Lord of the Hollow Court: Season of the Fae, #1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by C.K. Beggan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Digital Edition September 2022

Cover designed by MiblArt

Published by Tidally Press

Contents

Title Pages

Copyright

Chapter One – Ill Omens

Chapter Two – Frayed Ribbon

Chapter Three – Spooked

Chapter Four – The Lady of Lindendam

Chapter Five – Dark Love

Chapter Six – Lovers and Monsters

Chapter Seven – Guests

Chapter Eight – Cat and Mouse

Chapter Nine – Ichabod Flees

Chapter Ten – Geas

Chapter Eleven – Leopard Spots

Chapter Twelve – Just One Swipe

Chapter Thirteen – Tale Teller

Chapter Fourteen – Dire Greetings

Chapter Fifteen – Bargain at First Sight

Chapter Sixteen – Twelve Fae Seamstresses

Chapter Seventeen – Ordinary

Chapter Eighteen – The Grove

Chapter Nineteen – Silver and Gold

Chapter Twenty – Fae Dancing

Chapter Twenty-One – Restoration

Chapter Twenty-Two – An Ember of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Three – Rage and Delight

Chapter Twenty-Four – Waiting for his Lordship

Chapter Twenty-Five – Two Casks of Cider

Chapter Twenty-Six – A Well-Armed Valkyrie

Chapter Twenty Seven – Enthralled

Chapter Twenty-Eight – A Knock at the Door

Chapter Twenty-Nine – Plague

Chapter Thirty – Glamourous

Chapter Thirty-One – Mouse

Chapter Thirty-Two – Awakened

Chapter Thirty-Three – Burning

Chapter Thirty-Four – Awake...

Chapter Thirty-Five – ...And Listening

Chapter Thirty-Six – The Miller's Daughter

Epilogue – Ichabod Returns

Thank you for reading!

About the Author

What to read next

Books by C.K. Beggan

Chapter One

Ill Omens

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Braam, Lord of the Hollow Court, strode through the foyer of Hollow Hall, hand grasping the raven head of his walking stick and sharp eyes missing nothing. Though the rugged contours of his tawny features remained serene, he noted every strand of web, every bejeweled bat wing suspended from the pillars and the black bowers draped across every arched door frame. Much of it, he found lacking.

More glamour in the glamours, Misman, he told his butler, rapping the cane on the beachy travertine stone tiles. Hollow Hall must seem as rich as the best courts of our size.

Not for the first time, Braam wondered whether he ought to glamour the tiles to appear as an autumnal forest floor instead of the ever-present mist he'd already decided upon. The pigeon blood ruby on his finger weighed more heavily tonight, the gold band like a vise. Had it ever been such a weight on his father's finger? He longed to know, to have the council of anyone who'd stood in his position before. Far too much depended on tonight, with too little time remaining to remedy any errors.

Misman inclined his head toward his lord. The servants are confused, m'lord. They were under the impression the Samhain revel should be frightening. I believe your lordship requested a haunted graveyard theme.

Braam replied with a brow. I want it as resplendent as a fae lord's tomb. A hint of threat flashed across his features. All I see here is a pathetic human graveyard.

Of course, sir, Misman said, bowing quickly. Though his brow arched in a tacit reminder that Braam was behaving badly, Braam made no attempts to correct his behavior. After weeks of planning, he simply could not manage one more thing, least of all his own moods.

This night teetered on the brink of disaster.

Raking his fingers through his blue-black hair, Braam stalked into the throne room, irritation twisting his features. His cane beat a rapid rat-a-tat upon the tile as he moved, an indicator, on his hip's better days, of his temperament. As the Samhain revel drew near—and perhaps his court's final hours with it—the servants had long since learned to scatter depending on the cadence. Thus he saw no one as he walked, though the pine and dew scents of pixies hung fresh in the air. He suspected they were hiding behind the garland of poison-dripping apples.

Not only were the fae of the other courts soon to arrive—including the High Fae who so looked down upon the Hollow Court—he had a petitioner. Who among the folk he ruled would be foolish enough to trouble him today?

