Chronicle Worlds: Feyland

by Samuel Peralta

  * * *

  Agatha went home that night still trying to shake the odd feeling she had from the encounter with Sir Nye. Simming with Jane and Zack had been so different from other times she’d played. She remembered how physically strange it was going into Feyland with Zack. Zack had achieved Master Bard status, so why were those levels all new for him?

  She went to bed and fell asleep quickly. Her dream was filled with heather-covered hills and a harp melody she was unfamiliar with. Sir Nye’s horn was in her hands, and its bird carvings came to life. Their heads rose and wings stretched from the horn’s perimeter. The body of each bird emerged, flying into a diving chase with other birds, and each carried well-dressed frog riders. A rising sun silhouetted the strong figure of Sir Nye. The cool wind tossed his curls into flares of red hair. Adoring eyes of marmalade greeted her, as he said, “My songbird, for you I wait.”

  Agatha awoke with a jolt, sitting up as her heart pounded in her chest. Taking deep breaths, she tried to steady herself, but failed as she frantically kicked away her covers. Rolling to the edge of her bed, she got up and staggered through the dark to her bathroom. Auto lights dimmed on and Agatha blinked as she poured a glass of water. Trying to banish her fear, she downed the glass of water and returned to bed.

  She had experienced her share of odd dreams or nightmares, but none of them rivaled the vivid feel of this last one. Unable to relax, Agatha crawled back in bed, but gave up trying to sleep any more that night.

  * * *

  After dinner on Sunday, Agatha sat studying in the living room as her mother chatted with Agatha’s sister about the trivial happenings of the prior week. The gold bangle bracelets her mother wore jingled as she reached a hand to smooth Agatha’s hair. Her mother gripped her shoulder in assurance, and slowly pulled her into a hug.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get the part you wanted for the winter recital,” her mom said. “Keep practicing, you’ll get your solo.”

  Agatha nodded and chewed at the edge of her lip.

  “Ms. Raider knows how talented you are. She’s always given you a part.”

  “Just never the solo I wanted.”

  Agatha had joined performance choir more for the chance to wear fun costumes than for the frustrations that came with singing as part of a choreographed ensemble. The choir director, Ms. Raider, had tracked Agatha down her first week of school freshman year. She had the scary ‘I’m a huge fan of your mom’ eyes, when she handed Agatha the audition schedule. It took a full year for Ms. Raider’s fan eyes to calm down. By sophomore year they were gone, but Ms. Raider still managed to slide in the occasional awkward question about Agatha’s mom. Unfortunately, Ms. Raider’s fan-girl devotion to Agatha’s mom was non-transferable to her.

  “She’s not going to hand over the best parts just because,” her mom said.

  “I know,” Agatha said, sliding out of her mother’s embrace.

  “So go practice. If you want it, you need to work for it like everybody else. The best one-percent—”

  “I know, I know,” Agatha said walking to her bedroom. “The best musicians are the one percent who log the most practice hours.”

  Agatha had always been good about practicing, but it felt like such a waste of time. No matter how much she practiced, she was missing something. Shelly had something she lacked, every single audition. If only Agatha could pinpoint what that something was.

  * * *

  Jane found Agatha at lunch on Monday. “Hey, want to play Feyland tonight?”

  Agatha nodded, “Yeah, it’ll be nice to hang out. I’ll be free after choir, where I get to watch Shelly rehearse her solo again.”

  “I’ll sit through rehearsal, and then we can walk home. Maybe stop and splurge on some ice cream?”

  “Ice cream therapy, that’s perfect.”

  “Are you going to pout all winter about this?” Jane asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “When you go to rehearsal, you need to stop moping and start having fun. Activities like show choir are supposed to be fun.”

  “I’ll try, as long as we get ice cream afterwards.”

  They did stop for ice cream after rehearsal, which helped Agatha’s mood a little. When they made it up to Jane’s apartment, they found Zack in the living room, his guitar in his lap. A young boy sat across from him, also holding a guitar. The boy’s head was bent in close inspection of his fingers, and Zack listed off each chord as they played. Jane motioned for Agatha to follow her quietly to her bedroom.

  “I forgot Zack was teaching Kyle’s lesson,” Jane said.

  “He teaches lessons?”

  Jane nodded, “He teaches guitar, and I do private alterations. It’s what paid for our full-D systems.”

  “That’s dedicated,” Agatha said.

  “We camped outside the store the week it was released. We spent two nights with a tent sleeping on pavement so we could get a Full-D on release day.”

  “That’s crazy,” Agatha said.

  Jane shrugged and laughed, “You’ve met Zack. Someone needed be out there with him. No, we had fun. We also got a great discount code for a future game purchase.”

