by Aaron Crash
It was obviously a sweet shop, selling candy.
He pushed through the door. A bell tinkled merrily. Inside, Sunfire candles flickered. A real fire burned in a happy little stove built into the wall. Around it were shelves. Ribboned packages, each containing a pastry or intricate sculpture, sat on the polished wood in a vast array of colors. The right side of the shop had rock shelves holding more candy figures fashioned from a dark, waxy-looking substance.
Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he drew the hood back to reveal his long dark-blond hair, tied back in a queue down his back. He sniffed, and delicious smells made his stomach growl. The wooden floorboards creaked under his boots as he stepped over to the stone shelves. He put out a hand and felt the supernatural cold. It made him queasy. Fucking magic.
He squinted. What was this xocalati? And why did they need to keep it cold? While the prices of the candies were low—a few coppers could get you an orange droplet—the xocalati was priced in gold and platinum.
Ymir couldn’t imagine what kind of delicacy you could charge platinum for.
The counter was a stone slab with more shelves carefully cut into the front, full of the xocalati figures—a unicorn, a rabbit, and a happy little cherub. A cash box sat on the left corner. On the right sat a bronze pedestal with a bronze pole running down the center. A little colorful carpet circled the pole, holding a little office complete with a desk and a cushioned chair behind it. Tiny pieces of paper, a minute pen, and a little inkwell sat on the desktop.
The pedestal was strange. Behind the counter, things were stranger. A gauzy curtain separated the front from the back. Behind the gossamer fabric, someone rocked in a chair, silhouetted by more of the magical Sunfire candles. The figure’s hands moved, assembling another candy sculpture, tying a ribbon around it, and then setting it on a nearby table.
Ymir felt icy fingers flicker up his spine, and his hand immediately went to the Black Ice Ring he kept in its own pouch on his belt.
Would his feet float off the ground? That still happened, as did the visions he couldn’t control, showing him things he couldn’t comprehend.
Ymir growled, “Jelu inanis.” Most of the time, that shook away the magic. It was a simple Flow negation spell, enough to stop the sorcery from taking over.
Something giggled in a corner, then fluttered by him and giggled some more. He didn’t have his hatchet, nor his battle ax, but he had taken to carrying a dagger at his side. The knife was eight inches of silver-colored steel—a gift from Jenny along with the waterproof cloak. He’d accepted the gifts, had kissed her, but he didn’t like them. They felt like charity.
He had his own bag of shecks from his river deck winnings, but it was shrinking. Word had gotten out in StormCry, the village below Vempor’s Cape, that only a fool gambled with the clansman from the university. He needed a new way to make money. If he could pay the tuition, he wouldn’t need to do the work study, and he’d be free of Gurla and her prickly ways.
The room went silent except for the someone rocking in her chair, humming to herself. It was a her, and she sounded old.
He lifted his voice, “Greetings to the shopkeeper! You have a potential customer. I want to know what xocalati might be.”
The figure stopped rocking. “Ziziva?” the crone called out.
More giggles. Something yanked on his hair. He reached for it only to get his ear tweaked. In a flash of whirring wings, a slender body flew away from him. She was about twelve inches tall, with a gossamer-thin gown that caught every bit of light in the room and glowed in a rainbow of radiance.
With her curves, it was a definite lady thing. She landed on the counter, her bare feet on the stone. She let out a little gasp, then leapt up onto the pedestal, swinging around the central bronze pole.
“Oh, he’s a big one, Nan, the big bully of a barbarian, a clansman from the north, Ymir, son of my thumb.” She held out her little hand and popped up her thumb. This tiny woman was silly, only she wasn’t a woman. She was a fairy. Her dress continued to glimmer, like dew on grass in a dream. Her little ears, slightly pointed, stuck out of short hair the color of spun gold. She had bright blue eyes, full of sneak and thievery. An upturned nose and wide, full lips made her look like she’d kiss you, laugh like she’d love you forever, and then cut your throat.
She continued to spin around the pole. “I’m talking with the customer, Nan, so you can make the candy, candy, candy.”
