Chronicle Worlds: Feyland

by Samuel Peralta

  THE BREATH CAUGHT in Corinne MacArthur's throat. If anyone discovered her here, peering around the trunk of a silvery birch, she would be in all sorts of trouble.

  She might not know very much, yet, about how to play Feyland, but she was sure she shouldn't be in a place like this on her first foray into the game. Surely it was way too advanced a level for a new player like her? But—that music—that singing… It was as delicate as rose petals, as pure as a mountain stream and as sweet as marshmallow melt. It captured her senses; filling her mind with its beauty so that for a few precious moments, the awful ache in her heart was replaced by a glowing golden warmth which emanated from the centre of the magical clearing—from him.

  The singer.

  Standing on a wizened tree stump as if it were a dais on an international stage, the minstrel's voice rang clear and strong across the forest glade. Hair the colour of burnished copper curled around his head like a halo, a smear of freckles gilded his high cheekbones, and over his shoulder hung a drape of heather-coloured plaid.

  The crowd around him contained creatures that Corinne had only seen in picture books—elves, pixies, nymphs, and other mythical beings with legs like goats or taller than trees, things that she couldn't even put names to. But they all seemed as wrapped up in his song as she was; hanging on his every word and straining to hear every syllable that spilled from his lips. Even the tiny birds perched on bush and branch had fallen under his thrall, their voices silent and their heads tilted in his direction.

  He had a talent for drawing people in; for making his audience feel a part of his song. Looking out over the crowd, he made eye contact with one, then another, and another, each of whom would almost swoon after receiving his attention.

  And then, for one heart-stopping second, those green eyes swept over to the edge of the clearing and locked, momentarily, with hers.

  It was like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs and all coherent thought from her mind. She rocked on her heels, gripping hard on the birch tree lest she fall.

  Then panic set in. Had he spotted her? The allure of his song had caused her to forget the precariousness of her situation, and to linger when she should have quietly made her way back to a lower level.

  But his gaze moved on around the throng, and she exhaled slowly. No, he didn't see me. Her green tunic and brown leather waistcoat gave her excellent camouflage in the forest, and thankfully she'd chosen chestnut brown hair—like her own, in real life—for her archer avatar, rather than the more esoteric options of neon-fuschia or lightning-white that had been on offer. The undergrowth here was heavy, and the tree was sturdy. She was undetected. For now. But she'd need to get moving soon.

  The last tinkling chords faded like the morning mist, and the troubadour stepped down from his platform, his song at an end.

  As if released from a trance woven by his lyrics, there was a collective exhalation of breath from the watchers. Wings unfurled, translucent like the finest stained-glass window, necks cricked, releasing knots under skin as pure as parchment, and legs stretched elegantly like a prima ballerina at the barre before the fey folk began to disperse around the clearing.

  Above them, thistle-light tufts of phosphorescence shimmered through the air as bright pixies darted through the trees and skimmed above the heads of the other creatures.

  Mouth-watering smells drifted across the dell from an enormous silver table laden with golden plates heaped high with tasty delicacies like honeyed rose-hips and toasted mallow-root. Behind the table, graceful attendants distributed crystal goblets brim-full of translucent nectar or creamy milk.

  Before she could stop it, Corinne's stomach rumbled.

  She froze, eyes scanning the clearing for any sign she'd been heard, legs tensing in preparation for flight.

  But her luck was in. Any noise she'd made had been covered when a tall elf had picked up a pearly harp and begun to strum an ethereal tune. Nearby, a circle of dryads and naiads began to glide and weave in an intricate reel, and she slowly released the breath she'd been holding. Careful!

  In the corner, a blue-faced creature pulled a winter-white shawl over her head and shuffled over to a grass-covered mound that Corinne hadn't noticed until now. Sitting in regal splendour on a golden throne was a captivating man with eyes the colour of sapphires, an aquiline nose and angular jaw. Above skeins of platinum-blond hair, he wore a circlet of filigreed gold that led Corinne to the inevitable conclusion:

  The Bright King.

