by James Fahy
A spiderweb of gold hung from the branches, a large and complicated latticework of slender arching bridges, suspended like a vastly complex cat's cradle between and around the immense trunks of the trees.
These golden bridges, as well as crossing one another at every level, also led here and there, inside the trees themselves, through elegant slender openings, only to emerge elsewhere, spouting off dizzyingly again into the void to meet another. The elder trees' trunks were made up of countless separate boles, twisting and twining loosely around each other like the world's most immense weeping fig, a series of huge natural birdcage structures formed in the hollows. Many of these were encased in the same glowing golden amber as the bridges, carved out into rooms and sometimes whole dwellings. Windows, balconies, steps and stairs covered every inch of each huge tree, all hewn from the beautiful shining sap, a gorgeous city hidden in the canopy.
The web of bridges and walkways, Robin observed, were punctuated here and there with circular platforms, bowered with vines and elaborately woven flowers. It was to one of these platform that their dryad guide flew, depositing Woad and Robin, much to their relief, on the oddly translucent, golden circle.
Robin’s legs felt watery as he steadied himself, gazing around. His ears had popped. There were dryads everywhere, some walking the countless pathways around, above and below them. More still flitting between on purring wings, barely visible in the falling light of evening.
Lights were coming on everywhere as the evening drew in, oddly organic circular orbs buried in every bridge and path, glimmering with soft yellow light. Jewels like dewdrops in a vast web.
There were lights glowing in the trees themselves as well, warm and welcoming, from countless windows and openings. The air smelled sweet, like honey and pollen. Robin took all this in, but in truth he was more relieved that the walkway on which they had been deposited was solid. It looked like woven brown sugar, dark glass, but it was as firm and reassuringly unyielding as stone beneath his feet.
“What a ride!” Woad grinned. “Buzzy moss-folk know how to live.” He was looking around too, as their guide landed beside them, his wings folding neatly and forming a cloak once more. Of Karya, Robin noticed, there was no sign. She had been taken elsewhere.
“What is it with the Netherworlde and treetop cities?” Robin muttered, eying the edge with worry.
“Better than building on the floor, Pinky,” Woad said simply. “How can you have a city in a forest if you have to rip out the forest to build it?”
“Point taken,” Robin allowed. “What's this made of then?” he asked, running his hand around the elegantly woven bannister. It was smooth under his fingers and slightly warm.
“Amber,” Splinterstem said simply. “The paths of Rowandeepling are the veins of the elder trees themselves. The forest provides for us.”
“Tree-sap,” Woad nodded knowledgable, as though he had suspected just this. He rapped his toes on the floor beneath them. “Just what I would have chosen too for a tree-top sanctuary as pretty as this. It’s lovely and glowy. Very mystic. I approve.”
“Where’s our friend?” Robin asked, noticing several other dryads walking toward them along one of the arching walkways in the twilight.
He wanted to add ‘and why did you treat her like some kind of movie star?’ but he thought it might be wise to keep his mouth shut until he figured out what was going on.
“She has been taken to be more fittingly attired to be received by the princess,” the dryad told them. His large green eyes looked over both of them. “As shall you.”
“I’m perfectly attired, thanks,” Woad said proudly. “I’ve got pants on and everything. That’s practically formal dress for a faun, that is. Not many fauns bother with pants. I’m practically avant-garde.”
Splinterstem nodded politely, “You are both perhaps a little…road weary,” he rumbled tactfully. “We shall provide you with more suitable wear for the rigours of the forest.”
Robin could hardly argue with the dryad's point. Since they entered the Netherworlde, between riding lions, fighting centaur, scuffling with banshee, escaping Strigoi through the earth, and then a pretty serious hike through some very unforgiving forest, his jeans and jumper were probably only fit for burning. He doubted if even Hestia could get them clean. He did not, however, relish the idea of walking around wearing what many of his dryad hosts wore, little more than moss and leaves from what he could make out.
