“Sure.” Raven laughed. “You know, I always thought Water Sprite Lane was named that because it sounded medieval, not because there’s a real sprite.”
The sprite had helped Keelie during the Red Cap’s attack, and she recalled her shock when she’d first seen the little creature’s fish-like face. She’d certainly seen stranger things since then … she’d even befriended another sprite back home in the Dread Forest.
Ahead, she saw the tall aspen that spread its branches over the center of the meadow. Keelie ran to him. Hrok, I’m back.
Greetings, Tree Talker. The forest sings of your return.
The tree’s face pushed up through its bark, and Keelie once more saw Hrok’s handsome features. Inexplicable tears choked her. She hugged the tree and kissed his bark-covered cheek. Raven stood nearby, watching. Keelie couldn’t tell if her friend could see the tree’s face. Although Raven’s drop of fae blood allowed her to feel magic, Keelie didn’t think it extended to the tree spirits.
She focused her tree speak so that only Hrok, not the other trees, could hear her. I came to say hi, and to check on … that place. How is the sapling doing? She glanced at a tiny tree that grew between Hrok and a great boulder. No grass grew beneath it, although the rest of the meadow was green. Raven headed toward it.
Greetings, Tree Shepherdess. The treeling does not thrive as we had hoped. The bitterness of the goblin’s blood has tainted its rings. You have changed since you were last here, Keliel Tree Talker. You have grown in power. Hrok seemed pleased.
A shriek split the air, heard only by Keelie and the fae who suddenly abandoned their bushes and hidey-holes to fly into the air—a humming, droning cloud of sticks and buglike creatures. One of the feithid daoine, the bug fairies, tried to dig into her jeans pocket.
Keelie covered her ears and closed her eyes, as if that would help deflect the piercing sound that went on and on. After a moment she opened one eye and tried to find the source of the sound.
Raven was touching the treeling’s leaves and examining its trunk. “This looks like a healthy sapling,” she called back, oblivious to the din.
Keelie could barely hear her. She kept her hands over her ears, becoming accustomed to the brain-melting scream. It seemed to be coming from the little sprout of a tree that Raven was looking at.
Keelie marched up to the sapling, wary of the soil beneath her, although it felt normal. What is your problem? she asked the treeling.
The sound stopped, and the sudden silence was almost a sound as well. Keelie felt the young tree’s confused and angry thoughts, and a pang of guilt went through her. She’d stuck a lifeless branch into what she’d thought was nourishing earth, unaware that the blood that soaked the soil was poisonous and alive with energy. The little twig had revived and grown, but he had sucked up the goblin blood to feed himself.
I’m Keliel, called Tree Talker, and I can help you, she said to him in tree speak. Are you hurt?
No, the treeling shouted. I hate to be ignored. I can remember being powerful, but I’m not powerful now.
That’s because you were once part of the Queen Aspen, she who was central to many of the trees on this mountain. When she died, we had a Tree Lorem for her near here, and one of her branches was given to me. I planted it, and you came to life. You probably share memories with the Queen Aspen. Do you not see me in her memories?
Keelie felt the little tree pout, his anger deepening. “This is one furious tree,” she said aloud.
Raven looked surprised. “Really?” She glanced around at the peaceful meadow. “Everything seems so normal now. What do you plan to do?”
Before Keelie could answer, a roar filled the air. This time Raven could hear it too.
The surrounding trees’ leaves shook in consternation, and Keelie recognized the sound—a motorcycle. Weird. The folks who worked the faire were usually very good about keeping to the medieval theme and not bringing in mundane sounds that would break the faire’s ambiance.
The motorcycle zoomed up from the players’ campground, roared onto the path that crossed the meadow, and zipped past before Keelie could do more than frown. In a second, it had crossed the bridge and disappeared into the woods at the crest of the hill.
“Who was that idiot?” Raven frowned. “If the faire admin catches him, he’ll be toast.”
Keelie didn’t answer. She was busy casting mental feelers around, calming the trees that bordered the meadow. With the Dread firmly in place, they hardly ever saw humans up close. Keelie turned to stare up the hill, at the woods shielding that entrance to the faire. Something about the biker had been a little inhuman, but she didn’t know what. She turned back to the young tree.
