by Ken Altabef
Coming straight from the great faery’s lips the tale had extra weight, but still Theodora could hardly believe it. “That was thousands of years ago.”
“The skies turn slowly, Clarimonde. And everything comes round the circle in time. I tell you, I feel it. I feel its hot breath on my neck. It is coming back.”
“I think I feel it too,” she admitted. “There’s a restlessness that I’ve never felt before, a stinging itch just beneath the surface. It frightens me.”
“We must stop it. There is too much at stake. The weapon is our only chance.”
The weapon. The Silvered Lens. It was a relic of that earlier time, crafted by Janus, the two-faced god of beginnings and endings, and powered by the goddess Luna, who used the lens to bend the silver light of the moon to strike at the monster.
The faeries knew the Graysons had it, or did have it, as recently as fifty years ago. Griffin had used it against them, wielding it like the wrath of the gods themselves as he burned their homes and villages and drove them underground. For, just as the lens burned the Chrysalid, it was likewise deadly to faery-folk, the bastard children of the creature who’d spawned them. The children of its madness.
“We must have it,” insisted Moon Dancer. “And a human agent to wield it for us.”
“Amalric will remain our agent in the matter. I’ve seen to that.”
“And what is your progress on finding it? That is the most important question.”
Theodora sighed. “None.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Moon Dancer. Her entire image seemed to slump into the great ash tree.
“What can I do?” asked Theodora. “Eric won’t speak of it.”
Moon Dancer’s pale face appeared again, with a terrible glint in her cool blue eyes. “Perhaps it is time to consider a more direct approach.”
“What? Reveal myself and tell him the truth?” The idea was so distasteful to her it made her head spin. She’d been lying to him for ten years. Ten years! She had deceived him every day and every night. She didn’t think she could ever bring herself to admit that to his face. Not to Eric. She couldn’t do it. “There’s good reason we didn’t tell them in the first place. The humans hate us. They’ll never trust us. It won’t work.”
Was that true, she wondered. True of Eric?
She really didn’t know. Well, certainly when they had first met, ten years ago, with his family still warm in their graves, dead of the Rot. Certainly that young man wouldn’t have believed her story. But so much had happened since then, so much had passed between them. Eric kept very few secrets from her. Only the most important one. The location of the relic. If she unburdened herself, if she told him the truth at last…
Moon Dancer scowled. “Force it out of him.”
“I won’t,” said Theodora. “I can’t.”
“Foolish girl. You think you love him.”
Chapter 17
Disapproval ran deep in Moon Dancer’s eyes as the white and yellow faery lights flickered past. The moment stretched. Eventually Moon Dancer broke her silence with a whisper, “I thought I was in love once too. Let me tell you of it. His name was Phillip, the son of Charles the First, the King of Spain. He was fifteen when we first met beneath the olive trees at Palacio de Pimentel. The year was 1542. I was almost a hundred by then, but still young and foolish. And Phillip was… he was so beautiful, so loving. His lips, his tongue… such passion. I’ve never found the same in anyone else all the years since. But that’s first love for you. First love. Only love…
“Of course I maintained a glamour—not nearly as long as you have, my dear—but long enough to penetrate the royal court. I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mother, Isabella, adored me. They all did, back then, everyone at court. It was a wonder, the Castilian court—full of artists and musicians, composers and swordsmen, priests and alchemists. The pageantry, the fine food and wine, the philosophical discussions we would have late into the night, the music, all the finest things human society could possibly claim. I cared for none of it, of course. I only had eyes for Phillip.
“Well, you can guess how this story ends. Europe was changing, everything was changing. Phillip would soon take the reins of the Spanish Empire from his flighty father. I played the lowborn country girl as you’ve had to do as well. But Phillip couldn’t care less about my station. His path was clear. He would be King of Spain, and England and Ireland too. He loved me, no matter the circumstances of my birth. That was what I thought. I was sure of it. So one evening, with the taste of sweet custard and marzipan still on my tongue, I decided to be honest, to reveal to the prince what I really was. What drove me to do that, I can’t even say. Was it pride? Some perverse need for honesty? I can’t say.”
