by N. D. Wilson
“I want one, too,” said Anastasia.
Something thumped against the door.
“The Blackstar?” Frank asked again. “Nimweasle’s Blackstar?”
Una stepped around in front of Henry, forcing him to look into her eyes. “Henry, what bargain?”
Again, the door thumped, and the Chestnut King threw it open. The raggant walked into the room, and Beo leapt in beside him. Behind them both, two rows of bizarrely armed and helmeted faeren stood stiffly. Jacques stood in front.
“Rags,” Henry said, and he turned to the king. “He looks great.”
“We tended to him,” the king said, and nodded. The two lines of faeren moved into the room, crowding Henry and the others back into the wall. Richard pressed up against Henry on one side, and the girls on the other. Fat Frank stood defensively in front of them. The raggant climbed up onto the table and sat beside the Blackstar. Beo sat in a corner and watched with ears up. The faeren each wore a breastplate like Frank’s—deep, glossy, grained, and sucked on to their different shapes. And they each carried an oversize chestnut mace, though only Jacques and Frank held maces with three knobs. And they were all—all but Frank—wearing green spiked helmets to match their maces. The room was restless with breathing, and the faeren lines still overflowed into the hall. The king waded through them like a great, bearded, floating island until he stood beside Henry. He set a green disk covered with spines on top of Frank’s head. It molded and shaped itself to the faerie’s skull, flaring out below his jaw and rounding above and around his eyes. A long spike crawled down above the faerie’s nose, almost to his lip. When the helmet had stopped growing, it creaked and crackled and hardened in place. The tips of every spike tightened and browned.
Richard cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the voice of the Chestnut King boomed over the spiked helmets.
“Soldiers, faeren of Glaston’s Barrow, brothers to the king, we go to war, we cross boundaries into the territory of the queene.”
The faeren cheered, and the king raised his hands. “We cross boundaries between worlds. Again, Endor rises. Nimiane, witch-queen, enthrones herself an empress in Dumarre. We will strike her down.”
The room was silent but for Beo’s panting and the sound of faeries shifting on their feet.
“King,” Jacques said. “Is this our fight? Can her evil reach us here?” Mutters and whispers moved through the room.
Nudd’s face flushed, and his beard rose and fell with the heaving of his chest. “Silence! Jacques is in the right. Her evil cannot reach us here. Let us burn the ancient three-mace trees and close off the ancient ways. Tear down the tower, the crown of our barrow, and let us hide ourselves from evil. Let no one leave the mound, and if evil grows, we shall flee farther.”
The king chewed on his lower lip, glowering at the room. Every pair of faeren eyes was down. Jacques, where skin peeked out of his helmet, was pink.
“No!” Nudd roared. “Let evil hear the pounding of our feet! Let evil hear our drumming and our chanting songs of war. Let evil fear us! Let evil flee! In any world, may dark things know our names and fear. May their vile skins creep and shiver at every mention of the faeren. Let the night flee before the dawn and darkness crowd into the shadows. We march to war!”
Nudd threw his arms up toward the ceiling, and the chestnut lights surged into a blaze. The shout that rose up with the king’s thick arms forced Henry back into the table. Fists and maces climbed with the yelling voices, and the faeren of Glaston’s Barrow began to stomp in time. Henry blinked in shock and felt his sister and his cousin grab at his shirt. Fat Frank’s cry rose up louder than any other, and his mace swung laps in time with the drumming of his feet. The raggant’s wings were flared, and Richard, flushed red with shouting, pounded his fists against the earthen wall.
He was the last to quiet when the king raised his hands. The room was more than restless now. Helmets bounced and feet tapped. Maces rolled across breastplates.
“An age ends,” the Chestnut King said. “As you have known, I will not be with you long. My centuries have past, and another rises to lead you. You see before you Maccabee, called Henry, dandelion green, seventh son to Mordecai Westmore, seventh to Amram Iothric—before him may the witch-queen fall and Endor green! Beneath him may the roots of Glaston’s Barrow deepen, and the faeren peoples bloom, for he will be your Chestnut King!”
Fat Frank spun around and looked at Henry. Una grabbed two handfuls of his shirt. Richard, Anastasia, and half the room cheered.