As Braam slipped through a heavily webbed door, a glittering spider fell to the floor with a clang. Perfect. With the help of his silver-buckled shoe, he swept it toward himself and plucked it from the sand-colored tile. It was a fair piece of low fae craft work from the only category of fair folk permitted to craft. Coated in druzy smoky quartz, he thought the spider an elegant little thing, and just the touch his costume for tonight needed.

Braam tightened his grip on the head of his cane as he took in the surrounding decor with fresh eyes. I've behaved poorly, he admonished himself. And have since the letter arrived. Every detail made his tyrannical ways more evident: his folk within Hollow Hall and without it knew the importance of tonight without such harsh reminders, each of them bearing the weight of the High Fae’s attention this Samhain night. They were as painfully aware as their lord that this would be their final chance to prove their worth to the Council.

Each element of the décor represented hours of work by dozens of hands. Misman had seen to it that hundreds of little crafts lay around Hollow Hall, so many placed casually or half-hidden, as if the Hollow Court was so rich with craft they need not prominently display it like the High Fae with their prizes. A collection of golden goblets on a side table were set with step cut rubies, the collaboration of both jeweler and smith, then enchanted by Braam himself to appear to drip with blood. The webs were spun from diamonds from Herkimer village, the bat wings sewn from heavy velvet. His people had made an admirable effort. An exceptional one, it might be said.

So why did Braam suspect it wouldn't be enough?

With a huff, Braam stalked into his throne room, throwing open the double doors to make room for him and his cane. The entire T-shaped room was made up as a dragon's lair, Hollow Hall's decorative steel weapons enchanted to flow fresh blood from gleaming edges, though in truth they were dull to the touch. Above it all, an impressive dragon skeleton with black moonstone bones hung suspended from the upper balcony—another glamour, rather than an expensive import from the Thornforest Court of Madagascar, whose Lady preferred bargains over coin.

Hours had gone into every detail of the creature, with crafts folk from Boogard pouring into the manor each morning to get it right. The dragon was all the more genius because the bulk of tonight's guests would never find their way here. When they did, their delighted screams would surely reach the High Fae ears in the ballroom.

The ballroom itself had a flock of bone and garnet wyverns, still being strung by faerie servants, and citrine lava men crawling from the floor. Some had spellwork upon them to travel the length of Hollow Hall, surprising and hopefully tripping some of the guests; Misman had come up with the idea of random patches of slime to follow them. There were two dozen hands prepared to spring from the walls, eyes that would float after guests, and bats to chase them out of restricted wings, each one a combination of craft and glamour. Those who went further would find themselves beset by a murder of crows so life-like they could peck holes in the offender's tails or gown.

These were the sorts of thrills everyone expected from Hollow Hall, as if it was a carnival attraction and not a proper fae court. Yet if Braam did not deliver, the pressure to be absorbed into the Court of Claws was bound to push the Hollow Court to the breaking point.

Thus, he was hardly in the mood for petitioners when he settled onto his throne, which was already glamoured by him to appear made of human bones. Braam tossed his cane from one hand to the other, then, crossing ankle over knee, balanced it across his lap. Everything needed to be perfect tonight. He had not a moment to spare for this ill-timed fool.

It was all the more unfortunate, then, that his petitioner was High Fae—or something rather like it.

His height gave him away, and the soft blue-gray hue of his skin. But there was a low fae-ness to him, and perhaps a humanness in him, too—Braam could see it plainly in his limp. A full-blooded High Fae would heal far more quickly than that, whereas Braam's hip, and the havoc it wreaked on the leg below it, were proof of the low fae's inferior healing abilities.

The man wore a hood as he approached, not having the decency to remove it. Immediately sensing a trick, Braam did not shut the doors to the throne room with his magic, letting the hidden pixies in the hall keep their eyes on the proceedings within. Reliable as ever, Misman appeared moments later, hovering at the door. A touch of wickedness curved the line of Braam's lips. Whatever this High Fae was up to, Misman was more than capable of handling it.