  “And your parents didn’t mind?”

  “The only thing Dad asked was if we’d miss school. Mom said there was worse things we could be doing.”

  Jane’s door slid open and Zack leaned his head in and waved at Agatha. “Hey, Agatha. We’re all wrapped up if you want to sim. How was rehearsal?”

  “Shelly’s solo is really good,” Agatha said.

  “Let me try again, how was your rehearsal?” Zack said.

  “She did great,” Jane said.

  “But I’m never going to be like Shelly,” Agatha said.

  Zack stepped through the auto door and crossed his arms as it shut behind him. “And you’re never going to sound like your mother either.”

  Agatha met Zack’s eyes with a confused look. If he was trying to hurt her feelings he succeeded. Yeah, no kidding she’d never sound like her world-class performance mother. Was this his payback for what she said about his clothes?

  “I used to do that,” he said. “Measure myself against the talent of other people. It’s a bad habit, it’ll wear you down. It got too hard, to gauge what I could do, when I was always thinking about everybody else’s talent. It’s like a roadblock, you know? I mean, you’re never going to key a chord or sing a note exactly like someone else. I got better at guitar when I stopped thinking about everybody else and paid attention to what I was working on.”

  Agatha’s lips drew into a tight line as she listened to Zack. She had tried and failed so many times. He was right, but it was hard to smile and accept his words as encouragement and not criticism.

  “I’ll see you two later, I’ve got band practice,” Zack said. “Chin up, fashion goddess, you’re one hell of a songbird. When you get to Feyland, tell your fiancé I said hi.” Agatha launched a pillow at Zack, who slipped out the door with a laugh, leaving the pillow to land against the closed door with a thud.

  The heather hills and early morning sun looked the same as it had on Saturday when they had saved their sim level to Feyland. Wind rippled across the heather, tossing the flowers about like ocean swells.

  Jane pointed to Agatha’s waist. “Did you just manifest that?”

  Agatha looked down to see Sir Nye’s horn strapped to her belt. “No, but it looks neat huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jane said, still eyeing the horn with suspicion.

  “What is it?” Agatha said.

  “I don’t know? It’s just that last time we played it was a lot different than the other times I’ve simmed. And Zack and I play this game a lot.”

  “As you should. Two nights spent sleeping on concrete in front of a shopping mall means you should be the kind of player they write online articles about.”

  Jane gave her a sheepish smile as she stepped onto the path leading to the village of stone cottages. “Well, maybe they already do.”

  Agatha’s eyes we
nt wide. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m in a Feyland forum, and someone asked about an Illuminer spell they couldn’t cast in the Dark Realm. I knew the answer, and then Dan, one of the forum admins, asked if I would do this small question and answer piece for their newsletter.”

  “You are the most perfect friend to have around, and support my two Fs obsession.”

  “Fashion, and Feyland,” Jane said. “And the occasional stop for ice cream.”

  Together they stepped onto the mosaic walking path of the town’s main street. They walked by the merry revelry of the townsfolk and greeted master tailor Lewis as they passed his shop. At the edge of town, Agatha turned to the northwest and saw a large stand of trees—the one Sir Nye had directed them to find.

  “Larks are good, and crossbills are bad,” Agatha said, remembering his words of advice. “I don’t think I know what either one of those birds looks like.”

  “We should steer clear of any bird whose beak looks like this,” Jane held up two fingers and crossed them.

  “Okay.” Agatha pantomimed Jane’s crossed finger gesture. “Any other tips?”

  “Larks can have little feather tufts on the tops of their heads. Some look like they have little feather bird horns.”

  “Bird expert huh?” Agatha asked.

  “No, but I was curious after all the birds we saw the last time we played.”

  “What kind of birds were those fancy frogs riding?”

  “Linnets.”

  “Linnets,” Agatha said, trying to remember the name.

  They entered the stand of trees and found several columns spaced in a wide arch. On top of each column stood the stone statue of a bird, and on the ground before each column sat perfect circles of red capped mushrooms.

  “Would that one with the pointy horns be the lark?” Agatha asked, gesturing to a bird statue on the far left.

  Jane nodded and stepped into the mushroom circle before it. Agatha followed, and the lark statue sent them through another blanket of golden light. They arrived inside a circled crown of stone mushrooms, thirty feet above the ground.

  “What on earth? My feet are wet.” Jane said, grabbing hold of Agatha’s arm with both hands. “We’re standing on top of a fountain!”

