by Gow, Kailin
And you have taught me so much, Breena. For in your eyes I learned the true makings of a great royal fairy. For it is in your ability to love – not only your love of Feyland, which is so pure and strong that it makes me ashamed of how I forgot my own country-love in the cloud of my hate, but also in your love of your friends and family – your father and mother, your newfound allies Shasta and Rodney, and even (though the thought gives me a pang) Logan. It is your lack of fear in the face of the ancient love-magic, your willingness to challenge these long-held fairy conventions in favor of what you believe to be right and true and good, that makes you such a great fairy.
Ah, Breena, if I could only come to you in person, stretch out my wings to protect you from the sweltering heat of the Summer afternoons and clasp you in my arms, whisper into your shoulder and neck how proud I am of you! For my respect for you, and in all that you have accomplished, has only grown alongside in my love, like two vines twined and flowering together. You give me hope, Breena – that one day, as I learn to come into the kind of strength you display – you and I can rule together as a new kind of royal fairy – growing together. Learning together. Loving together.
That is all that I want. That is all I long for. Oh my darling Breena, how long will it be until that day comes? How long until I can see you again? My eyes are hungry – they are starved for your image, and no amount of feasting them upon beauty here – not upon the Feyland mountains nor the most delicately painted of frescoes – can satiate their unending longing. Come home to me soon, Breena, and end my torment!
Letter 12
My Dearest Breena,
In writing my last letter to you, it struck me how little you must know about the traditions of Feyland, even as you yourself have proven yourself one of the most valiant fairies of all. When your mother read you to sleep, did she not read you stories like Little Bo Peep and Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Beauty and the Beast – all of these, I hear, are popular tales and rhymes in the land beyond the Crystal River? And while these tales are doubtless filled with lyrical loveliness (how funny – in a land without magic, even mortals tell tales of it, and dream of our world!), I mourn that you were not raised, as I was, on folk traditions and simple tales of the fairy world. I remember my mother, when I was growing up, telling me a myriad of stories – one of which, that of Artaud and Tamara – I have already recounted to you. As I grew into boyhood, so many names sparked and inflamed my imagined – Terabina, the Beautiful Dragoness, who was transformed into a fairy after she fought so valiantly in battle on the fairy side, the Autumn King Brasenose, whose wife gave birth inexplicably to a phoenix instead of a child, and the resulting phoenix was called Fireflesh, and the pain engendered by this phoenix's birth is, they say, that which causes so many royal fairy women to be barren to this day, their bodies resistant against the agony. But now we know it is caused by something else entirely.
(Is this true? While the tale – as told by the poet Sigismund Rosenbush – is certainly a beautiful one, I am more inclined to think that the infertility of the women of Feyland derives not from an ancient spell, but from a more modern fear: we do not risk waking the powerful magic forces associated with fertility, love, and death – even the perfunctory marital rites among royal couples are rare, given the danger they present, and even rarer still are successful in leading to pregnancy. My mother's bearing of two children was rare – even unheard of – in her time; most fairy queens took decades to bear one! Perhaps one day, when we have let love rule free in Feyland, we will be able to embrace the dangerous magic behind it, and perhaps you and I shall together be the parents of a long line of fruitful races – a multitude of fairy children. But I will not torment myself with fantasies that, in my darker moments, I fear shall never come to pass)!
I find your world (although now perhaps it is more proper to say that Feyland is your world) to be very strange indeed. Not only the absence from your mind of the fables that are so very familiar to me (can any child have really grown up without knowing all about Barkbiter the Unicorn, who nibbled on all the trees in the forest of Feyland for his supper, and got so ill when he had finished that all the wood from his supper rose up from his stomach and the resultant pile of undigested wood became the Great Mound of Sirius? Such a story, when told by a master teller like my father, is one of the funniest and oft-told in Feyland over banquets and balls, and each teller embellishes by groaning and moaning like the over-fed unicorn, much to the delight of his companions!), but also the way in which your customs are so different from my own. How is it that cooking – here the very essence of manhood – is seen in your world as being the provenance of women? (For indeed, had it not been so, Shasta would not have dared sneak all the way into the land beyond the Crystal River to satiate her desire for this activity that here, however unfairly, her gender denied her). I remember a tale I was told as a child about the very first cook, the warrior Calthon, who was a great fairy in a time so long ago that there was no division between Winter, Summer, Autumn, or Spring – there were no kings and queens yet there, and there was only one sun shining upon all Feyland. And all the earth was a great desert – there was no snow and no budding plants, no streams and no ice-storms (forgive me, my style is not so rich as that of the great fairy poet Sigismund Rosenbush, but I will essay to recount to you these tales in the manner of a true fairy troubador.)
And in this barren wasteland the warrior Calthon walked – alone – his stomach growling and twisting with hunger, and yet there was no food about him – no beast around him except the one that called from the pit of his bowels “Feed me! Feed me!” And at last, in this empty world so devoid of life, so devoid of the stirrings of animals or plants around them, Calthon found himself overwhelmed by despair and cried out: (as Rosenbush puts it)
“O magic! O fey! You who know all
and yet know me not, for if you knew
the beast I am, what need I have
the beast without for the beast within!”