“I don’t fancy dressing up like Peter Pan meets the Lord of the Flies,” he muttered to Woad in a quiet voice. “But I could do with a shower.”
“Yes,” Woad replied seriously, whispering back. “Yes, you could. You smell like old ham left in the sun, Pinky.”
Robin rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Woad,” he muttered. “You have probably enough twigs and leaves stuck in your hair for birds actually to start nesting in it. We’re all dirty and tired.”
Robin’s fears of being dressed up like one of the lost boys of Neverland were thankfully allayed.
They were passed from their guide into the care of the two approaching dryads, one male, one female, both looking fairly elderly, though it was hard to judge with the species. These two dryads led the boys along the dizzyingly high lamplit routes as the sun set completely, and through a great doorway into the interior of one of the amber houses. Robin discovered that within, the word 'house' didn't really do justice. Palatial mansion, perhaps. Room after room spiralled away, hollowed and carved, with a lacework of great staircases strung between and much elaborate and delicate embellishment. Soft carpets of moss and grasses welcomed them underfoot, and the high arching roofs of the rooms and corridors through which they passed smelled sweetly of sawdust and wax. For all its great scale and soaring architecture however, it felt oddly cosy to Robin. It reminded him of those books from his childhood where badgers and moles wore waistcoats and kept pleasant warm homes in burrows beneath the roots of trees, with open fireplaces and wing-back chairs.
The rooms were furnished and appointed with all the comforts one might expect back at Erlking. Beds, woven from carved branches, lamps and tables, even a writing desk, set by a smaller archway which they discovered led out onto a semi-circular balcony, giving them tremendous views out and down through the maze of amber paths suspended in the open air. Robin stood on the balcony a moment, soaking up the sheer calm beauty of the place, watching a flock of roosting birds pass beneath the net of Rowandeepling, far below them. All around, beyond the treetop city, the canopy of the great Elderhart forest swept away, a russet ocean far beneath them, stretching to the horizon in every direction in great frozen waves as it climbed up and down the landscape.
More important than this breathtaking vista, however, there was a bath.
Robin didn’t bother to question the dryad's ingenuity at drawing water so high up into the sky. Maybe they had magic plumbing. Maybe they just flew it up from a stream down below in buckets as and when they needed it. Frankly, he didn’t care. He just wanted to get clean.
Woad, bored with the very idea of a bath, had gone off to explore. They had been told by the elderly dryads that they would be collected in an hour to be taken to the great hall, and he wanted to have a good look around first.
Alone for the first time since he had left Erlking, and after scrubbing what felt like a week's worth of soil and sweat away, Robin returned to the main room of the curious suite to find that clothes had been laid out on the bed for him and, to his great relief, they were not made from stringy bits of leaves. A simple rough woven shirt and dark trousers of some canvas material. There was even a pair of laced hiking boots.
He felt a little as though he was in fancy dress as a Merry Man, but at least he didn’t look any longer as though he had dug himself out of a grave.
There was a mirror in the room, dark and copper-coloured, and he did his best to tame his messy hair. They were the first outsiders to visit Rowandeepling in a long time after all. As one of the few remaining free Fae in the world, he fe
lt he should at least try and make a good impression if they were going to meet the princess.
Woad eventually returned and was convinced, after much arguing, to go and wash up while Robin hung around out on the balcony, watching the night deepen over the forest.
The sky above was a galaxy of stars, stretching cool and clear, a true nip of autumn in the air. He watched the dryads flying and walking back and forth amongst the airborne streets of their city, moving between the pinpoints of glimmering light everywhere, busy as ants. It felt oddly relaxing here. Safe and calm. He honestly couldn’t remember ever feeling at ease in the Netherworlde before. Something was usually trying to kill them, or they were sleeping rough on hard ground. Here, there was comfort and shelter, and he hoped, listening to his stomach rumble…food.