Theodora recoiled at the description of a need for honesty as perverse. She had maintained her lie for so many years it had become a sort of a truth unto itself. To reveal the truth now would bring it all down, to shatter the house of cards wherein she kept her residence, to unveil all the lies that were her life. She wanted to hold onto the illusion forever. Honesty? She was either too smart or too much of a coward for that.
“So I told him,” Moon Dancer continued. “Damn it, I showed him. On that moonlit night, among the rowans and mulberry trees, I danced for him."
"And then?"
"Well, you certainly know I didn’t become the faery Queen of England and Spain… I won't try to describe the pain I felt. It wasn't just the rejection, but how easily he found it to cast me aside. He slapped my face!”
Moon Dancer retreated into the ash tree for a moment and Theodora closed her eyes. Her own heart was pounding. How close, she wondered, was she to suffering the same terrible fate? It seemed a towering disaster just waiting to come crashing down. It gave her little solace to think that Moon Dancer had suffered a similar pain and survived it. Theodora had no illusions of being as strong-willed as this great faery.
When she opened her eyes again Moon Dancer had returned. “I still feel the sting of that slap two hundred years later. He could accept me as a commoner, yes, he could accept that. If only I’d been merely a harlot, or a secret murderer, or even a Protestant! He would’ve strung the naysayers from the rafters, burned public opinion to ash. But a faery! No, never that. He loved me—I am sure of it—but he could not accept what I really am. You can’t trust love, my dear. It’s an illusion every bit as much as the glamour we use to barter for it. It isn’t real.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. That I don’t know enough about Eric, that I don’t understand the bond you think you’ve built between the two of you. But how can it be real, my darling? When it’s all based on lies?”
“It’s based on feelings,” said Theodora. “What else matters?”
“The only thing that matters is getting hold of that relic. We must. If you can’t do it, I’ll send someone else.”
Theodora stiffened her spine. “If I can’t, then no one can.”
“I believed that once,” said Moon Dancer sadly. “Now I’m not so sure.”
“Don’t lose faith in me, Mother.”
Mother. There, I’ve said it. Theodora had always felt that Moon Dancer was her mother. Maybe they all felt that way. She was such an important figure among them.
Theodora thought she saw a half-smile cross the great faery’s withered lips. It was only the slightest acknowledgment, but it was enough.
“You’ll go ahead,” said Moon Dancer, “but Redthorne will stay close, just in case.” She tilted her head a bit imperiously, like a queen playing both sides. But maybe that was the nature of wisdom, really. Realizing it was best to cover all bases.
“Now,” said Moon Dancer with a flourish, “let’s get you all charged up. You’ve waited long enough. You must be exhausted.”
Theodora was exhausted. She lay down between two of the great white ash’s gigantic taproots. Her head nestled comfortably against the mossy bark, her mother’s arms swept down from the tree to wrap themselves comfortin
gly around her whole body. Her eyes closed, and she let go of all illusion. As it was, she had just barely maintained her human glamour over the past few days. The mask had slipped too often, and she’d spent too much precious energy tamping down the rising panic her fear of discovery had brought on. Now she needn’t worry.
With a sense of great peace, her spirit sank down into the tree and joined her mother there at its heart. For a brief moment the two were one again, as they used to be in the old days, those carefree times Moon Dancer had been talking about just a few minutes ago. They splashed in the water of the moon pool, they rolled in fields of heather, they soared skyward like a pair of meteors in reverse. Moon Dancer seemed young and vibrant again, a beautiful faery in her prime and Theodora a babe in her arms, young and innocent, with all the world before her.
The two of them, now joined in spirit, surged together up the length of the great ash tree. The tree was an old and venerable soul, a perfect partner for Moon Dancer to spend eternity with at her end. It had seen many seasons and suffered much, and still had the forbearance to stand and reach for the heavens above. The tree also had a cute sense of humor. Theodora thought the two of them would do very well together.