  She'd read about him, of course, in the game's description: The Bright King presides over the Seelie fey in the Bright Court. He finds mortals amusing—at least until he has no more use for them.

  She shivered at that last thought; and that was her undoing.

  * * *

  "Look!" called a loud voice from the centre of the crowd. An arm pointed directly at her. "An intruder!"

  Dozens of pairs of eyes turned in her direction, and she ducked behind the tree, her heart racing. There were too many of them to fight. She needed to escape, and fast!

  Stooping low, she slung her bow over her shoulder and exploded forward in a crouching run. But already she could hear the sound of pursuit—too loud, too close!

  Terror turned her legs to rubber, but she pushed the fear away and searched the shrubbery on either side, looking for a hiding place.

  She'd barely gone ten paces when a chirruping whistle from a downy willow bush beside the path caught her attention. "Over here!" a voice hissed.

  She glanced at the large shrub the mysterious voice had come from, and then over her shoulder towards her pursuers. The unknown, or the unnerving? Did she have a choice?

  Chapter Two

  THE VISION

  As the last of her pursuers passed just a few feet in front of her nose, Corinne slowly exhaled.

  The woollen cloak her saviour had thrown over both of them had strange properties—it was heavy enough to hide them from her pursuers, yet it was thin like gossamer and she could easily see through it. What class of player could her rescuer be, to have such a magical item? Perhaps a Spellweaver. Or an Illuminer?

  She turned to thank him, and stifled a gasp.

  Orange eyes glowed in a face that was dark and leathery, deep lines gouged through cheeks that sprouted tufts of long, coarse hair the colour of burnt umber. What kind of creature is this?

  "Th—thank you for saving me." Surreptitiously, she slid a hand towards the knife tucked into her belt.

  "Make no mention of it," he said, in a deep, melodious voice that was much more pleasant to listen to than he was to look at.

  She stilled her hand. Perhaps he wasn't to be feared after all. "I'm Corinne. Pleased to meet you."

  "Elphin. My pleasure."

  "If you don't mind me asking, what class of character are you playing? I should've read the instructions more carefully." And then another thought struck. "Or are you a non-player character?"

  "Something of that ilk. Now," orange eyes bored into hers, "let me help you to find your way back. The Bright Court is not a safe place to be."

  "So I gathered. But I don't know if I'll be able to leave just yet." She grimaced. "I haven't completed my quest."

  His head quirked to the side. "What quest were you set?"

  "It was a riddle, I think. I didn't really understand it." She looked up, recalling the strange words the goblin had said in his singsong voice. "'Only the pure can see the pure, only the pure will find him. Only with love will love be shown, only by love unbind him.' I thought maybe I had to find a stream, or a pool, so I went hunting through the forest. And ended up here." She jerked her head over her shoulder. "But I probably should be going, right enough. I'm in a sim cafe using rented kit, and I'm sure my time is nearly up."

  "Come." He stood up and held out a hand. "Let me take you to a faerie circle."

  * * *

  Reality bites, so the old expression went. And in Corinne's case, it was almost literally true. Back in the real world—the virtual reality of
Feyland left behind in the gaming booth—all her troubles and woes came rushing back. Leaning against the wall outside the sim cafe in the wan Scottish sunshine, the residual glow she'd felt from the mysterious minstrel's song dissipated, leaving her heart-sore and despondent.

  "Did you have a good time, dear?" asked her mother as she pulled up at the kerb. "Meet any of your friends?"

  "Yes thanks, and no," Corinne answered, stepping into the grav car. If only her mother knew.

  "I suppose everyone else must be away lying on a beach in Spain or on a golf course in Florida. If only your father wasn't so busy, we…" She pursed her lips. "But anyway." Mother's face turned serious. "A courier dropped this off—" She nodded her head at a large box in the luggage area.

  His ashes. Corinne knew what it was without asking.

  "If you want me to go with you when…" Concerned eyes stared at her from under arched eyebrows.