His sense of peace and serenity was only slightly broken by the sound of Woad singing to himself in the bath in a very off key way, and by the fact that, try as he might, Robin couldn’t help but feel guilty that he was here, in this haven of the Earth kingdom, while somewhere out there, lost in the sprawl of the woods far below, was Henry … And the scourge.
*
Their guides returned for them after a while, both of them politely passing no comment that Woad had ignored the clothes arranged for him, and had instead elected to wash his own faithful threadbare pants in the bath and put them back on, sitting precariously on the amber railing of their small balcony and swinging his legs until they were dried.
“The princess will receive you now, friends of the great one,” the elderly female dryad told them with a crinkled smile. “A feast has been arranged in your honour, in the amber hall itself. We may be without a king, but the hospitality of the dryads will not leave you wanting. If you would like to follow us.”
Woad raised his eyebrows at Robin at this mention of ‘the great one’ but they followed, led once more through the great tree dwelling and out onto the scaffolding of beautiful bridges. This time they headed around and up, many curious dryads, young and old, marking their passing with unblinking, green eyes. Robin noticed that the males seemed to have darker skin. The females were slightly taller and had a greater wingspan, and those he assumed to be children had light skin that was almost a soft pea green, like young shoots. It was hard for him to believe they were all Panthea, like Woad, and Phorbas and Calypso. He had to keep in mind that the Panthea were not one singular species, like the Fae, but rather a multitude of peoples, under one name, as varied as they came.
The centre of Rowandeepling was clear to see from anywhere. At the highest point of all the bridges, with only the great and interlocking autumn canopy above it, a domed and magnificent roof filled with suspended lights, the many spurs and amber pathways converged on a great structure artfully woven of wood and gold. The building hung in the net of scaffold like a jewel at the centre of a dreamcatcher. It seemed in shape like a Viking longboat upturned, a great lozenge as large as a church, resting on its large translucent platform, with lighted windows and large doors. At the foot of the steps leading up to these doors, a girl awaited them.
Robin wondered briefly if this was the princess, but the truth was much more shocking.
“Karya?” he spluttered in disbelief as they met at the steps. Woad practically boggled at his side. Their friend had also been given new clothing, but clearly a great deal more attention had been paid to her that the boys had. Even now, she was flanked on either side by two respectful-looking dryads, her own personal handmaidens.
“What have they done to you, boss?” Woad asked with unveiled curiosity.
Karya had been dressed in a long green gown, regally appointed and shot through with a swirl of tiny embroidered silver leaves. Around her bare shoulders there was a silver throw, gossamer light like spun spider silk. Her wild mane of hair had somehow been tamed, and fell down her back in copper ringlets, held in place on either side of her head with elaborate braids fastened with silver leaves. More pale threads had been woven into her hair itself.
She looked, Robin had to admit, quite unquestionably stunning. She also looked, he noted, quietly furious.
“Don’t … say … a … bloody … word,” she hissed, glowering at them. “Just don’t dare. This was not my idea.”
Her bad temper at least was familiar, if not her appearance. “You look …” Robin was a little lost for words. He tried to figure out whether ‘amazing’ or ‘weird’ would be more likely to get his teeth knocked out. “… Really … different,” he settled for safely.
“I don’t do dresses,” she complained to him, keeping her voice quiet and discreet as the three of them made their way up the staircase. “They’re completely impractical. But it’s not like I had a choice. I haven’t had a moment to myself since we got here. These dryads have been fawning all over me. Brushing my hair, bringing me drinks, dressing me up like some kind of silly doll.”
“We just had a scrub,” Woad shrugged. “No one brushed my hair. Good job really, I would have bitten their fingers off.”
Karya gave the faun a sidelong look. “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” she muttered. “But pay attention you two. This is their place, these are their customs, so let’s just be polite and find out what we can about this scourge and the Shard, right?” She glanced at Robin. “You look … slightly more Netherworldey,” she observed. “At least you got rid of those silly trainers. They were falling apart.”