And he addressed the ancient powers – the force of magic that surrounded him, and with a great flash of lightning he felt the magic stirring, and suddenly before him appeared a lowing ox, ready to be felled with his sword.
Overjoyed, Calthon moved forth, ready to strike it down. But as he moved, he heard a loud voice echoing throughout the barren lands, saying to him.
“O Calthon, warrior, have what you receive
Kill to live, for that is the way of life
But remember the ancient power – thus sanctified
When you roast this meat, it is a sacrifice to us.
For a warrior must make his killing holy.”
Thus did Calthon build a fire to make ready his meat, and as the smoke rose from the roasting flame he saw its plumes spiral into the air and vanish into the web of magic that surrounded him. And there, on the spot where Calthon first roasted the meat, and was thus able to survive another day, there grew the first fruit-tree in Feyland, and around it many animals – never before seen – came to live and breed and hunt, each animal, each plant, food for one another. Then one day by the tree there appeared a young woman, the first in Feyland, and he lay with her and that night they roasted again another ox for their marriage-feast.
That night, however, Calthon went out hunting, and there he was eaten by a kelpie, and killed. But his wife heard in a dream the same voice that Calthon had once heard, and it said to her:
“One who eats must be eaten
For that is the way of all things.
But within his death bears a new life
Go to the spot where his body lies
And from his bones make a house for your son
For there is now a son lying yet in your womb.”
And so the maiden went to find Calthon's body, and when she had wept over him she did as the voices told her, and built a house from his bones. This became the first palace of Feyland (and both Winter and Summer Courts claim that it is on that site that their palace is built), and the son of the
woman reigned as Feyland's first king. And from this day it is said that men cook to sanctify their killing, and women do the building to make life from what is dead.
Letter 13
My dearest Breena,
In my last letter I wrote to you of the ancient tradition of why men are meant to be cooks, and women are meant to forge weapons and make buildings. But of course this is only part of the story of the long history of the Royal Feydom. For the story of Calthon is told by both Summer and Winter fairies alike (although I hear that Spring and Autumn fairies have their own versions of why it is that we have a royal family today) to explain the birth of the royal family in Feyland. But beyond that, the stories are widely different. Winter fairies believe that there was an unbroken line from Calthon onwards, and that only late in the dynasty of succession did an angry brother break away from the Summer Court (this story I have told you already). But there is another story told by the Summer people, which explains the difference between Winter and Summer in another way – that the woman who was Calthon's bride (her name is not recorded to us in any version) gave birth not to one son but two, and these two sons were rivals all their lives. For it was said that when one wanted to do something, the other would wish to do it twice as well - “when one reaches for a stone-fruit, the other leaps up to taste a berry-melon,” in the old Fey proverb. (For this, Breena, it is necessary to know that a berry-melon is roughly the size of a boulder, while a stone-fruit – as its name suggests – is no bigger than a pebble! How much there is still to learn about Feyland, no? And how anxious I am to teach you all its ways!) These two brothers hated each other so ferociously that nothing could be done with them – their mother tried in vain to separate them when they fought, and to pacify their anger with toys and sweet fruits, but the endeavor led only, inexorably, to pain. For nothing could stop these two boys from warring with each other.
While when they were toddlers, their rivalry was relatively harmless – a few split lips, a few angry tussles – their hatred grew dangerous as they grew into adulthood. For which of the two of them would rule this newly conquered kingdom, this endless expanse of desert that had, by the ancient magic, been transformed for Calthon into a habitable place. The two brothers argued bitterly, and when no solution could be found at last they agreed to a duel to the death: only one of the brothers could live, it was decided, for as long as both survived, the kingdom would ever be in peril.
But the boys' mother grieved at such an outcome. She could not bear to think that she could lose either one of her beloved boys – especially not so soon after her husband had been killed by a kelpie. So she decided to make the arduous trek to call upon the ancient magic once more, to ask for their protection. “O ancient magic,” she called upon them, trying to get in touch with the primeval powers that seemed to whir and buzz and flutter all around them, rendering their universe ever-shimmering with the unearthly. “Let me save both of my sons from this dire fate.”
She heard a voice – the same voice she had heard many years before – and it said to her:
“There is a place – a mountain
Further than that mountain you cannot go
The ends of the world must you travel to
to stop the end of a life.”
They say that this place is Mount Malum, a mountain ascending straight into the sun of Feyland (for at this time, the suns had not yet divided)
There are many stories told about this place, Breena – I do not know which is true. The myths of Feyland are as tangled and twining as the myths of your world. My mother believes fervently in this mountain – I sometimes do. Nobody has ever found it, not for centuries – for they say that only one guided by true love can find it, a love as true and strong as that which Calthon's wife felt for both of her warring children.