I’m going to replant you. Pick any spot in the forest, and I’ll move you there. What do you think of that?
She felt the trees’ disapproval all around her. They didn’t care for the bratty twig, but still, her offer seemed high-handed to them. A person did not ever offer to move a tree—trees were forever. People, even long-lived elves, were just a sneeze in the cosmic nostril.
Keelie remembered how pleased she’d been when the branch she’d jammed into the churned earth had immediately sprouted that leaf. She felt she’d given new life to the Queen Aspen, and then she’d left with her father on her own new path.
She turned to Hrok. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what goblin blood could do when I planted the treeling. I only meant to give you a companion. But our elven charm book may suggest a way for me to counteract the evil effects of the Red Cap’s blood.
Then consult your wise book. Hrok gave a green, breezy sigh. I have tried to like the twig. I really have.
Keelie stared at the belligerent sapling. I hope I can help. She hugged Hrok, not sure if her tree friend really understood human hugs, and pulled Raven back toward the path.
“The trees aren’t loving that little guy. I wonder if your mom might know some herbal remedy for his anxiety?”
Raven shrugged. “She knows a lot, though she’s no tree psychologist. I’ll bet if you tell her what the symptoms are, and what results you want, she might be able to put something together.”
“I hope so.” Keelie’s other option was the Compendium, and though she hated to bother her dad when he was busy setting up Heartwood, he needed to know what was happening in the meadow. After their experience in the Redwood Forest, the presence of a goblin-tainted tree at this faire would be scary enough to bring him running.
Dad? We have to move that aspen sapling I planted where the Red Cap died. I’m getting bad vibes from it. She let him see the treeling and its surroundings.
Her father’s thoughts were momentarily visible to her as she connected with his mind, and she saw a file, a bowl of oil, and a neat array of carving implements. Dad was sharpening his tools.
I’ll come and see for myself, but I trust your judgment. I’ll get some help to dig it up. Maybe we can plant it by the shop later, where we can keep an eye on it.
She communicated that this was a great idea, then told Hrok and Raven the plan. The two girls continued on toward the bridge.
“So, you don’t know who that motorcyclist was?” Keelie asked. Raven had looked as annoyed by the noise as she’d been. The faire folk were probably buzzing about it.
“No. Plenty of the folk are bikers, but they keep their bikes in the campground.”
When she reached the middle of the bridge, Keelie stopped. Raven watched curiously as she leaned over the railing and called, “Hello? Anyone down there? I’ve met another sprite. Her name is Plu. What’s your name?”
The water below gurgled between the rocks, but aside from the quiet murmur of the trees, there was no other sound.
A discordant jangle stopped Keelie’s feet as she was about to step off the bridge. She knew that sound. It wasn’t the sprite, and it was no cowbell either. It was the sound of the bells that Peascod the jester wore on his hat. Peascod, who had served Herne the Hunter, dark lord of the hunt, then had betrayed him. Peascod the goblin b
aiter. Peascod, who had almost killed her.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Jester bells.” Keelie shuddered.
Raven’s eyebrows rose. “Keelie, we’re at a Renaissance Faire. If you freak out at jester bells, you need to find a nice mall job. What next? Fear of turkey legs or archers?”
Suddenly the bridge was humming with twiggy curses and Knot appeared, a smear of orange as he streaked toward them, bhata clinging to his fur. He looked like a frightened porcupine.
“Knot, come here.” Keelie didn’t care for the squeaky thread of fear in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried for a lower timbre. “Knot, leave the bhata alone.”
Beside her, Raven was doubled over with laughter. “He can’t resist trying to annoy the fae. He deserves whatever he gets.”
Keelie tried to pick the fairies off Knot as he staggered past, but he hissed and she drew back. He bolted into the meadow, looped around Hrok, and headed back toward the gate.
“Whatever.” The morning was full of grumps, both cat and tree. She hoped the people she ran into would be more pleasant. How could anyone be upset on such a beautiful morning? Despite the treeling’s bad manners, she was back at the High Mountain Faire, the sky was blue, and the stream gurgled romantically. Maybe Sean would forget his beloved jousting later on and take a break to stroll with her.