“He’s human!” someone yelled.
“Human by birth,” said Nudd. “As was I, and the king before me. But he will not be human long, and this world will be his own.” Reaching beneath his beard, Nudd removed a necklace and held it high—a solid ring of silver with simple hooked ends for a clasp. Pierced in the center, with its eye out, there was a single, perfect chestnut. Nudd hooked it around Henry’s neck. “He is my heir,” he said. “And he leads you to war.”
“To war!” a small faerie yelled, raising his mace, and Henry almost laughed, recognizing Thorn. No one joined in.
Nudd took Henry by the shoulder and led him through the quiet crowd to an overloaded bookshelf.
“In happier times,” he said, “there was a door connecting the royal chambers in the barrow of the king to the same in the palace of the queene. There is a three-mace tree in the hills north of Dumarre, but this will bring you there with greater speed. The former queene was a lover of courts and cities, and her palace has a doorway into Dumarre.”
Nudd gripped the side of the bookshelf and pulled it, grinding, away from the wall. A wooden door, nearly black and covered with cobwebs, was inset into the hard earthen wall. It was covered with dusty carvings of rabbits and flowers, trees heavy with fruit, and two people who were apparently in love. Henry thought they would have looked better if they’d been wearing a bit more, but he had much bigger things on his mind.
“We’re going into the Faerie Queene’s bedroom?” he asked.
Nudd nodded. “That you are, lad.”
The faeren eventually reformed their double column, beginning at the cobwebbed door. Jacques and Frank stood at the front, ignoring each other. Richard had been fully armed, and Anastasia, who had been given only a knife, stood between him and Una. At least she had Beo. The dog had always liked Henrietta better than anyone, but Anastasia seemed to be the next best thing. His big head was under her arm, and he was tall enough for her to lean on his shoulder. She had already told Richard that his lips and his helmet made him look like a puffer fish, and even though she’d been right, Una had made her apologize. Everyone was waiting for Henry. He had left the room with the fat king, and when he walked back in alone, he looked pale, and he’d tucked his new necklace into his sweatshirt. A chestnut breastplate had been sucked on to him, but he’d refused to wear the helmet. Watching him move toward the door, Anastasia felt pride bubble up inside of her. It was hard not to be proud. He was her cousin. They shared blood. And he’d been smart enough to realize that he’d look stupid in one of the faerie helmets.
Henry reached the front of the double faeren column and looked back. He’d thrown up in the hall, but only the king had seen him. Twice. But he hadn’t cried. There wasn’t any point, and he’d felt too sick. This was it. Win or lose, dead or alive, he was done with his world. He puffed out his cheeks, looked at Fat Frank, wished he had a mint or some gum, then looked back at all the waiting faeren. He cleared his throat. He couldn’t just open the door and march in. What were all these faeries thinking? He was supposed to be their king? He was nothing next to Nudd.
“I don’t want to be your king any more than you want me,” he said. “But I made a promise.” He swallowed. “I just want to fight beside you. And I want to kill the witch.”
“Up, Henry!” Thorn shouted, and this time, voices joined in. Fat Frank began to stomp, and every foot found the time. Henry smiled. He had one hundred and sixty-four faeries, armed and marching. If he had to die, it w
as a good sight to end on. He looked at his sister and his cousin and Richard, the faeren warrior. He wished there was somewhere safe for them, somewhere better than a battle. But he’d left fingerlings in Hylfing, and there was nowhere else for them to go. If he had his cupboard, he could send them to Kansas. If he lived and one of them didn’t …
Fat Frank began to sing, chanting as he stomped, and while Henry had never heard the song, the faeren knew it well. They all joined in—even Jacques—and dirt rained down from the ceiling.
How mighty were the faeren kings
who cropped the wizards’ beards
and stole away the giants’ rings
and pierced Behemoth’s ears?
Old Alfred fell, but the faeren stood,
run plead for help in the wizard wood,
the faeren go to war, to war,
the faeren go to war.
Hide all the beasties,
warn all the priesties,
the faeren go to war.