So she wandered all night into the black, and just as the sky seemed to be made of black velvet, with each star a diamond stud, she found herself atop this mountain, her limbs aching, her body weary. And there she found at the top of the mountain a table carved of ice – yet still with flowers growing out of it – a miraculous contradiction! And upon the table were two gems, glowing bright. The first was in the shape of a sun, a bright golden gem. The second was in the shape of a snowflake, and it was silver and blue. And once more she heard the ancient voice calling to her:
“Two ancient gems of protection
Older still than Feyland
The wearer will bear life
But it will come as a sacrifice.”
And Calthon's wife knew in her heart that these charms would protect both her children. But as she picked them up, she felt a great stirring in the earth. Looking up, she saw how the sun – a bulbous orb just above her – seemed to crackle and spark like kindling fire – and she gasped to see how the sun seemed to grow larger and larger, ever-greater, until at last with a great bang the sun split apart into two suns – the second sun whirring out into space and coming to rest on the other end of Feyland, upon the horizon. And from that sun spilled an overflow of light – light that transformed into another mountain at the other end.
“They swore that in their life
There could not be one kingdom.
We have granted them mercy.
But they are bound by their oath.”
And suddenly snow and ice, pine and fire, and all the trappings of Winter appeared on one mountain, and grass, and moss, and fruits, and vines, and all the attributes of Summer on the other, and thus were the two kingdoms born.
Calthon's wife climbed down the mountain again, and at dawn – a twin dawn – she gave one amulet to each son, but did not tell them what it was for. And so they fought, but neither could kill the other, for the one canceled out the other, and though they fought for twenty years without stopping, not one could be the victor. And at last they heard the ancient voice:
“Cease your struggle, boys, fools. Your mother's pain has given you both a home. From her womb to these new spires.”
The boys looked up and realized then and there that the one kingdom had been divided in two, and realized that their amulets – the charms given to them – had protected each from death. (This is not the only story about immortality that is traded by the fairies, but it is my favorite). And they gave thanks, and though their hearts were still bitter against one another each went to his own mountain, his own kingdom, and they ruled separately thereafter.)
Now, these two amulets – the snowflake and the sun – are said to be handed down in each generation. While some fairies have false immortality – they are impossibly strong, and are less likely to die a non-magical death (the stronger the fairy, the more likely their survival – we of the royal house have the greatest strength), only the snowflake guarantees true immortality. But nobody wishes to live forever – my mother recognizes that it is a curse (for another story says that immortality was given to us not as a blessing, but as a punishment) – and so each mother and father of the royal court pass it down to their heir when they are ready to give up that gift, so delightful and yet so dangerous.
The other day, my mother gave the snowflake to me. “I was in possession of this – not your father,” she whispered. “He gave it to me as a wedding-gift. If he had not...” Her voice trailed off. If he had not, it may well have been my mother who died in battle, and my father sitting upon the throne now. “But I have ruled too long. One day, one day soon, it will be your turn. I cannot bear to lose my son, Kian. I will not watch another man of this royal house die before my eyes. It is your turn to wear the snowflake.”
The amulet sits upon my desk now. And in its sparkle, its incandescent sheen, I can think of only one thing, process only one desire. If I am immortal, darling Breena, I want you with me – or else I do not want this gift at all!
Letter 14
My Dearest Breena,
My arms crave yours. I wake up in the night and the emptiness in the bed beside me is almost too much to bear. I reach out, wishing to touch the small of your back, the smooth wingl
ess lines of your ribs, and there is nothing there. The satin of my bedclothes, the silk of my pillows, feels as rough and harsh to me as sandpaper or dragons' scales – there is no pleasure in it. I cannot enjoy anything anymore – I wither away. I do not eat. My sleep is punctuated by nightmares. I dream that my wings have been severed from my body – that I have been made weak by their absence, that they lie at my feet sliced and silver-laced. Agony courses through my blood – a fever that is not a fever, but that infects the soul first and the body only thereafter. I cannot fly; I cannot soar above the heights of Feyland, looking down on its mountains, on its ridges, the rushing of its streams and the great rolling of its seas.
You have clipped my wings, my love. My love for you has torn them from my body – left me aching and powerless. When I wake, and allow my wings to spring fully-flexed from my back, I still feel as if I can never fly again. The pain is too great – my desire to whirl through the crowds not alone, but with you by my side.
It is so strange to me to think that that you will never spring any wings. It is such a familiar part of female beauty here – and male too. We admire the differing designs on the wings of the fairies around us – my family's wings are all blue and silver, with intricate designs from which our coat of arms has been taken. Shasta's wings have a white sheen; mine are tinged with black. “A woman's beauty is in three places,” one fairy saying goes, “on her face, at her bosom, and springing from her back.” Yet when I look at the smooth back of yours, tanned and strong from your adventures, I find nothing lacking there. I would change nothing about you, my dearest Breena – except the circumstances that keep us apart.