Ymir had seen other fairies at Old Ironbound. However, this was the first time he’d ever talked with one. There were no fairies in his classes.
He grinned. The day had turned interesting. “So, your name is Ziziva.”
She stopped, shrugged, and grinned dreamily. “And you’re Ymir. You play the river deck well. You’re smart. And dangerous. And you have the magic.” She giggled. “As much as you big things can have the magic. You don’t know. You pretend. We of the Fayee know.” She flung herself off the pedestal, flew low, and cried out in a squeak of a voice, “Jelu inanis!” The rainwater he’d traipsed in vanished from the floor.
She flickered through the air and stopped to float in front of him. “You had a question. Open your palm. Let me land and stand on your big, big hand. And I will answer your question.”
Ymir sincerely didn’t know if he wanted this strange womanly thing to touch him. Out of all the races of the south, the fairies were by far the most dangerous—not physically, but they could cast spells that drove a person insane.
Yet, however strange, the fairy was beautiful. His eyes went to the line of her cleavage in her gown. For being only an inch of tit, the sight certainly was alluring.
She saw it. “Oh, Ymir wants to look at me, little Ziziva.” She drew a hand down her dress and touched her tiny breast. She popped a single pink-nippled breast out of her gown.
If only he was far smaller, he’d have so much fun with her chest.
She giggled again. “The heat in your eyes. The rise of your uht. But you and I could never, ever be together. Could be together never.” Buzzing this way and that, she then spun around three times and put her hands together as if to plead with him. “Silly Ymir, let me land calmly on your sweaty palm, on you, and we can chat about the candy and the cookies and your cock.”
He opened his palm, a wry smile on his face. He was being foolish, but he liked this little thing and her brazen ways. He sent a prayer to the Shieldmaiden, who might have mercy on him, though the Axman never would. It was said the Shieldmaiden found mercy for horny men. How else could any clansman find heaven?
The fairy landed on his open palm.
Her pleasant perfume touched his nose. She barely weighed a thing, and yet, he could feel her tiny feet on his skin. She walked over, pulled up his thumb, and leaned casually against it. “And so, you have questions about our xocalati? It is a sweet, made from cream and a new kind of sweet called sugar, which is sweeter than your bad ol’ beet sprinkles, and a bean from far to the south, where the Wingkin ride the clouds over jungles and mountains and monsters and dragons.” She giggled again. “Oh, no, silly Ymir, there are no dragons anymore. Bless my wings and bless your heart. Would you like to try a little xocalati?”
Ymir glanced at the woman rocking on the other side of the curtain. “Hey, Nan, is your candy safe? It won’t kill me, will it? I am not sure I trust your shopgirl.”
The crone laughed. “No, child, no. It will make you return, however. You will tell all your friends because it is delicious. You shouldn’t trust Ziziva. She’s a Fayee salesgirl!”
The fairy fluttered up, kissed his cheek, and then spun around, flying back to the counter. She floated over the rock, then happily called out, “Caelum caelarum!” A wooden tray drifted up from behind the counter. On it was a tree of xocalati and a small knife, a veritable sword for the fairy girl.
She took it in both hands, arms straining, and then hacked off a limb of the tree. It would be an entire meal for her. It would only be a little mouthful for Ymir.
She set the t
wo-handed sword on her shoulder. “Okay, silly barbarian, you take that and put it in your mouth, on your tongue, and let it melt. It’s sweet. I’d be sweeter if a little tangier, and maybe someday you’ll lick me from my dirt box to the tippy clitty of my honeypot. You are a handsome one. The stories didn’t lie.”
The fairy was a saucy one. For her to be so vulgar after just meeting him meant she might be playing games. He approached the counter cautiously. “I could lick you now.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re much too big! Silly! And I’m much too small. Eat the xocalati! But slow, slow to enjoy, enjoy.”
He stood at the counter. “So fairies aren’t related to elves, are they?”