As if aware of the additional eyes upon him, the petitioner pulled his cloak tight. He approached Braam's dais, his right foot dragging just a touch behind him—physical ailments being common amongst both demi- and low fae—though, peculiarly, he used no walking stick to assist him. If Braam's courtiers were in the balcony instead of the pulley system for the bone dragon, they would have jeered at the man for pretending he needed no walking aid. His people resented the High Fae stigma regarding the human-like frailties of the low fae. Not using a support when one was needed was practically rude.

When the man neared, Braam saw the frayed edges of the petitioner’s cloak, and the stains upon its hem. What sort of High Fae was he to appear before a Court's Lord in such a state?

Well, if the man was searching for sympathy, he would not find it in Braam. This was not just a petitioner before him. This was a traveler. Braam would bet the dregs of his fortune he didn't belong to a court—and this was no time to have trouble from one of the free fae.

Braam shifted uncomfortably on his gruesome throne. Between the shape of the supplicant's bony nose and the cunning glimmer in his black, beady eyes that Braam did not quite trust, this fae had a decidedly rat-like appearance. Braam would remember that face if ever he'd seen it before. He was certainly not a subject of the Hollow Court. For the fae, unexpected travelers were always an ill omen, and Braam needed no more of them tonight.

What business do you have with me? Braam asked peevishly.

A slow grin spread across the traveler's angular features. I come not with business, but with a bargain, he replied.

Braam leaned against the arm of his throne, the glamour giving way so that he perceived the plush velvet beneath. He was not impressed. I'm not inclined toward any bargains.

But you must hear this one, the traveler said, mouth turning down in a frown pronounced by un-fae-like lines. With the usual drama of the High Fae, he lowered his hood with painstaking slowness.

Braam shot forward on his throne, nearly dislodging his cane. A crescent of pockmarks curved down the man's cheek onto the smooth grayness of his jaw. A handful of the pocks had made it to his neck.

He had the Fae Wasting.

Away from me! Braam shouted, wincing as he rolled to standing, unintentionally spearing himself with pain from his hip. He grappled for his cane as it clattered onto the dais, the tile most likely cracked beneath the round of carpet.

The traveler laughed harshly. Peace, Lord Braam. In all of my studies, I have not encountered one of your descent with the Wasting. It infects only those descended from the Elder Courts, whose courts' magic is not strong enough to protect it.

He means the colonizers. Braam leaned back, uneasy. Like so many fae in the oldest, smallest courts of what was lately called the United States, he had a more than generous helping of old world blood in his family line, leaving him with little more than a touch of aureum in his complexion from the now near-mythical Golden Fae of the Americas. He was far less confident about the distinction this traveler made. How much colonizer blood was too much? Clearly, stronger courts like the once mighty Roanoke had not been spared, its bones transformed into an English settlement that had not fared much better. As far as Braam was concerned, no low or demi-fae was safe from the wasting.

This traveler had brought far worse than an ill omen into his court.

Braam caught Misman's eye, urging the butler to keep his distance. Behind him, the pixies fled from the hall in a flurry of flitting double wings. The free fae were unpredictable at best—and known to be careless like this. A grimace remained on Braam's face.

I have the Wasting, as you can well see, the traveler said, but I hold too much magic for it to conquer me.

Braam's grimace faltered. How can that be? The man was pale as flour.

I am a sorcerer, trained by the masters of the Elder Courts, the man replied. I have heard of the Colonial Courts' sickness and came to study it, only to catch it myself. So it is I have a bargain to offer: I know the whereabouts of the diadem known as the Heart of Lindendam.

My mother's diadem, Braam said at once, focus narrowing on the rat-like High Fae. Slowly, he returned to his throne, sitting with an angry twinge of nerve pain in his leg. His eyes did not leave the traveler the entire time. It has not been seen in a century. How is it you know its location?

All magic has a signature, the fae sorcerer said, a touch smugly.

