Towers and Tithes

2. Grayson

2

Grayson

After healing the pup, I crawl back into bed. Blessed sleep is mine for a while. Then, a dreaded voice booms through the cottage.

“Grayson!”

I awaken with a groan. The person calling my name is my jailer, a creep named the Prism Master. He wields what I call the evil elf trio: bewitching looks, powerful magic, and sadistic personality.

“Grayson! Now!”

I slide out of bed and rush for the magic study room—it’s where I always meet the Prism Master. Normally, the door stays shut no matter how hard I try (and dang, do I ever try). This time, it auto-magically swings open as I approach.

Inside, the chamber is a smallish space with plaster walls. Wooden shelves stand lined with leather-bound books. A large table sits in the room’s center. Quills, paper, and oddball magical junk covers the top. The Prism Master is powerful enough to keep similar rooms in every one of his ‘residences.’

Pop, pop!

Bubbling noises fill the air. A rectangle of light flashes on the opposite wall. Once the brightness fades, a magic mirror materializes before me.

Not a surprise. True magic mirrors rarely hang around like lumps. They only appear when the mirror itself—or its owner—actually wants something. Sometimes the owner is trapped inside the mirror, too. It gets complicated.

Threads of golden light swirl across the mirror’s surface. For a moment, I catch my own reflection. Then, the magical lines twist and change.

A face appears in the mirror. The Prism Master. Like always, the guy wields an ageless kind of beauty—piercing eyes, strong cheekbones, and white-blond hair. Today, he also wears long dark robes and a look of sheer outrage.

When he next speaks, the Prism Master pauses after each word.

“Who. Am. I?”

“The Prism Master.”

“And what’s that?”

“The leader of all Prism elves.” Elf clans come in pairs. Prism elves make magic mirrors. They match up with my people, the Osmos. We help out as magical apprentices… unless we’re seen as total duds. That’s when someone like me ends up as a tower tithe.

“Quite right,” declares the Prism Master. “My responsibilities are massive. I should not be wasting my time by calling your name for hours.”

It’s tempting to point out that yelling my name twice does not count as for hours, but I keep my sarcasm to myself. Nothing good happens when I clap back at the Prism Master.

Focus on escape, Grayson. Act like a good little tower tithe until he lowers his guard. Then you’ll get free.

With that in mind, I take an extra-bow low. The Prism Master is a total sucker for groveling. “Oh mighty Prism Master, please forgive me. How may I be of service?”

The Prism Master purses his lips ever-so-slightly. This man always thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room. And when he does that lip move? It means he’s scheming his pointy little ears off. “How many magic mirrors appeared in this cottage last week?”

“Why, Madame Morningstar and Harlow visited me every day.” They’re both trapped in mirrors and the Prism Master’s best lackeys.

“Anyone else?”

In all honesty, other magic mirrors do show up. I even summon some of them. It’s how I learned reading, writing, and basic healing spells. Not that I’ll ever tell the Prism Master that. By the way, elves can’t lie. One big advantage of being part-troll is that I can fib my butt off when necessary.

I set my hand at my throat. “Gosh, no. I’d certainly tell you if anything that exciting ever happened. Wow! Other magic mirrors appearing besides the ones you approve. Who’d have thunk it?”

“Good. Let me know if that changes.” The Prism Master balances a massive book on his palm and flips through the pages. “You’re seventeen, isn’t that right?”

“My birthday was last week.” Thanks for blowing it off.

There’s only one reason why the Prism Master would ask this question. Now that I’m seventeen, I’m much more likely to get chosen as a tower tithe. Fae are vicious toward other adults, mostly because they’re numerous and immortal. But fae children are rare and revered. No one wants a kid slave.

“The next selection ceremony takes place in ten months,” declares the Prism Master. “You won’t be chosen.”

“Not that I’m anxious to become a tower tithe, but how can you be sure?”

The Prism Master chuckles. “Because it’s you, Grayson. You’re ugly. Idiotic. Lazy. A total waste.”

His words hurt, pure and simple. There’s nothing quite like having an elf insult you. They’re so painfully beautiful—not to mention magically enhanced—that each word settles into the back of your head like so many mental splinters. Eventually, the tiny wounds infect your soul.

Yet another reason to get out of here.

“Besides.” The Prism Master sniffs. “What Rapunzel would want you?”

Much as I hate to continue this conversation, I can’t pass up the opportunity to advocate for a decent Rapunzel to serve. Hey, eternity is a long time.

“About that. I do have an idea for my future Rapunzel.”

“How could you know what Rapunzels are available? You’re perfectly isolated. There are no books in the Bartlebee. Visitors are forbidden.”

This is more stuff I file under the category of: things I keep hidden from the Prism Master. My harpy visitors deliver all sorts of things, books included. I just hide the stuff.

The Prism Master’s face darkens. “Who gave you information about the Rapunzels, Grayson? Tell me and they will pay.”

Fortunately, I know of a fae family that recently left the forest. “The oak pixies like to gossip. Their voices carry.”

“Hmm. I’ll relocate them.” When the Prism Master says relocate, he means destroy. Good thing those pixies are long gone.

“Now, make your request,” demands the Prism Master.

“I’ll work for any Rapunzel except…” Here, I pause for dramatic effect. “Zinnie the Elder. She’s horrible!”

In truth, Zinnie the Elder is a super-nice old lady. I figure if I act like I don’t want her, then the Prism Master will make sure we’re together. The guy really is that nasty.

“Zinnie the Elder, eh?” The Prism Master smirks. “I thought you’d fear being chosen by Lady R.”

All the blood seems to drain from my body. Everyone knows about Lady R. She’s called the tower tithe serial killer. I swallow past the lump of worry that just lodged in my throat.

“Lady R?” I ask. “Never heard of her.”

“Sure, you haven’t.” His smirk melts into a frown. “And you’ve no right to ask for a Rapunzel anyway. The Osmos tossed you out as a child. I took you in out of kindness, giving you a place to live and the chance to become a tower tithe. And how do you repay me? By slacking off on your lessons. Keeping the cottage filthy. And now, dictating your own future! I’ve been trying to hand you off as a tower tithe for years. No one wants a worm like you.”

My stomach sours as more of the Prism Master’s words twist their way under my skin.

The Prism Master goes on. “I’ll never get rid of you. It’s my punishment to watch you age and die here.” The way he says the word punishment, it’s clear that the Prism Master enjoys keeping me locked up.

“Now, scrub the cottage again. I’ll inspect it personally.” The Prism Master ends this speech by looking down at me with a mix of utter repulsion.

Long seconds tick by. When the Prism Master gets in a rage, I know better than to comment. Speak when spoken to—that’s the survival plan.

“Anything to say for yourself?”

I shake my head.

Another full minute passes before he speaks a final word. “Leave.”

Like always, I step backward while keeping my gaze locked with the Prism Master. After so many years in this cottage, I’ve learned one thing.

Never turn your back on a predator.