She stuck out her tongue. “Ew. The Fayee are the Fayee, and the Ohlyrra are the Ohlyrra, and no, but you see us all as Fallen Fruit people. But who planted the trees? And who profited?” A glint of greed filled the fairy’s blue eyes. For a second, he wondered if her entire persona wasn’t a performance. Was she acting like how he thought a fairy should act?
“I imagine there are books in the Librarium on the Fayee,” he said.
“There are,” she replied. “And maybe some are right, but most are wronger. But you tarry, terribly, Ymir, and your poor tummy hasn’t found a yummy like this. Your tongue will thank me.”
Ymir took the little candy tree branch. He set it on his tongue. Immediately, the richness made him salivate. At first, he thought it was only sweet, just another piece of candy, and then he tasted the bitterness. Creamy, sweet, and bitter, and before he knew it, the xocalati had melted away.
He immediately wanted more. “I see the appeal. I don’t understand why you just now opened your shop before Solstice Day. Why not wait until after the scholars return?”
“So much curious and in such a comely package. Here I thought we’d only be talking about your uht.” Ziziva laughed. “Nan had to rent the space quick, and I needed a job quick, and yes, she should’ve come earlier, or come later, but now she has her shop. And you’ll buy several pounds worth of xocalati. She’ll make her rent easily. You can eat our sculptures, or you can eat our squares, you can even drink the xocalati hot. Or in kaif, and yes, we’ll be fine. Happy Solstice to you! We long for the light.”
“We long for the light,” he agreed. “On the Ax Tundra, there is only darkness now, and the sun might shine for an hour, if we are lucky, and it will be gone forever if we’re not.”
“A dry place is your tundra,” the fairy said softly. “We of the Fayee live among the rivers and lakes of Thera here and there, mostly here, but a few journeyed there, to Reytah to the south, and that is where we first found the xocalati. At long last the Wingkin are ready to share their wonders with the world.”
Ymir barely heard her. He was thinking of his clan, and while they knew about Solstice Day, it wasn’t anything to celebrate. They didn’t have light. They endured and waited for the true holiday, the Long Light, in the summer, where the darkness barely kissed their lands. In the warmth of those interminable days there was water, and marshes, and life.
“A hard, cold life to the hard, cold north.” Ziziva went around her pedestal pole again. She laughed. “But you do well with the contracts. It’s how you know Pidgin so well. Because of those Summertown merchants and the pelts they bought, the pelts, the elk leather, and the salt. That good clan salt. Yes, yes, very fine, and thank you very much.”
The little fairy caught herself being too serious. “Would you like to see my ass? It’s small but shapely. I bet you would love a peek. But you have to ask me nicely.”
Nan, from the back room, was suspiciously silent. She rocked, she wove ribbons around her candies, and she hummed and murmured every now and again.
Ymir thought maybe Nan and this fairy were selling more than just sweets. The fairy couldn’t be so flirty and bold with all her customers, could she?
Ymir dug into the pocket of his robes. He came out with a leather bag, bulging with his shecks. He took out a gold coin, trying hard to justify the expense. “Maybe another time, little one.”
That Ziziva harrumphed and crossed her pale arms over her little chest. “Little one? I might be small, but I’m no child. I’ve seen sixty-six summers, have I. How many have you seen?”
“Twenty-five.” An idea struck him bitterly—he’d likely seen his last tundra summer. No more long days with the midnight sun streaming down on Lost Herot, the meeting hall of all the clans, where they would feast and drink and fight. His twenty-fifth summer he’d spent walking from Winterhome to Old Ironbound—floating in his sleep and seeing visions and trying not to go mad.
Ziziva didn’t giggle. She stared up at him, a certain wisdom on her face. “Twenty-five sad summers? You look so sad.”
He shrugged. “I won’t be sad for long. I’d like to buy a bit of your xocalati. I think it will be the perfect gift for some of my friends.”
The fairy snapped her fingers and cast another Moons spell. “Caelum caelarum! I have just the thing for you and your friends.”
What she had for him made him both smile and sigh. It was perfect, but it brought back memories of a time when he was a prince with a bright future and a past full of victories.