They headed up the hill to the faire, saying hi to old friends as they passed the shops. At Janice’s, a gangly boy in black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic sat outside in a folding chair.
“Who are you?” Raven parked her fists on her hips and stared at the boy.
The kid ignored her. “The new faire administrator is inside. Inspection day for Green Lady Herbs.” He laughed rudely. Keelie’s skin prickled in premonition.
“I’ll see what’s going on,” Raven said. “See you later.”
“Yeah, thanks for coming along.” Keelie had been glad for Raven’s company even if her friend couldn’t hear trees. She turned to leave.
Janice dashed out of her shop, clutched her cap over her head, leaned backward, and gave a long silent scream. Then she ran back inside choking out the words, “Faire admin.”
Knot yowled.
“The day is getting stranger by the minute, Knot.”
A woman dressed in colorful skirts and scarves stepped past Keelie and pushed the shop door open a crack. “All quiet,” she hissed over her shoulder. Keelie recognized her as Sally, the tarot card reader whose popular shop was by the front entrance.
She also noticed that a crowd had gathered.
“Everyone’s getting inspected this year,” one grizzled man said. Keelie remembered that he’d been a pirate the year before. Then all voices stopped as a familiar female voice rose in anger.
“I don’t have time for your petty problems. We have to have the faire in order. I asked for an inventory. I get a scribbled sheet. Who are you, Leonardo? Is this a secret code?” The tirade grew louder, and the voice more familiar.
“The new faire admin,” whispered the old pirate.
No … Keelie thought desperately. There were three Ren Faires in Colorado—no way she could be so unlucky.
The door to Janice’s shop banged open. Janice charged out, red-faced, her hair in wisps around her face, her cap gone. Close behind was the faire’s new administrator.
This was much worse than goblins.
Keelie staggered as the crowd shifted to allow Janice to pass. She strode rapidly up the path. Keelie watched her go, then turned to face her fire-breathing nemesis.
The new faire administrator was in fact her old boss from the Wildewood. Finch.
three
Keelie’s feet solidified on the ground, goose bumps of fear adding a physical element to her mind’s conclusion: Run. Run as fast as you can.
Sylvus help them all.
The fairy girls she’d met at the pub were hovering at the corner of Janice’s shop, their faces frozen in fear. It was as if they’d seen one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse strolling through, searching for its next victim.
Before Keelie could bolt, Finch sighted her. She stopped and pointed. “You. Heartwood. Walk with me.” She turned to the boy and held out a sheaf of papers. “You, kid, take these to my office.”
The boy frowned. “I’m Eric the Bold.”
“You’ll be Eric the Bald if you don’t hurry.”
The boy raced away, papers under his arm.
“Don’t dawdle, Heartwood.” Finch marched up the path.
“Okay,” Keelie managed to squeak.
Sympathy flickered in Raven’s eyes. “Good luck,” she mouthed. “I need to go and help Mom.” She hurried away as if her pants were on fire.
Two fencing instructors, walking with a trio of belly dancers, darted to the side when Finch passed them in a blazing fury. “There is no fraternizing on my watch! Less cleavage, ladies,” Finch yelled as she passed them. “Heartwood, keep up.”
Keelie scurried to Finch’s side.
“I’m going to bloody kill whoever dared bring a motorcycle into the faire.” Finch came to a sudden stop in the middle of Ironmonger’s Way, then whirled around to glare at Keelie. “Do you know what the penalty is for bringing machinery into the faire?” She lowered her voice, as if it hurt her to say the words, and pounded her fist into her hands.
Keelie shook her head.
“Death.” Pivoting on her leather-clad boots, Finch strode determinedly toward her victim.
Keelie didn’t know whether to take this opportunity to run to Heartwood and stay there until the end of the faire, or to follow Finch. She didn’t want to witness what the faire administrator was about to do.
“Heartwood. Move it.”
