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Other Stories of the Clever Fay Kind
An excerpt from “Given to Glass,” Available for Free From Flatland Fiction...
A Regent answered my calling. I had ignored for weeks the minor ground-lings, courtesans and advisers the barrow court sent to my glass to learn who among man once again knocked upon the doors to the faerie realm. I had sneered at all those previously sent to my mirror, and I had prayed that my voice was strong though my knees trembled. I risked everything when opening the portal I knew hidden beneath the reflection. I could not settle for anything less than a Regent's royal blood.
I regarded the Regent as he regarded me. He was a splendid being. Though mankind would regard him as short in stature, the Regent's slim build and easy posture whispered agility and grace. Silken robes accentuated by threaded, golden filigree complimented the Regent's fair skin. Pearl and silver beads decorated locks of white hair that fell past the Regent's shoulders. Rings adorned every finger. Necklaces woven from ivy and flowers circled his neck. But his eyes sparkled and turned even his raiment dull. His eyes sparkled in shades of green that shifted to pools of blue. His eyes glistened as they regarded me.
I am no fool in the protocol the summoning of a Regent requires. I am not so naive as to be unaware of the cost such calling would demand of me. The faerie folk, especially those of royal blood, are petty and vain. A Regent answered my summoning, and a Regent would demand I show my subservience through scarring and pain.
The pains of my preparation reverberated through my skull. Using course thread, I had sewn my mouth shut, so that the scabbing lips proved I understood how my low station owned no right to speak to a barrow court's Regent. I wore nothing to conceal my bald head, having shaved off all wisps of my auburn hair to prove I did not seek to compete with a Regent's beauty. Without beard, eyebrow or eyelash, I presented a naked, humble face to my mirror. I had smashed my face against the wall until my slender, noble nose broke into a flat and crooked appendage surrounded by bruising. My eyes nearly swelled shut. Though my fingers shook for fear and pain, I cut notches from my ears with the sharpest knife my cabin owned, an ancient sign of reverence my research uncovered.
The face I presented to my side of the mirror was a pained and ugly one. Yet I regarded it a small cost in comparison with what waited for me once I was invited to step through the glass. A scarred face was not such a burden when surrounded by the barrow court's riches.
An excerpt from “A Cruel and Burning Ice,” Available From Flatland Fiction...
The crowd had barely finished that drink before Fay flowed into the courtroom. Women and men of the court frowned as the Fay giggled at their waists. Those in attendance gasped at how quickly small Fay hands claimed goblets brimming with ale. The Fay waited for no attendant as they shoved fine portions of turkey into their mouths. The Fay shouted on whim and clapped as random circles of silver-haired Fay dance erupted in the courtroom. The Fay sang and whistled. They stuck their tongues out at anyone who frowned upon their behavior.
"My ancestors forgive me," King Tiber moaned, "for letting so many Fay feet trample about the palace."
But the Fay calmed in short time, forming into a pair of parallel lines leading to King Tiber's throne, kicking the shins of any among mankind's numbers who pushed at their backs. The king stood and prepared to bellow an admonishment upon the Fay for forgetting their proper place in the village hierarchy when a breeze unexpectedly wafted into the courtroom, instantly cutting much of the heat that stifled the crowd.
King Tiber smiled at his counselors. "It seems village rumor proves true."
Dressed in a workman's wrinkled and oil-stained clothing, the tinker strode into court with hammers and wrenches clanging from the toolbelt wrapped around his thin hips. His beard looked as if it had not been combed for years, and his hair tangled to his shoulders. The tinker's steps were slow, and he proceeded with a stiff gait while several of the Fay walked beside him to offer a supportive hand or shoulder should their friend stumble. Many in the crowd had no desire to look long upon that miserable tinker, who showed such poor manners to attend the second sun's ceremony in such poor garb while they sweltered beneath thick robes. Few in that crowd had before seen the tinker, and the old man's appearance reaffirmed much sentiment that a tinker was a miserable manifestation of a man.
Troy bent to the king's ear. "You may want to consider fining that tinker for appearing so disheveled in you court."
"What do you think of that, Wessex?" asked the king.
Wessex bowed. "I think it more prudent to wait and see what the tinker presents to the throne. I want to see how he brings this cool to the court before I decide how we may reward or punish him."