“Henry!” Una yelled beside him, as the walls and ceiling shook. He turned and looked into his sister’s worried face. “Happy birthday.”
He tried to smile, but couldn’t.
She shook her head. “That was no bargain.”
“I know,” he said, and he shouldered open the door.
Wood splintered and snapped, glass shattered, and Henry staggered into a bright yellow room before tripping on a toppled hutch and falling onto soft carpet.
Rolling onto his side, the voices and the stomping grew louder, and the faerie column marched in after him.
Henry reached his knees and looked back at the wall. The door had torn through some kind of plaster and knocked over a hutch full of crystal. Henry sneezed. By the smell of it, there had been perfumes.
“Hello? Who are you? What’s going on?”
Henry turned and saw, sitting primly behind a delicate desk, a young faeren girl laced up in one of the most awkward dresses he had ever seen. Her face was pretty but powdered to a shade of death, and a gold lace crown looked bolted to a coil of red braids on the top of her head. An old skeletal faerie, with big glasses on his nose and wearing a long black coat, bent over her desk, pointing at papers. He must have been more than deaf—neither Henry nor the crash nor the chanting, stomping faeries seemed to draw his attention.
“Here, Majesty,” he said, tapping the desk. “Your seal here as well.”
“Excuse us!” Henry shouted. “Where’s the door to Dumarre? We’ll just get out of your way.”
The Faerie Queene stood up and walked out from behind her desk. The old faerie didn’t notice. He turned over another parchment and began tapping his bone finger.
“Who are you?” the queene asked again. Henry stood slowly. Fat Frank leapt in front of him and dropped to one knee, tugging at his helmet, but it wouldn’t come off his head.
“Majesty,” Frank said, “I am humbly, and often faithfully, your servant. I have had some difficulties with a district ruling …”
“Rise,” the queene said, and tapped Frank’s helmet. “With whom do I speak?”
Frank stood but kept his chin down. “You speak to the future Chestnut King on his way to war.”
“King?” the queene asked. Her eyes grew. “War?” She looked at Una and Anastasia and then back to the armed faeries.
“Yes,” Henry said. “I don’t really have time to explain, but we need a door to Dumarre. I heard there was one in your palace.”
“There are several,” said the queene. “Long out of use but not so long as the door you have just entered. What part of the city?”
Henry tried to think. What parts were there? But the thumping and shouting were too much. “Hey!” he yelled back at the faeries. “Hold off for a minute.” The columns quieted, and more than a few of the spiny-headed soldiers looked disappointed, especially those standing on the back of the broken hutch. “The harbor.” He’d leave some of the faeries there to stop the galley. If they’d beaten it.
“Which harbor?”
“The one, on …” Henry scratched his jaw.
“The western sea, Majesty,” said Fat Frank.
She looked at him and smiled. “My name is Alma.”
“And mine is Franklin, Majesty.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “We need whatever doorway is closest to the western harbor.”
Small, armed faeries in puffy, short pants thundered up a flight of stairs and into the queene’s room. They stopped, panting, staring at the columns of faeren sticking out of the wall.
The queene turned to her guard. “Escort them to the second courtyard, the southeastern door.”
Confused but obedient, the guards turned.
“Here, Majesty,” the old faerie clerk said. “Set your seal here.”
“Wait.” Alma, the queene, smiled at Una and Anastasia. “Do they go to war as well? Will you return this way? I am not often allowed the pleasure feminine guests can provide.”
“They can’t stay,” Henry said. “They’re human. They’ll get bonded, won’t they? Stuck? Can’t ever go home?”
The queene laughed. “Maybe in the Old World but not here. This palace is built with common mound magic, hidden in the human world, attached to the old. No one wants to snatch them up.”
Henry looked at his sister.
“Please?” Anastasia asked. “Henrietta’s met a queen before.”
There was no joy in Una’s eyes when she nodded at her brother. Even less when he nodded back and began to turn away. She knew what he faced, and she knew the cost of losing. Now she knew the cost of winning.
“Brother,” she said, and he stopped. Beo turned in a circle around him. “You are strong, Henry. Like our father.” She raised her hand, and he raised his.