Chapter Two
YMIR KEPT THE COLORFUL package under his cloak as he trudged the rest of the way up the stairs. His boots went from brown to black. One tavern was open, and he considered stopping for a beer.
No, Jenny would have beer for him in her apartment at the top of the cliffs. He reached the Flow courtyard and took a moment to admire the Flow Tower and the Librarium Citadel in front of him. Special lights wreathed both buildings, giving them a cheery flicker. The blurring rain, however cold, made them especially pretty—buttery warm sparkles in the cold evening light. Away from the ocean, it was warmer, but not by much.
He saw a familiar figure through a window. Even from a distance, her square jaw and long white hair were visible—as was her green skin. Gatha shouldn’t have to be working on the eve before a holiday, and yet she was, shelving books on the Coruscation Shelves. For a second, her face was visible in the crackle of lightning that swept across the books, keeping their iron bindings free of rust.
She must’ve sensed him because she went to the window to look down on him.
He lifted a hand. A friendly wave.
She didn’t wave back. Turning, she continued to push a trolley past other windows.
Ymir laughed. “I do enjoy her scorn. Winning her wouldn’t be half as amusing.” He was satisfied with the two women in his life. However, he could see the appeal of trying to seduce the she-orc. It would require both his cunning and his combat skills, or so he’d heard. Orcs only respected strength in battle, even in the bedroom. He had thumbed through some biology books to confirm that her oheesy didn’t have tusks. No, her only tusks were hidden away in her jaws. She could snap them out in a moment—he’d seen her do it.
Ymir took a moment to make sure no spies saw him. At this stage, Ymir and Jennybelle were still in hiding. The Swamp Coast women had chosen Ymir to marry the Firstborn princess of Josentown, Arribelle Josen. That wasn’t going to happen, not after Jenny had slept with him.
He didn’t see anyone looking, and so he walked under the covered corridor to the swamp woman’s suite. He keyed through the door and closed it behind him. He hung both his cloak and his robes on hooks in the entryway. The familiar room made him smile. To his left was the bathroom, a tiled paradise of comfort. To his right, the bedroom, done in blacks and scarlets, and equally comfortable. Before him was the main room, where a fire burned, and the setting sun marked the western sky, reddening the dark clouds. The scent of the mulled wine, cooking in a pot over the fire, sweetened the air.
More lights were strung on the walls here and around a sanctum tree, a little sapling in a colorful pot. That too was filled with lights, illuminated by Moons magic, since it was a soft silver light and not the bright flicker of the Sunfire candles.
A huge sanctum tree filled the Chapel of the Tree ov
er on the Moons campus. It was part of the main religion on Thera, where women drank the sap of the sanctum tree to get pregnant. Without the tea, they were barren. Even with it, the chances of having a boy were low as a result of the Withering.
Jenny sat at her desk, behind the sofa where he’d first seen her naked. She turned in her chair to smile. “Well, now, there he is.” A black shawl, embroidered with red roses, covered her lacy black dress. Black hair, blue eyes—Jennybelle Josen was curvy, luscious, and far shorter than both he and Lillee.
“Where is our Sullied elf?” Ymir asked.
Jenny rolled her eyes then peppered her annoyance with a sigh. “Where do you think? In her room, either writing, drawing, or singing. Of course Lillee wanted to be alone before all of the togetherness of Solstice Day. That girl. I’m just glad I ain’t her.”
“Why’s that?” Ymir kept the package behind him. So far, Jenny hadn’t noticed.
Jenny made a face. “She is complicated. I mean, I guess I would be too if I could turn my lust off. She just gets so artsy and dreamy, you know? Like part of her isn’t around even when the rest of her is. Unless we’re in bed; then she’s there all right. Ain’t no doubt about it.”
Jenny’s accent made him smile. “In the Black Wolf Clan, there were people like her, those who need time alone. I myself have grown to enjoy my solitude. You, however, could be around people all the time.”
“It’s how I grew up.” Jenny leaned back in her creaking chair. “There was always a ton of us girls, all playing and running and scheming.”
“Like Nellybelle?”