Could High demi-Fae lie? There were too few of them to know. That sounded like an evasion to Braam—as if this sorcerer knew the family heirloom's whereabouts but not its exact location. Besides, there was something in his smile that was too oily for Braam to like. Yet the lure of the diadem—said to be imbued with the magic of the Elder Courts before the fae crossed the Atlantic—was too strong to dismiss. He had a court to save, after all. And the Fae Wasting to keep out. He found himself scowling at the sorcerer.

And you can trace this signature? Braam pressed him, arching a skeptical brow. Is that what you suggest?

The fae sorcerer bowed his head. "I know of its location. I would procure it myself, except it is not mine to take."

How convenient.

Tell me, Braam demanded.

Ah, but that would require a bargain. Sorcerers rarely give such valuable information for naught.

Braam's expression shuttered. He was Lord of the Hollow Court. He would not risk his folk and his seat in a bargain with a High Fae sorcerer. I am lord of this land, and the diadem is rightly mine. I will make no bargain for its return.

Then you will not hear my terms? the sorcerer asked, his dark eyes utterly unreadable.

Something that was not pity stirred in Braam. His foul mood curled around him like a serpent, its fangs turning inward on him until he felt a wicked plan taking shape. Why not pretend to hear the man's offer? There was something greater afoot here. Braam leaned back, inclining his head ever so slightly to indicate he should proceed.

I will tell you the location of the diadem, the sorcerer said, and in exchange, you will allow me to heal myself completely from its powers. Further still, I must be allowed to study it, to find the means to cure the infected.

And if that cure requires you to draw from its power further?

The rat-like fae tilted his head. What consequence is that, when the diadem's return will surely elevate your court?

A shudder ran through Braam. This was some trick of the High Fae, some effort to catch him out. He would not show how desperate he was.

Braam stood, free hand curled into a fist. The knuckles around the polished head of his cane became so bloodless his hand was translucent as selenite. You would dare to bargain for what's rightfully mine, and so brazenly, too? He would make the High Fae rue the day they sought to trick him. "I find I have an entirely different bargain for you."

Braam drew himself up. He might not be High Fae, but he was something just as good: a Golden Fae Court's Lord, who drew from the power of the bountiful nature around him.

Until this moon has vanished from the sky, Braam declared, a golden sheen of magic twining around his hands, I curse you to the shape of a beast of burden.

The smarmy mask the sorcerer wore shattered. His eyes widened, panic gripping him. For just a moment, Braam's heart squeezed. As a horse, the sorcerer would be unlikely to spread the fae wasting. Still, Braam recognized his flaw in its worst form. A vile instinct led him to take this punishment a step too far.

How much longer could he behave like this, always acting on impulse, always quick to react to every slight, before he was as terrible as the Lady of the Court of Claws?

Unkind, my lord! the fae sorcerer protested as the swirling golden light began to distend, trickling toward him. I have come to you in the spirit of true bargain! I would not make such a mistake—

And I would not threaten the Lord of the Hollow Court! With a bellow of what might well be a ruinous temper, the curse flew toward the fae sorcerer like spirits on the sacred night, surrounding him and worming through the fibers of his cloak.

As every thread of it vanished, a black horse grew from the tatters. The horse neighed and bucked, eyes rolling to reveal their whites, hind legs kicking out as they took shape.

You shall be a wonderful surprise for anyone who strays into my throne room, Braam declared, knowing that anyone was sure to be the other courts' lords and ladies. He closed the double doors with a flick of his hand, ignoring the wariness on Misman's face as they slammed together.

Cane tapping upon the stone dais, Braam smiled to himself, pleased with his own cleverness. With one last glance at the sorcerer turned stallion, now rearing at the unfairness of it all, Braam let himself out through the door behind his throne.

He wished to check on the kitchen fae's progress before the first of his guests arrived.

Chapter Two

Frayed Ribbon

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Katty van der Vos's fingers wound through her hair, twisting it until it hurt, as she beheld her dearest friend's gown. Katrina de Vries had long boasted of having the best singing voice in the Hudson Valley. Now she had the prettiest ankles in all of Sleepy Hollow, too, and she wanted the world to know it.