No choice in the matter. Keelie ran after Finch. She had to jog to keep up—the woman could cover a lot of ground in a short time. Keelie kept an eye on Finch’s fists, which kept opening and closing as she stormed up the path. Booth owners paled as if a demon had erupted from the bowels of Hell and now walked among them, controlling their destinies.
A group of pirates in full garb stood outside the pottery booth, where they were teasing a new belly dancer who needed to rethink her attire. Keelie grimaced as she anticipated Finch’s reaction to the large sparkly green halter top, cleavage overflowing and on the verge of spilling out.
But Finch veered off the path. They were going to cut through the woods. The trees tapped into Keelie’s mind, their speech hivelike. Who is this woman with the flaming hair? They sent a rush of green energy to Keelie, and she sent them reassurance. She didn’t need freaked-out trees scaring the rest of the forest as she tried to keep pace with the draconic faire director.
Behind her, she heard jingling belly dance scarves, stomping feet, and occasional murmurs. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered that the now eerily quiet crowd of pirates, belly dancers, and other faire workers was following them, flitting between the trees, hurrying to stay close. Most of them wore frightened expressions, but still they followed, swept along by macabre curiosity. There was nothing like a possible murder to brighten up the day.
They left the leafy woods path and stepped out into the hilltop clearing. The shop that had once been Galadriel’s Closet bore a rustic sign that proclaimed it to be the Flames and Skulls Forge, and in front of it was parked the largest, most beastly looking motorcycle Keelie had ever seen in her life.
It was shiny, covered in chrome, with gargoyle heads sculpted along the front of the handle bars and metallic ribs that formed a funky-looking frame. The midnight-black gas tank sported an airbrushed red dragon flying over a burning building. The motorcycle was as tall as Keelie. No wonder everyone had heard it roaring into the faire.
Finch growled. Keelie thought she saw small tendrils of smoke trailing from the faire administrator’s ears. Finch’s mother, Ermentrude, had a problem with smoking; she’d taken up knitting as a way of controlling her cravings. But knitting and Finch wouldn’t go together—yarn wa
s too combustible.
The scent of smoke and metal wafted in the air as the crowd of followers trooped into the clearing. The silence was suddenly broken by the clanging of metal on metal. Under the forge’s shed roof, a broad-shouldered silhouette hammered over glowing coals.
Keelie saw Dad stop at the edge of the Heartwood shop, a rag tossed over his shoulder. She should be helping him polish furniture. He hadn’t spotted her. His eyes were on the forge, and on the angry faire administrator who looked as if she was about to change into a dragon and flame the place.
Hob came out of the mask shop and joined Dad. He looked even more handsome than before, if that was possible, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he eyed the scene, seemingly pleased by the crowd. Then his gaze caught Keelie’s and he bowed his head slightly. She nodded in return.
“That’s a really big motorcycle,” Finch growled, although Keelie thought she heard a hint of admiration in her voice.
“And that’s a really big guy,” Keelie said, eyeing the figure in the forge.
The clearing rang with metallic peals as the smith picked up the pace of his hammering.
“Yeah! I’ll be able to take him.” Finch said to herself, as if readying for a challenge.
“Are you going to fight him?” Keelie asked. The crowd pressed closer.
Finch’s answer was a growled cry that sounded like a cross between an elephant and a wolf with a twist of dinosaur thrown in.
The clanging stopped, and a shadow stretched out from behind the Flames and Skulls. Keelie saw Vangar, the wild man from the Poacher’s Inn.
Today Vangar was bare-chested and wearing thick leather pants and boots fastened with rows of metal clasps. He carried a double-headed hammer marked with runic symbols, which he spun like a baton twirler in an impressive display of strength and dexterity as he approached Keelie and Finch. Keelie stepped back. But Finch stared the giant down until he grunted, dropped the hammer head to the ground, and leaned on the handle.
“Is this the welcoming committee?” Vangar’s voice was deep and rumbly like a volcano. His gaze swept over the crowd but settled on Keelie. She stepped backward trying to disappear. He’d know soon enough that she was his next-door neighbor.
The Goblin's Curse: The Scions of Shadow Trilogy, Book 3 (The Faire Folk Saga) Page 3
