t have worried. Vermilion leaned close to his ear just as all sound seemingly disappeared from the room.
“I’ve placed a charm around you,” he said, his voice piercing through the silence. “Only my voice can breach it. I am afraid you would not survive the song we are about to hear. It is likely others might not as well, but that is what makes it such a fascinating game.”
Vermillion leaned back, a sly smirk playing across his lips. Phinnegan heard not a sound, and sat wide-eyed and fearful. What sort of person would play such a wicked game with his guests?
“Fear not, ladies,” Vermillion said, standing up at his position at the head of the table. “I am certain all of your men are strong enough to withstand the Sirens’ song.”
Phinnegan saw, but did not hear, Vermillion clap again. Within moments the eyes of every man were wide with their necks craning their heads to get the best view of the Sirens, now gliding from their place at the entrance of the dining hall to move down the line of guests.
The song went on for several minutes, all the while Phinnegan watching as the men around the table struggled to maintain their composure. All save Vermillion, who watched quite comfortably from his gilded chair, his fingers tapping its arms as his eyes darted from one potential victim to the next. Phinnegan also noticed that the ladies in the room appeared completely unaffected by the Sirens song. Most were instead completely absorbed in keeping the male Aged from leaping from their chairs.
Upon completing their circuit of the room, the Sirens made their way back to the entrance, where they hovered, swaying with their song.
A sudden movement to his right caught Phinnegan’s attention. Jumping from his seat with a spryness that did not match his shriveled appearance, one of the Aged now ran towards the Sirens. When he reached them, they each patted and caressed his arms and back, drawing him away from the dining hall and into a growing darkness.
When they vanished from his sight, Phinnegan felt a slight release of pressure and suddenly he could hear again. There was a mumbling occurring in the room around him but all was silenced when Vermillion spoke.
“Apparently dear Aulus has grown weak in his age.” A thin smile haunted his lips and his eyes bore into one Aged and then another. “I am glad to see that the rest of you were able to maintain yourselves.” The smile vanished and the hint of a snarl curled the right side of his mouth.
“If there is anything I loathe more than all else, it is weakness.”
A sharp clap brought the servants once again, this time setting multiple dishes of various sizes in the middle of the table in one long line from end to end. The domes hiding the contents were again all silver, as were the plates being placed in front of each patron. Vermillion’s plate was, of course, golden, edged in a dusting of crushed garnet.
When the domes were lifted, the Patrons were assailed by a variety of sensuous smells. There were two different kinds of fish, roasted rabbit, and a leg of lamb, one of each dish for every four or five guests. More food than anyone could hope to eat.
The smells drew Phinnegan to the edge of his seat. He had been just about to ask Vermillion a question, but the thought was now gone from his mind as he took in the dishes before him. Besides, Vermillion’s mood seemed to have soured since the departure of the sirens, whether because they were able to lure away one Aged or because they were
only
able to lure one Aged.
Phinnegan looked from the food to the other patrons, but no one made a move. They all seemed to be looking at him, as did Vermillion. When his eyes found Emerald’s, she smiled softly and gestured to the table’s bounty.
“They are waiting for you. It is our custom. The host eats the first bite of the first service, while an esteemed guest is given the honor for the second.”
Phinnegan regarded the four options before him, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. He glanced to Vermillion, who nodded, a bored, distant look upon his face. Wasting no more time, Phinnegan removed a thick slice of the lamb and placed it on his plate. When he took his knife to cut his first bite, it passed with ease through the tender meat.
The juices flowed freely over his tongue when he bit into this first morsel. He had never tasted anything so delicious. As he chewed, he became aware of the clinking of knives and forks on plates and a renewed chatter as the other patrons chose their own second service. Murmured satisfaction could be heard all around as the others sampled the four offered fares.
Even Vermillion’s mood seemed to return to his sly contentment of earlier, and as Phinnegan ate, his courage to ask his host the questions that burned in his mind grew, until he cleared his throat and ventured to speak.