Katty looked down at her sister's cast-off gown and felt like screaming.

As Katrina rose from her dressing table, palest blonde curls perfectly set by her fretting maid, she smiled graciously and thanked the pink-cheeked servant for her help. But Katty knew that, deep down, her friend did not believe she needed it. Katrina de Vries was born under a golden sun, an auspicious moon and a dollop of fairy dust. Everything about her life was perfect.

Except for the way she treated her ribbons. With a pert moue, Katty bent to retrieve the yellow ribbon from beside the bed.

Oh, don't bother, Katty, said Katrina. It's too frayed to wear any longer. Her eyes widened. "Do you want it?"

Katty frowned outright, fingers poised just above the ribbon. No, I—

Oh, don't be silly! You should have it. Look, it even goes with your dress!

Before Katty could stop her, Katrina snatched up the ribbon and flapped it about. Seconds later, she was pushing Katty down from between her shoulder blades, tutting at her while she tried to tie the ribbon in Katty's hair.

There! Katrina said, dusting off her white gloves. She then pointed to the looking glass. What do you think?

I think it looks frayed. In truth, it wasn't that bad, but given the task she'd arrived with tonight, a frayed yellow ribbon was not high on her list of items to wear. At least Katrina was right about one thing. It did match Katty's dress, bringing out the tired little flowers so they almost looked like new again.

The two of them were the only Katrinas in their woodsy little home of Sleepy Hollow. Both were eighteen, both lived on the same tract of land. That Katrina de Vries was the richer one—and that her father owned both the land and the gristmill at which Katty van der Vos's father worked and upon which he, his wife and daughter lived—meant she got to be the dignified one, called Katrina, a perfect and blonde little mistress of the manor from a young age. While Katty was stuck with rusty reddish brown hair, a modest abode, an embarrassing family and a childhood nickname to match it. It wasn't fair.

As if to prove it, Katty's eyes began to wander around the room. Katrina's bedroom was littered with all manner of nice and poorly cared for things. Fine Parisian perfumes lined her dressing table like clutter. Her bedroom was painted a vivid shade of green to rival the summer grass—a very new shade it was said the Washingtons themselves had in their dining room. Pretty dolls with china faces lined her bed, while Katty had long since been made to give up her beloved childhood things.

Katrina had everything. But Katty? Katty wore her sister's hand-me-down dress, altered to compensate for her lack of both bosom and height. The pink muslin simply didn't hang right. The puffed sleeves made her appear as though she had no neck, and she knew she'd be fidgeting with the neckline all night.

A knock on the door broke her childish reverie. Katty straightened, trying not to appear as though she wished her companion ill as Mrs. de Vries peeked through the door.

Good, you're both ready, she said, a hint of mischief brightening her face. Almost. I wanted to give you this.

Mrs. de Vries maneuvered a square box around the door, unveiling it like a surprise. Katty wrinkled her nose. It looked—and smelled—like an old cigar box.

Mrs. de Vries popped open the latch, pushing back the lid. Inside, on a bed of deep red velvet, sat the most exquisite tiara.

Oh, mama! Katrina exclaimed. But it's yours!

You should wear it tonight. Belatedly, she looked at Katty. Oh, I'm sorry, dear, I should've dug out something for you as well! You've been such a good companion to my Katrina over the years. Truly, you deserve it.

She'd misunderstood Katty's crestfallen face. Straightening, Katty adopted a braver one. Don't fret over me, Mrs. de Vries, she said, stamping out a slight quiver in her voice before she continued. Katrina has given me one of her ribbons.

Such a sweet girl. She bestowed a look upon her daughter so full of love and pride that a weight dropped into Katty’s gut and stayed there. Once Katrina married, there would be no more need for a companion. Neither of them were little girls anymore.

I can hear the guests, Katrina said, smiling back at her mother. Perhaps we should make our entrance.

"Shall we, girls? Tonight is going