“Good-bye, Franklin,” the queene said, and Fat Frank nearly burst off his breastplate, folding himself in half, bowing as he backed down the stairs.
The line of faeren moved through the room, smiling, waving, and hopping, while the queene and the two girls watched.
Una sank to the floor. Anastasia looked down at her and then dropped beside her. She knew the risks, too. Or she thought she did.
“Henry will win,” she said. “He’ll be back. Zeke beat the witch once with a baseball bat. I saw him do it.”
Una smiled at her cousin.
“You know,” Anastasia said, “we should have just killed the witch then. I had a knife. I could have done it. Penny wouldn’t let me.”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” Una said. “The witch isn’t like us.”
“Maybe,” said Anastasia. “Maybe not. I shouldn’t have listened to Pen. I should have tried.”
“If you’d gotten her blood on you, you’d be dead.”
Anastasia sniffed. “Henry got her blood on him, and he’s not dead.”
“Henry’s strong,” said Una.
“Up,” said the queene, smiling above them. “I can’t have ladies as guests talking about blood and death on the floor of my chambers. What shall I show you?”
In the second courtyard, three fountains burbled. The queene’s palace had been a strange cross between the wildness of the mound Henry had explored and escaped with Fat Frank’s help—bending passages, swirling confusions of stairways, magically tangled—and something orderly and marbleized, more like a museum than anything else. At least it seemed like it was supposed to be orderly, but that wasn’t really something that worked for faeren. Even the straight hallways had a little rise and fall or bend or narrowing. And the second courtyard was actually on a slope. Two different doors could have passed as the southeastern, but only one of them had smoke trailing in at its sides.
Henry nodded at the puffy-panted guards, and the door was opened. Coughing, tugging his sweatshirt up over his mouth, he stepped out of the doorway and onto a narrow cobbled street. Below him, the harbor was surrounded by flames thrashing in the wind. Every building around the wharf was burning. A dozen barges, loaded down with goods and people, poled toward the sea gate. Others, t
oo slow, sank in flames. The water was full of swimmers. Bodies of red-shirted soldiers were scattered in the streets. From all over the city, alarm bells rang.
Jacques and Frank stepped beside Henry while the column filed into the street.
The galley, even if they had beaten it, wouldn’t be coming here. But the galley had already come. The fight had started, and he knew his father’s wind.
“The war begins without us,” Jacques said.
“No matter,” said Frank. “We bring the finish.”
Henry turned up the street, and he began to run.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Frank banged his aching head against the side of the wagon as it bounced through the streets. Wind whistled in the gaps, shrill enough to be heard above the clatter and the shouting and the howling. Monmouth was unconscious but breathing. Hyacinth held her son’s head on her lap while he dragged in painful breaths, and Isa ran her hands through his hair. Frank’s arms were around his wife and daughter. He’d tried to fight when James and Monmouth had attacked the fingerling, but he hadn’t done much good. He’d blackened a soldier’s eye and received a cracked rib for his trouble. He bounced again and slammed his back into the wall, and then the wagon was tipping, leaning to the side. With a crash, their box-cage hopped in the air, then shook and rocked as it landed. They’d been righted, and the wagon raced on, even as an invisible body tumbled across the roof.
When the wagon stopped, the shouting lessened and then finally faded completely. Someone thumped on the outside, and chains rattled loose. The small hatch opened in the back, and two helmeted men in black, fingerlings, grabbed Monmouth’s ankles and pulled him out. When he was gone, they reached for James and pulled him away from Hyacinth and Isa.
A silver helmet with black eyeholes leaned into the wagon. “Out,” it said. “Quickly.” He reached for Penelope’s leg, but Frank kicked his arm away and slid himself toward the hatch. The fingerling grabbed his feet and jerked him out of the wagon. He bounced on cobbles, and for a moment, with his vision blurring, he lay still, staring at the smoky sky. They were in a walled courtyard. On one side, the mounded roofs of a palace grew into broad-shouldered towers. Two red-shirts gripped his arms and lifted him to his feet. The girls and their mothers were lifted from the wagon and handed to soldiers. Penelope kicked a fingerling and landed her other foot in the stomach of a soldier before her arms were pinned behind her back.