“Excuse me, sir, I mean, Your Highness. May I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course. You
are
our honored guest, after all. Go on.” His tone was receptive, even kind, and he went so far as to place his own fork and knife on the table to devote his full attention to Phinnegan.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Vermillion said, a broad smile spreading across his face, which was surely meant to comfort Phinnegan, yet it had the opposite effect.
“Well, what I mean is- I mean, Your Highness,” Phinnegan said, correcting his slip. “What I mean is, well, when I was here before, I was put into a dungeon and then put on trial. Well, truthfully Periwinkle was put on-“
“Do NOT,” Vermillion thundered, interrupting Phinnegan and causing him to cower in his seat, “speak that name in my presence. Ever! Am I clear?” Vermillion’s reddish-brown eyes shifted more toward the red and they bored into Phinnegan, who managed to nod quickly.
“Y-yes, Your Highness.” Phinnegan was so frightened by this outburst that he put aside all thought of asking his question. But Vermillion, relaxing a bit in his seat, seemed to recognize where Phinnegan had been headed.
“As for you, it is unfortunate that you were caught up with that…criminal. We had no choice but to assume that you were with him. But, my daughter,” he paused nodding in Emerald’s direction, who sat with her back straight, calmly chewing her food while her gray-green eyes stared at Phinnegan, “she could…sense…something about you. When Periwinkle…escaped…she trailed you both. And it turns out she was right. You are very special.” The smile Vermillion bestowed upon Phinnegan at that moment was anything but warm, and Phinnegan could only think of one word: greed.
He was also reminded of Periwinkle, and the story that the purple-haired Faë had told him during their time in the darkness of Féradoon. He had mentioned Vermillion’s daughter and the love he had borne her, and how Vermillion had taken her away from him. As he regarded the Faë across from him, her eyes flashed from green to gray and back again, and he was reminded that she was more than a Faë, if she was still a Faë at all. She was a gholem.
Perhaps this explained why Periwinkle had not recognized her that day in Castle Heronhawk.
He puzzled over these questions, but he could hardly ask them now. Instead he returned to the discussion at hand, for he still did not understand his own predicament.
“But I still don’t understand. Why am I special? Why have you brought me here? What is this Mark?” He finished by thrusting his finger forward for all around him to see. A hush fell upon those closest and it spread until Vermillion needed to speak with a voice only just above a whisper.
“You ask many questions,” he said, his eyes fixed on the Mark on Phinnegan’s finger. Those other Aged within earshot had set down their forks and listened intently. “I will say only this: It has been foretold that a human would come to our world, and that he would be able, with the proper guidance, of course, to open the First Gate. This gate has been closed and locked for millennia. We believe that you, Phinnegan Qwyk, are that human.”
“But…why me?” Phinnegan asked after a short pause.
“The Warber was a test. When we learned that it had marked you, we knew that there was a very good possibility that it was you. And now we have brought you here for the final test.”
“What is the final test?”
“Why, to open the Gate, of course,” Vermillion said with a slight shrug.
“But…what if I cannot open this Gate? What if I fail?”
Vermillion smiled coldly, his reddish-brown eyes sparkling slightly.
“The Gate does not tolerate failure. If you fail, you will die.”
Phinnegan swallowed the lump in his throat. He met Vermillion’s gaze for a moment before letting his eyes fall to the table.
“And if I refuse to help you?”
“Refuse?” Vermillion questioned with a raised eyebrow. “If you refused, then you would be of no further use to us.” The threat was veiled but only slightly. Phinnegan had little doubt what this type of person would do with him if he was of no further use.
“But,” Vermillion continued, wiping his hands on a golden napkin trimmed in dark red ribbing. “Once you have helped me to open the Gate, I will of course be in your debt. I would be more than willing to grant you whatever you wish. To send you home, perhaps? That is what you want, isn’t it?”