The Riddle Game

You don't sleep, not really. You lie on top of the covers with the leaf on your chest like a hot coal and read his words over and over, and write back with your fingertip, and watch gold burn into the veins in answer. By the time the sun is fully up, you have learned two things about Faolan Ashmere.

He cannot lie.

And he is extremely, infuriatingly good at not answering.

Still, you said things last night you hadn't planned to say, and so did he, and you're not sure who won. You tuck the leaf into the pocket of your cardigan and go to work.

The basement of the Marrowfield College library smells like dust, glue and old radiator heat. Special Collections is two rooms of gray steel shelving, a reading table with foam book cradles, and your desk, which is covered in finding aids and a mug that says I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE. Ettie gave it to you. It has never felt less funny.

You're supposed to be processing the Whitford family papers, three boxes of farm accounts and Civil War letters. You read the same line about the price of seed potatoes nine times.

Your phone buzzes. Ettie.

Sheriff says Davey's "fine" and "an adult" and "please stop calling."

Also you two came out of the woods at dawn looking like ghosts and nobody will tell me anything.

Also you have a weird mark behind your ear. I saw it. Did you get a TATTOO in the WOODS.

You touch the spot. Nobody can see it, Faolan said. Only fae. You stare at the text for a long time.

Long night, you type. Tell you later. Which is a lie, and you feel it land in your stomach like a stone. You've never lied to Ettie. Fourteen hours with fae and you're already doing it.

You call Davey on your lunch break. He doesn't pick up. You text him: We need to talk. He reads it. He doesn't answer.

At four o'clock the leaf warms in your pocket. You duck behind a shelf of county histories like a teenager hiding a phone in class.

Two hours to sunset. I'm told mortals like to be reminded. I'm also told they hate it. I'm conducting an experiment.

You trace back: I'll be there.

A pause. Then: I know. I wrote the bargain.

Bramble meets you at the ring at sunset, bells chiming. She's carrying a bundle over her arm.

"You can't wear that," she says, looking at your jeans with real pain. "It's not a rule, it's just cruelty."

The dress she's brought is dark green velvet, plain and soft and so beautiful you're almost afraid of it. "Is this a gift? Does it bind me?"

"It's a loan from the lord's own wardrobe, by his order, which means it binds nothing. You read the terms." She grins. "He said you'd ask. He said, 'She'll ask, and she'll be right to.'"

You change behind an oak. The dress fits like it was made for you, which is its own small terror.

On the walk to the Hall, Bramble gives you the rules properly, ticking them off on gold-freckled fingers.

"One. No thank you. Not even a little one. If someone does you a kindness, say I'm glad of it or that was well done. Two. Your name is Ava here and that's all. The rest stays in your mouth. Three. Eat only what Faolan offers, by his hand or his order. Four." She stops and looks at you seriously. "Everyone here will try to get something from you. A promise, a favor, a word. It's not malice. It's sport. Don't play unless you can win."

"And if I can win?"

Bramble's grin comes back slow. "Then darling, play."

The Long Gallery runs along the outside of the Hearth Oak, a curved room of polished wood with windows that look out on the burning forest. The table is set for fifty. Faolan sits at the head in rust-red velvet tonight, the crown of oak leaves actually on his head, and when you walk in, the whole gallery watches him watch you.

He stands. The court murmurs. Bramble whispers, "He doesn't stand," which you file away.

"Guest," he says. Then, quieter, only for you: "Ava." And he pulls out the chair at his right hand himself.

Dinner is roast pears and something like venison and bread so good you nearly cry. He serves you from his own plate, deliberately, so the court can see, and says under his breath, "By my hand. Binds nothing. Eat."

Halfway through, the games start.

It's a riddle game, Bramble told you. Someone asks, someone answers, and the loser owes the winner a small thing. A song. A secret. A favor.

A courtier leans across the table toward you. He's beautiful in a lean, fox-faced way, his hair the white of thistle seed, his smile very wide. "Lord Ambrel Thistledown," he says. "Will the guest play?"

"Ambrel," Faolan says mildly.

"Only a little riddle, my lord. A welcome."

You feel the whole table lean in. Bramble's foot finds yours under the table, a warning.

"Sure," you say. "One riddle."

Ambrel's smile widens. "I'm yours, but others use me more than you do. You were given me before you could speak, and you'll keep me after you're dust. What am I?"

You know the answer. Everybody knows the answer. It's a riddle out of a children's book. Your name.

And you realize, a beat before you open your mouth, exactly how it works. In this place, answering isn't just answering. If you say my name, you'll be expected to say what it is. The whole of it. In front of fifty fae.

Faolan doesn't move. He's watching you over the rim of his cup, and his eyes are bright.

You lean back in your chair. "That's a good riddle," you say. "Here's how I'd answer it. Others use it more than you do. You got it before you could speak. You keep it after you're dust." You smile at Ambrel. "Lord Thistledown, what's your name?"

He blinks. "I gave it. Ambrel Thistledown."

"All of it?"

The table goes silent.

Ambrel's smile freezes. Because he can't lie, and you've just asked him in front of the Lord of Autumn whether that's his whole name, and it isn't. Of course it isn't. Nobody here gives the whole thing.

"The guest answers a riddle with a riddle," Faolan says softly, into the silence. "And the riddle has no answer Ambrel can afford to give. I believe that's a forfeit."

The gallery explodes. Fae pound the table, laughing, shrieking. Bramble actually puts her head down on the tablecloth. Ambrel bows to you with real respect and a look that says later, and you owe nothing, and he owes you a song.

You don't look at Faolan right away. When you do, he's not laughing. He's just looking at you, chin on his hand, as if you're the only thing at the table worth reading.

"Well done," he murmurs. It's the closest thing to thank you this place has, and it goes through you like warm wine.

At sunrise Bramble walks you to the ring. The copper moon is fading. You're tired in a way that feels good, and the leaf in your pocket is warm, and you're halfway across the clearing when someone falls into step beside you.

A fae lady. Tall, pale, with moth wings stitched across the shoulders of her gown and eyes like a frozen pond. You haven't seen her at dinner. Bramble has stopped at the tree line, talking to a sentry, and doesn't notice.

The woman leans close. She smells like cold stone.

"Pretty guest," she whispers. "Ask him what your brother came here to sell."

Then she steps back into the birches, and she's gone.