Pay the Piper by Jane Yolen

Author:Jane Yolen
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765386656
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

17 · A Death in the Family

Flute in hand, Gringras remembered more: he remembered the quiet dinner with his older brother, Tormalas the heir. He remembered letting his brother prattle on about politics and the possibility of war with the Unseelie Court. Meanwhile in the kitchen, Alabas poisoned the food. Poisoned Gringras’ food.

Tormalas’ tasters had eaten heartily off the heir’s plate, pronouncing it safe. After that it was a simple matter for the switch to be made. A little misdirection (“Look out!”), a little sleight of hand (Gringras dabbled in the more mundane illusions as well as the true magic), and soon Tormalas was chewing happily on venison chops lightly seasoned with century plant.

He ate for three more minutes and then slumped to the floor, to all appearances stone-dead. Appearances, as Gringras knew and had planned for, could be deceiving. And nowhere was this truer than in Faerie.

* * *

THE HEIR’S BODY LAY IN state for three days.

On the first day, the attendants washed and dressed the dead prince in his funeral attire of white and gold. They set his body in a bier decorated with wild peonies and cultivated roses. The family gathered in a mourning circle around the coffin.

King Merrias, a stoic figure, sat still from dawn till dusk, while his wife wept impressively and tore at her long silver hair.

Gringras tried to look suitably melancholy. He kept dabbing at his eyes with an enormous white handkerchief. Occasionally he let out a large sigh.

Wynn, the youngest, had been sent for, but had not yet returned from whatever adventure he was currently on. Gringras had counted on that.

On the second day, the antechamber where Tormalas lay was opened to the public. Creatures from afar came to pay their respects. Fey lords and ladies in gaudy, shimmering raiment strode majestically by the body, barely deigning to glance down. Small brownies and hearth witches clucked their tongues as they passed, sighing at the waste of it all. Phookas, selkies, and other shape-shifters padded, hopped, or slithered by. Pixies and winged fairies wafted over the open coffin and wept beautifully, their translucent wings fluttering self-consciously. Even a lone boggart—emissary from the Unseelie Court—shambled past the coffin, glaring at it, perhaps angry he hadn’t the chance to kill the prince himself.

Gringras watched the display with amusement, but was careful to show nothing on his face but the expected grief.

Wynn had still not arrived.

Custom and religion dictated that on the third day the body was moved outside and placed on a large wooden pyre, scheduled to be burned at midnight. A crowd gathered early, jostling for position around the tower. The faerie rulers were long-lived and a state funeral was a once-in-a-millennium event.

Gringras stood in the hall outside the throne room, waiting for an audience with his father that would confirm him as the new heir. He knew that, once he was confirmed—even after Tormalas’ miraculous recovery, which should be happening a little after sunset—nothing short of Gringras’ own death could remove the mantle of power from his shoulders.

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