But for now it was all about going up. Up. The faeries surged, flowing like maple sap through the veins of the tree, breaking the grassy surface of the barrow mound as they raced up the tall trunk. Theodora glimpsed the other faeries still laughing, singing and making love in the meadow below. Those in the dancing circle had now taken the illusion of extravagant ballroom garb, acting out a parody of a courtly waltz. The footmen cantered and bowed low as the ladies hitched up voluminous hooped petticoats of silk and satin and spun round and round. But Theodora was apart from them now, as she was meant to be, not cast aside out of jealousy and recrimination, but bound by a sense of great purpose.
She surged upward, buoyed by her mother’s charm, the two of them flowing hand in hand through the thick arms of the white ash tree, along its slendering branches until they inhabited every leaf at the tip of every branchlet. Theodora paused for a moment to catch her breath. The terrific head rush of the expansion made her dizzy. Then the leaves all turned as one, rotating their broad surfaces to face the light of the Midsummer moon.
The world went white for Theodora. She could no longer hear the revels of the other faeries, nor see the wooded forest of Barrow Downes, the rolling hills of Great Britain or anything else. She could only feel. The power of Mother Moon, the great spirit that ruled over all the fey, embraced her soul. If she had thought the tender caress of Moon Dancer a comfort, this new sensation was an epiphany. Mother Moon was as ancient as time itself; she was strong enough to play catch with the ocean as she lifted and released the tides each day.
The moon’s power filled Theodora with energy and strength and left her trembling with pure joy.
“Thank you,” she said to the moon.
She opened her eyes, finding herself corporeal once again, lying at the foot of the great ash in its cozy underground cavern. Little balls of faery light fluttered all around. She felt so wonderful. The strain of maintaining the human glamour now seemed only a minor task, as easy as breath itself. She was well-prepared for what she had to do.
“Thank you,” she said again. This time her words were meant for Moon Dancer. Theodora sat up, surprised by what she saw in the weathered bark of the ash tree. No trace of her mother's features at all. Moon Dancer should have been flush with power as well, but Theodora could barely sense her now, so far had she submerged within the tree.
No, thought Theodora. Not yet.
She clutched the base of the tree, running her fingers along every crease and crevasse, caressing its surface. She had been granted relief and newfound power, but at what cost? Her dear Moon Dancer had paid the price. She had invested her entire being for this cause. A greater sign of encouragement the ancient faery could not have given.
“Sleep now, Mother," Theodora whispered. "I won’t fail you.”
Chapter 18
It’s like the doctor says, she thought, you don’t know how ill you were truly feeling until you’re back to normal again. This had been a close call, closer than she’d ever imagined. Well, not to worry any more. She had enough glamour now to see it through—to see anything through—no matter what might be required of her in the days ahead.
It was time to go back to Grayson Hall. Meadowlark, once again disguised as Finnegan Stump, was busy cavorting around the faery camp, shouting orders to his hayseed ‘relations’ to ready their cart. But before she left Barrow Downes, Theodora decided to take a stolen moment of her own. She felt such a deep melancholy about the passing of Moon Dancer into the ash tree, especially after the way they had reminisced about the past, recalling all the joyous times of Theodora’s youth. That got her thinking about the Fen and the Patch. She wanted to see them again.
She walked the old pathway, an invisible track that led down a gentle slope toward the base of a tall outcropping of granite and shale. The lumpy gray stone was practically subsumed beneath the wild growth of ivy and Scotch thistle that bordered the meadow. Vines and creeping tendrils snaked up the rock face and along a stand of dwarf pines which stood on its surface like shaggy green pickets.
Back in the halcyon days of her youth the Patch lay snuggled in a secret valley hidden here, a little niche tucked under the sheer mountain face. A vast emerald canopy of ivy arching over the Patch had rendered it completely undetectable from outside. Griffin Grayson’s dogs had rooted it out however, and the land still bore the scars of the crimson fire of the lens device he’d used to burn it down.
