Padric looked towards the bed and found Svala staring fearfully at him from beneath the heavy canopy. He jumped to his feet and Svala flinched back further. Slouch Hat clutched at him, but he slapped his hands away, casting frantically about the room.

“Where is she?”

“Padric! Dammit, do want to frighten the woman to death?”

“Not Svala!” Padric said. “Younger. Dark hair. Where?!”

The husk grabbed him by the front of the shirt and shook him. “You are seeing things! You are dreaming, that is all!”

“Am I?” Padric shouted, grabbing a candle from the nearby table and thrusting it at the husk. Slouch Hat jumped away from the flame. “You see this clearly! It was not here before! Neither was this!” He kicked the table over, then reached up and tore the canopy from the bed. “Nor this!”

Slouch Hat paused, slowly turning about the room, seeing the rich furnishings, the mirrored glass, the shelves of scrolls. Padric tossed the candle roughly on the carpet that had not been there a moment before. The flame went out, the wick smoking pitifully.

“Tell me you do not see it,” Padric challenged.

“I see it,” Slouch Hat whispered.

Padric turned back to Svala, hoping to make amends for frightening her, but the girl was no longer looking at him. Her eyes stared wide at something behind him and Padric turned. A man stood facing the fire, his back turned. Over his broad, stooped shoulders was draped a fur lined cloak of deep scarlet. White hair hung thickly down, almost to the pale, long fingered hands that were clasped behind his back.

“We are betrayed,” the man said, his voice quivering and strangely high. He turned, revealing piercing eyes, one completely bereft of color. His face was aquiline, sallow and sunken from care, but retained an unnatural youthfulness. A simple iron band sat upon his brow. The same crown Padric had seen in the hands of the girl.

“Jerrod,” Slouch Hat’s voice was full of wonder.

The man gave no sign he had heard the husk.

“Come,” he said holding his hand out, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Comfort your king.”

Padric jumped as the girl passed him, taking the king’s hand and leading him over to a chair made of animal bones where he sat. She knelt at his feet, leaning back against his knees as his fingers played across her dark hair, the curve of her cheek, his thumb gliding into her mouth as he brushed her lips. Her eyes looked directly at Padric, watching him as the king caressed her.

“They will come for us now,” Jerrod said sleepily, hand lolled against the chair back. “Irial and his minions. We cannot stop them. They will sing us to death with their Fae songs, make us swell with honey until we burst, then transform themselves into bees so they may lick us into never being.”