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The sight of such savagery makes Perl feel strange and twisted inside. The casual cruelty of the fae realm, but he cannot deny the way it makes his blood hum.
Behind him, Kerik says, “Is that what I can expect if I disobey you?”
“No,” Perl replies through tight teeth, not turning.
“That thrall in the stocks is a faerie, isn’t he? He has wings?”
“Correct,” says Perl.
“So a faerie can be the thrall? So you could have been the one prancing around with my name written on your chest.”
“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
“No?” Kerik says. Perl is not looking at him but he can imagine the teasing look on Kerik’s face.
“A fae can be a thrall, but not to a mortal,” Perl says tightly. “That would be seen as extremely shameful. Even amongst the fae themselves there are rules about who can be the thrall and who the Master. A high fae could never do such a thing. But there are fae who dislike mortal thralls, so fae thralls are accepted for the most part if certain rules are observed. A fae who is thrall to another fae must be of a lower status. So the high fae, the courtiers here, cannot become thralls, although they can take them from amongst the wild fae or the low fae. These arrangements can be quite profitable for the lesser fae.”
“They get paid—?”
Perl cuts Kerik off before he starts demanding Perl give him coin for his own performance as a thrall. “Sometimes, but access to court and influence is of uncountable value.”
“So,” Kerik says thoughtfully, “a fae can be a thrall to a fae so long as the thrall is of lower status. And a fae cannot be the thrall of a mortal, but a fae can have a mortal thrall, but not of the opposite sex because a fae must only sire children with a fae. Is that right?”
“That is correct.”
“There are a lot of rules here.”
Perl turns to look at Kerik again. “And there aren’t in Azuria? Didn’t you get twisted up in such rules based on your parents not being wed?”
Kerik huffs. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
At that moment, as if summoned by the conversation, Perl sees Krem. The burly fae guard is standing against the wall, clearly on duty. He wears brown leather breeches and a complicated arrangement of straps across his chest. His wings are also brown, rising above his head. Perl remembers how surprisingly soft they had felt, once. Like velvet. The protuberance between Krem’s legs is studded in gold. He is one of the rare fae who makes such a thing look good, even enticing. Krem sees Perl looking his way and gives him a simple nod. Perl nods back, out of politeness, and looks away.
As he turns, there is a loud squeal from somewhere in the crowds. Before Perl has placed the source, it is hurtling towards him. A slight fae, little more than a sparkling gown and a whirl of white hair slams into him, capturing him in a tight embrace of pale, slender arms and sweet-scented kisses on his cheek.
Diamanda pulls back, after a moment of crushing Perl to her, breathless. Her pink eyes dancing like candle flames. “Perl,” she says, voice bouncing with excitement. “My Perl. Oh, my Perl. My heart has been aching for a hundred years and now it is healed at once at the sight of you.”
“Diamanda,” Perl says. His voice sounds strangled. It has hit him hard as rock. All his other mixed feelings about being here, replaced only with the sharp pang of how much he missed her. Delight in seeing her again swirled through with guilt that he left her behind.
But he left them all behind.
Diamanda wears a gown of silver, tight to her waist before exploding in a froth of fabric that drips to the floor. Its shape exaggerated even beyond the usual style. It is cinched tight around her upper body and so wide in its skirts that it still envelopes Perl’s legs, even though she has stepped back from him. It is also cut so extremely low on her breasts that it reveals edges of the skin around her nipples.
Her wings are silver and tipped with a vivid pink. This close it is clear how much bigger they are than Perl’s, wider and taller by several feet in all directions. She gazes at Perl with glittering eyes. Her wide smile lights her face. “Oh, Perl,” she says. “Your wings. I have not seen you like this in so long.” She tips her head to one side. “They’re not so bad, you know. They almost look normal.”
“Thank you,” Perl says to Diamanda.
“Vane said that you had a mortal thrall who was very handsome and that everyone is obsessed with, oh” — she pauses and looks at Kerik — “oh, because of well, how it's you. You. With a thrall. Mother is so delighted. Oh, Perl…” Diamanda seems to run out of words and so instead embraces Perl again with a gasp of delight. Her jewelled gown crunches against him as her wing’s edges brush over his face. When she pulls back she says, “And they said you’d never come back and I should forget about you but of course I didn’t and here you are.” She looks again to Kerik, this time taking the time to appraise him, looking up and down.
Kerik watches her, looking very amused. She touches his chest with a flat palm, then squeals, drawing her hand back as if Kerik’s skin has burnt her in a way she finds thrilling. “By The Aeons.” She shakes her head. “Mortal thralls are such a delight.”
“Perhaps then,” says Perl, hoping to steer the conversations elsewhere, “a proper introduction. Thrall, this is Princess Diamanda-zeren-ai, honoured daughter of our great Queen, Exeinil-que-zeren-ai, Perfection beyond comprehension.”
Diamanda nods at Kerik and before Perl can make any signal to stop him, Kerik reaches out and takes her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it as if she is an Azurian noble woman.
Diamanda shrieks in shock. She snatches her hand back, cradling it. “Oh,” she gasps, “oh, Perlash, it really isn’t trained at all.”