Now, a generation later, the canopy had curled back again, but did not completely obscure the niche in the valley. The regrowth covered half of the Patch with purple shadow, but the rest lay exposed to the light. Of course the massive mushrooms of the past were gone now, but as Theodora walked she noted little ones starting to grow. These bore the same wild colors—spots of bright blue and vivid streaks of crimson and yellow. Tiny hopefuls, she was careful not to tread on them.
She was surprised to find anyone else here, but another faery stood on the far side of the little clearing, staring back and away over the burned expanse. Even from the rear it was easy to tell who it was—that shock of red hair in the pixie cut, the slender muscular form dressed in tanned leather. Redthorne.
Redthorne heard her coming, of course. The assassin was aboveground and exposed and therefore mindful of danger. As she whirled around a dagger almost flew from her hand. Theodora gasped. A close call. Redthorne had seen her as a human woman, but had hesitated just long enough to confirm her identity. A well-trained assassin indeed.
Redthorne flipped the dagger in the air and caught it on the way down, stowing it at her hip. “I almost took your head off.”
“Well I’m glad you didn’t. You surprised me too. I didn’t think I’d find anyone here. Why aren’t you celebrating Midsummer’s Day with all the rest?”
Redthorne dismissed Theodora’s question with a petulant shrug. Perhaps she thought it was a barb, or didn’t feel like explaining. She dug the toe of her boot into the soft green loam. “What was it like? Here. Before. The Patch? The Fen? Before those bastards destroyed it all?”
Theodora could not help but smile. She fondly recalled her own childhood. In those days, faery children spent their first three years growing inside huge mushrooms hidden away here in the Patch. They enjoyed an idyllic, joyful existence in a state of total communion within their mushroom hosts. The mushrooms had a playful habit of intensifying the senses, twisting perception with fanciful distortions and bright flashing colors. As the children grew, they took their sustenance directly from moonlight. During those early, tender years fed by that wonderful celestial nursemaid, Theodora experienced sights and sounds no human baby had ever seen. She had developed a profound intimacy with the moon and the various creatures of the field, as well as all the other babies growing alongside her in the Patch.
After hatching
from the mushroom, she spent the next few years in the Fen, an enchanted meadow where faery children were allowed to do whatever they wanted with no adult supervision whatsoever.
She remembered the Fen best as it appeared in nighttime, a magical place of glowing shadows and nocturnal peeping eyes, all washed by the glorious light of Mother Moon. Just before daybreak, when the dew-silvered meadow caught the last sparkles of moonlight, a galaxy of perfect jewels lay atop the grasses, ablaze in silvery light.
By day the Fen was a riot of multicolored radiance, a pasture of lustrous green and yellow grasses, fluffy white dandelion heads and wildflowers in bloom. Bright blue butterflies danced among the trees, nipping at the sumptuous candyfruit hanging heavy from every branch, curious grasshoppers flitted about, and sweet rabbits jutted shyly among the grasses. There was always music in the air, quite literally. Musical notes hung suspended, buzzing in the air all around the faery children like bells waiting to be rung. Walking through them, Theodora’s steps might produce a symphony or a waltz, depending on her mood and the circles and twists her path described.
Nowadays faery children were raised below ground in a dark, dirt-walled cavern. Such a shame.
In the Fen the faery children had played and frolicked endlessly. Because of their mischievous nature they often played jokes on one another, but no one was ever really harmed and all insults playfully shaken off. It was forever Spring, a time of creativity and high emotion, a time when all things seemed possible.
Theodora remembered spending one sleepy afternoon with her friend Katydid, building a house of cards atop a large, flat mushroom head. They were using stroia—paper-thin slices of solidified emotion colored like stained glass. Bright purple meant wonderment and deep scarlet was hatred; jealousy was mustard yellow, rage a dusky orange, kindness and love both held beautiful shades of blue. As the children touched each slice, a tiny spark of its particular emotion shot through their fingertips. Theodora and her friend talked of anything and everything as they piled the wafers high, carefully balancing each upon the next. The conversation inevitably turned to the subject of boys. Katydid was overly preoccupied in determining which of the boys in the Fen Theodora was willing to kiss.