  Corinne squared her shoulders. "No, it's okay, mum. I'll take him up Chessaig after dinner."

  "Your favourite ride?"

  "His favourite. Yes."

  * * *

  By the time Corinne reached the top of the small hill, carrying her sad burden, it was twilight, the time of day the Scots called 'gloaming'. The sun's last rays gave the silvery trees around her an otherworldly aura and left an amber glow in the sky, which faded to a deep, velvety navy overhead. A sigh of wind rustled the leaves in the trees, and swirled through the lichen-covered granite monoliths that circled the hilltop.

  Local legends said that this tumbledown stone circle was an ancient druid temple, but she'd never paid much attention to those folk tales, counting them as fiction, much like the stories she loved to read and the games she liked to play. As far as she was concerned, this was just a place she'd liked to visit, on a route that her horse had enjoyed.

  Setting the box on the ground, she raised her face to the sky and turned in a slow circle, until her back was to the wind. Memories crowded her mind.

  As if replaying a film, she saw Midnight's ears in front of her and heard the thud of his galloping hooves as they raced up the slopes. Felt the warmth of his shoulder under her hand as she told him what a good boy he'd been. Smelled the sweet smell of his sweat in her nostrils as they headed home from their ride.

  She let out a long, shuddering breath, and stooped to pick up the box. This was the right place. His place.

  * * *

  As the last of Midnight's ashes eddied through the air and were dissipated by the wind, the sun dropped behind the horizon, casting long shadows and leaving uncertain light.

  With the back of her hand, Corinne wiped the tears from her cheeks, turned for the path home, then stopped in her tracks with a gasp.

  Between two of the standing stones a shadowy figure was silhouetted against the fading light. A cloak mantled his shoulders, and thick curls ruffled in the wind as he gazed across at her, the intensity of his stare drawing her towards him like a magnet.

  How could he be here?

  But the vision slowly faded and burned into nothing and she faltered to a stop, feeling stupid. I'm seeing things. How could a character from a computer game appear on a Perthshire hillside? Impossible.

  Chapter Three

  THE QUEST

  Her hand on the coffee pot, Mother looked sideways at Corinne. "What would you like to do today? Would you like to start looking for a new horse? Ms. Irving has kept a space for us at the farm, remember, and it's not long till the end of the holidays. There won't be much time once you're back at school. Your father and I thought it could be a birthday present. An early one."

  Staring into her bowl of cereal, Corinne shook her head. "It's too soon, Mum, sorry." Midnight was still in her heart, in her mind—and in her dreams.

  Last night her sleep had been full of strange fantasy creatures and dark storylines. She'd been chased by unrelenting hounds through a never-ending forest, riding on the back of a proud white steed. A steed who felt just like Midnight.

  Ahead of her—always just ahead but never reached—was a shadowy figure with flame-coloured hair and a lyre over his shoulder. The vague sense of terror and exhilaration she'd felt in the dream had stayed with her as she woke and went down to breakfast. It was like Feyland had got a hold of her somehow, drawing her in so that she couldn't stop thinking about it—even while she slept.

  Perhaps it was because she hadn't solved the riddle of her first quest. "Could I—could I maybe go back to the sim cafe today? There's a new game I was playing, and I'd like to complete my quest."

  "Well, yes, I could drop you off on my way to work. But wouldn't you rather do something outdoors? Or meet some of your friends at the stables?"

  "I don't think I'm ready for that, yet." And nobody will want to see me, anyway.

  * * *

  Settling into the sim chair, Corinne pulled the visor over her eyes and pressed the large "F" icon.

  'WELCOME TO FEYLAND'

  The colour of the text changed from golden-yellow to blood-red, then scattered into tiny fragments, spiralling away as music swelled around her. Briefly, a pair of eyes glowed from the shadows, sending a shiver down her spine, and reminding her of the strange creature who'd helped her yesterday.