“I don’t think they were really made with the Netherworlde in mind,” he said, as they passed through the doorway. “And I’m not sure leather lace up boots are going to catch on back in the human world. I feel like I’m in a panto. What I want to know though, is why everyone is treating you like you’re some kind of royalty? The great one?”
Karya shrugged elegantly under her shawl. She looked decidedly smaller and delicate without her habitual bulky coat of skins and furs. It was quite disconcerting.
“Don’t ask me,” she said. “I genuinely have no idea.” She flicked her perfectly ringleted hair. “Maybe they just have excellent taste?”
*
The hall within was lavish, a grandly-appointed feasting space, laid out like a palace throne-room. Long tables lined the walls, crammed every inch with dishes of mouthwatering food and tall silver jugs of a sweet-smelling, golden drink. A large sunken fire-pit glowed in the centre of the room, although it seemed not to dance with flames, but instead with a rolling mist that somehow gave off heat nonetheless. Robin supposed that an open fire in a city built of and in wood would not be advisable.
The curved ceiling arched overhead, carved like whalebone and festooned with thousands of tiny lights twinkling like a Christmas tree. The surrounding walls of the great hall were curiously decorated with strange geometric patterns, an endless loop of squiggles and knots carved into solid amber. The intricate and complicated fresco, covering every inch of the wall-space, reminding Robin of the raised topography of a brain.
There were many dryads here, already feasting and talking amongst themselves, though in the absence of a king, their mutterings were subdued. The air was filled with a polite but genuine warmth. Robin’s eyes were drawn to the far end of the chamber as they were ushered toward it by their guides. Here stood a dais with a long table, seated at which, beside the solemn figure of Splinterstem, was the princess herself.
“Karya of Erlking, lost ruins of the Fae, and her attendants,” the old dryad at their side announced, before bowing and retreating, leaving the three of them standing before her.
The princess nodded and stood, smiling rather sadly, Robin thought, and blinking her huge green faceted eyes. Like the other dryads, her skin was a soft greenish brown and her hair was a choppy, chin-length curtain, dark against the silver flowers and thread woven through it. But unlike the majority of the dryads they had seen, she wore white. A long and close dress comprised entirely of tiny pale leaves, flowing around her like scales on a fish, each one rimmed in thin silver. At her throat, the gown was adorned with artful white flowers, blossom petals
chasing up decoratively onto her throat, giving the girl the appearance of a strange forest bride.
To Robin, she looked surprisingly younger than he’d imagined. Maybe only a few years older than they were themselves.
“You are welcome to Rowandeepling, all of you,” she said, very formally, motioning for them to join her at the table. “I am Ashe, daughter of the King, and I am grateful to receive such champions, here to slay the forest drake that haunts us.”
Robin, Karya and Woad took their seats at the table with her. As conversations and music started up again around the feasting hall, the princess, with a gentle and delicate waft of her hand, indicated the dryad guide they were all familiar with. “You have already met Festucamossis, I know. His name is Splinterstem in the low tongue.” She smiled as they nodded hello to him again. “I am aware that the high tongue of the Netherworlde is becoming a thing of the past. Pallidacinnis is my true name, but Ashe is so much simpler, don’t you think? The high tongue is becoming so unfashionable.”
“Did I not tell you, my princess,” Splinterstem said, raising a glass to her respectfully. “That I would search the Netherworlde for one strong enough to end the reign of the beast? I have not failed you.”
Ashe’s soft green eyes roamed curiously over her guests. She looked very intrigued to see such exotic strangers in her court. “You have done well,” she nodded to him politely. “I can always count on your diligence.”
Drinks were poured for all of them. “With the loss of my father,” the princess told them. “Splinterstem is currently acting steward of Rowandeepling. He leads our people, in this time of crisis, and it is he who has been most active in finding a champion capable of ending this scourge. Something must be done. Many have died already.” She looked deeply sad. “None can match the Shard.”
Karya took a drink. “I’m a little confused,” she said. “If you’re the princess, with your father gone, why are you not ruling your people yourself?”