More Fay trudged into the courtroom behind their tinker, grunting as their shoulders strained against ropes that pulled a tall statue set atop a wheeled pedestal. The crowd held their breath as that carved ice queen rolled into view. The glimmering ice thrilled their skin as it passed, chilling their forearms until the fine hairs stood upright upon their skin. None in that crowd recognized the figure as the forgotten Kahl-Aura so dear to the Fay kind, but those who gazed upon that blue and silver woman of ice marveled at the craftsmanship that imbued such life into her form. They shook their heads, amazed, as the statue's ice eyes appeared to wink at them. Many a man reached towards that tall woman with naked hands before the Fay sent them back behind their lines with sharp kicks to their shins and groins.
Yet such artistic splendor was not the most amazing thing the tinker and his Fay pulled into King Tiber's court. Soothing cool emanated from that feminine figure shimmering in the light of two burning suns. Those in attendance gasped to feel the room cool so quickly that their breath frosted no matter the second sun's presence. Their crimson robes no longer felt stifling. Now, so much cloth felt welcomingly warm. Attendants hustled to fill requests for brandy, as subject raised goblets to their lips so that the liquor might inject a little warmth into their blood.
King Tiber applauded. "Well done! Come forward, Mr. Tinker! Oh, don't bow! Just step up here to my throne so I don't have to yell! You bring me a thing more wonderful than anything I might dream!"
While Troy clapped wildly towards the man, Wessex leveled a more appraising stare upon the village tinker. He saw the red splotches staining the tinker's sleeves. He noted the shadow that gathered beneath the tinker's eyes, the gray pallor to that inventor's skin. He watched the tinker's stiff step, and he noticed the tinker's labored breath. Counselor Wessex saw the tinker was not well, and he knew enough of the ailing to realize sickness could impact inspiration in troubling ways.
"Just feel that cool breeze!" King Tiber grinned. "Name your fee, tinker, and I am inclined to pay it."
The tinker bowed, grimacing as pain flared in his knees. "Perhaps it would be better if you heard what I must tell of the ice Kahl-Queen Aura and her chill breath. Wait then until to you offer me reward."
The king turned to one of his attendants. "See that the palace fireplaces burn. These stone walls grower colder, and I'll not sleep in a cold bed as we greet another Bright Cycle. Tell us, tinker, how did you come to craft such an amazing thing?"
"I did little," responded the tinker. "With all of the broken things in the village needing my attention, I had less time than I wished to devote to my shop's statue. Fay hands and magic have shaped most of the ice queen."
"Fay magic?" The king's nose wrinkled and a murmur passed
through the crowd. "I'm sure you fail to give yourself enough credit. You tinkers are too timid. Speak better for yourself. I'm sure you do more than you mention. What power moves in that statue's ice to so cool my palace?"
"A dangerous power." The tinker looked squarely at his king though his old legs trembled. "A deadly power churns in the center of that chiseled ice that gives us such cool."
About the Writer
Brian S. Wheeler calls Hillsboro, Illinois home, a town of roughly 6,000 in the middle of the flatland. He grew up in Carlyle, Illinois, a community less than an hour away from Hillsboro, where he spent a good amount of his childhood playing wiffle ball and tinkering on his computer. The rural Midwest inspires much of Brian's work, and he hopes any connections readers might make between his fiction and the places and peoples he has had the pleasure to know are positive.
Brian earned a degree in English from Eastern Illinois University in Charleston, Illinois. He has taught high school English and courses in composition and creative writing. Imagination has been one of Brian's steadfast companions since childhood, and he dreams of creating worlds filled with inspiration and characters touched by magic.
When not writing, Brian does his best to keep organized, to get a little exercise, or to try to train good German Shepherd dogs. He remains an avid reader. More information regarding Brian S. Wheeler, his novels, and his short stories can be found by visiting his website at www.flatlandfiction.com.
Other Works by Brian S. Wheeler
Stories
A Cruel and Burning Ice
A Handicap of Shades
A Voice That Summons Monsters
Butcher, Baker and Replicant Maker
Cat-Tooth Magic and Dog-Eared Miracles
Empty Urns Launched Into Stars
Given to Glass
Glass Desire
Glorious Gardens of Teetering Rust
Guarded Keepsakes
Kennel, Kingdom and Crown
Marble Fish
Mary, in Need of Belle
Meek in the Fields
Mudder Stew
Not All Spirits Be Foul
Opal, Is That You?
Patriots of Griffin XIII
Plastic Tulips
Rooms Without Furniture
Shadow Weapons of Doom
Starlight, Starbright
Stars of the Shoemaker
The Beckford Bottom Beast
The Dusty Dead's Revenge
The Llungruel and the Lom
The Warden’s Mark
Waters and Mirrors
Novels
Mr. Hancock’s Signature
The Sisters Will Dance
Visit us online today for these and other, great upcoming stories of magic and stars.
www.flatlandfiction.com
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