  Stepping carefully out of the circle of moon-pale mushrooms, she settled her bow over her shoulder and started down the narrow silvery path, brushing against wiry clumps of purple heather as she walked. Closer to the tree line, butterflies flittered through clumps of yellow broom, and framing everything around her were tall, parchment-white birch trees punctuating the darker majesty of fresh-smelling pines.

  It was like a perfect summer day, and, for a few seconds, she forgot that this world was not real. Raising her face to the sun, she felt the heat of its rays warm her skin. The programmers really had done a good job with this VR. She could actually smell and touch things here in Feyland. In other games she'd tried, visual and audio experiences were the norm, but not smell. She shook her head. Probably taste would work here too, she guessed, but the game instructions had explicitly warned not to let your characters eat or drink anything in-world. Something to do with introducing glitches into the simulation and failing your quest. The exact details had been a bit vague. Worryingly vague.

  Opening her eyes, Corinne moved forward again, reciting the riddle under her breath. "Only the pure can see the pure." What on earth did that mean, anyway? Pure water? Pure like snow? But there was hardly likely to be snow here in the middle of summer, even if it was a magical land. Pondering this, she entered the cool shade of the forest.

  Before she'd walked very far, a flash of light to the side of the path caught her attention. Something large and white was moving through the trees. Not snow. An animal. Could this be the answer to her quest?

  Quietly, she stepped off the path and made her way through the undergrowth towards her target. Hopping over a small stream, she circled behind some large pine trees, trying to get a better look at the snowy creature. It was white, definitely white, with four legs and a shape quite like… a horse?

  That thought must've provoked a tiny noise, because the animal threw its head up in alarm. Her eyes widened as she saw the long, twisted horn protruding from its elegant forehead. Not a horse. A unicorn!

  Its nostrils flared as it turned its head, searching for the source of the noise that had startled it. She froze in place, not daring to move a muscle or even breathe.

  Eventually, the unicorn seemed satisfied that it was safe, and dropped its head again. It was drinking, she saw now, from a small still pool formed where the stream crossed some rockier ground.

  She wracked her brains, trying to remember what she knew—anything she knew—about unicorns. Since some of the legends had them similar to horses—obviously the game developers hadn't read the myths about cloven-hoofed, goat-bearded unicorns—and since she liked books, they were a subject she'd read about a couple of times, but mostly in fiction, so she wasn't sure how much of what she'd read was true.

  And then s
he stopped herself, almost laughing. This was fiction, wasn't it? It was a game, and the game developers wrote the 'story' of each quest. So what she remembered was probably fine; and what she remembered was that unicorns were tamed by unsullied maidens. Maybe that's what my riddle means? She pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes at the magical creature. Could taming him be my quest?

  There was only one way to find out. And it was only a game, so what could go wrong? She could just try again tomorrow if she messed up.

  Taking a deep, quiet breath, she crept silently around the pine trees until she was level with the unicorn's shoulder. Holding a hand out in front of her, she stepped out from behind the tree. "Good boy," she breathed, announcing her presence.

  The unicorn's head raised again, but this time he looked more curious than alarmed. Liquid brown eyes surveyed her, and then his head bobbed slightly.

  She took another step towards him, and then another, and another until her hand could reach out and touch his muzzle.

  A glow of satisfaction suffused her whole body as the animal snuffled her fingers, his whiskers tickling her palm. Another step closer and her other hand was able to reach up and stroke his cheek. His hair was silky-fine and so smooth it was like touching satin, and his muzzle in her other hand felt like expensive velvet. Then he dropped his head so that she cradled it in her arms, and she felt a catch in her chest.

  That was what Midnight used to do. He'd stand quietly in his stable, face in her arms, letting her run her fingers through his mane and tickle his chin.

  Just like this unicorn was letting her do now.

  Could this game somehow tap into her subconscious? For a moment, she became aware of the headset pressing tight on her temples, of the sensors studding the gaming gloves she was wearing. But that couldn't explain the dreams she'd had last night, could it?

  She sighed, and, as if taking a cue from her, the unicorn rocked back on its haunches, folded his legs and sank to the ground with a grunt, eyelids drooping.