  The midmorning air was warm, and the puffs of spray wafting up from the white fountain below them felt good. The fountain was so grand, it was like it had been stolen from a fine palace and secreted into the forest. Trailing plants draped flowers down the stepped fluted columns, where sculptures of flying birds were poised. Around them grew an old grove of trees with leaves flushed in autumn colors. Paper lanterns hung on strings slung between lower tree branches. The lanterns glowed like someone had made the mistake of leaving them on past morning. Thousands of brightly colored ribbons dangled from the trees and did a festive dance in the breeze. There was a cobblestone path set around the fountain, but the stones became scattered and then disappeared into the moss-covered ground.

  “Have any ideas on how to climb down from here? Spells? Fancy things made out of light?” Agatha said.

  Jane stood in thought as water from the fountain slowly crept up the hem of her apricot robes. “No, I have no ideas.”

  “I guess we’re climbing down then,” Agatha said.

  “We’ll get soaked,” Jane said with a frown.

  “It’s Feyland, we’ll be fine.”

  “Setting us on top of a fountain,” Jane said in a low grumble, as she stooped to follow Agatha’s climb down. “Whose bright idea is this?”

  “Must be the same programmer who made Sir Nye,” Agatha said.

  “My songbird, please, do be careful!” Sir Nye said, appearing beside her and wrapping one arm around Agatha’s waist. Agatha cried out at the touch and stared at Sir Nye in amazement as he guided their descent down via a rope.

  “Please don’t leave me up here,” Jane cried from high above them.

  Sir Nye was staring into Agatha’s eyes as he replied, “Have no fear Illuminer Jane, I will return shortly to fetch you.”

  “Thank you,” Agatha said as they reached the ground. She gasped when Sir Nye leaned over and hefted her into a cradle carry.

  “Sir Nye, what about Jane? You can put me down now, I’m fine,” she said, but Sir Nye ignored her and seemed to increase the pace of his stride. “It’s unnecessary for you to carry me anywhere. Put me down.”

  “Indeed I must carry thee, for it is customary for a groom to carry his bride across their threshold.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Agatha said. She squirmed and pushed, but Sir Nye’s hold was strong and only increased. “Jane!”

  “I’m coming,” Jane called as she grabbed hold of the rope Sir Nye had left tied to the fountain and began to climb her way to the ground.

  Sir Nye brought Agatha under the vined canopy of a willow tree before he set her down. Agatha fled his hold and ran back the way they had come. When she reached the edge of the willow’s canopy she saw her escape was barred. Endless gold bars surrounded them, stretching up to form a caged dome beneath the willow tree. A gilded door stood blocking the entrance.

  “Unlock this, now!” Agatha said.

  “My precious songbird, I cannot. You have my horn, and my heart.”

  “Here,” Agatha fumbled to grab the horn from her waist, “You can have it back.”

  “No, you are my songbird and caged birds always sing best.”

  “You caged me to get me to sing? You did this so I’ll sing for you?”

  “Of course,” Sir Nye said. He moved to sit, and from the ground beneath them tree roots shot up to fashion a chair that rose up to embrace him.

  “Agatha?” Jane called.

  “In here,” Agatha said, feeling some relief when Jane appeared, rushing down the path. Jane slowed, approaching the gold bars in awe. Agatha reached out and gripped Jane’s hand in trepidation. “He wants me to sing.”

  Jane paused as she looked past Agatha’s shoulder at the reclined figure of Sir Nye. “Then you should sing. Maybe a song like the one you sang with Zack to the triplet babies.” She gave Agatha a meaningful look, eyebrows arched.

  Agatha had sung a lullaby to the triplets. Recognizing Jane’s hint, Agatha nodded.

  “There’s definitely spellwork at play here, and I think it has something to do with that.” Jane pointed to the horn in Agatha’s hand. “I’ll see if I can cast a spell to unlock the door, but I think you have to get rid of that thing.”

  “I think you’re right,” Agatha said.

  Agatha turned back to Sir Nye and met his marmalade colored eyes.

  “I should like to hear you sing,” Sir Nye said.

  “Then I shall,” Agatha said and reviewed the ballad selection that appeared. Her eyes trained in on Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight. Setting the pace with a slow tap of her foot, Agatha began.

  At first she heard the usual chiming accompaniment as the gold scrolled words appeared. When she sang the first line the wind and string instrumentals of a full orchestra began. The precision of the accompaniment was pure, and so lovely she almost faltered in her singing. Honing in on her own voice, Agatha focused on the lyrics. The sound of the ballad was amazing. Hearing the vibrato of her voice, Agatha looked up in wonder at the acoustics of the willow canopy above. Its limbs and branches echoed the sweet hum of violins with her voice. The music lulled her into a relaxed rhythm, and Agatha felt the contentment that came when she enjoyed a performance.

  When the ballad came to a close, Agatha saw Sir Nye asleep in his chair, his head resting on one hand. The instrumental faded into silence as Agatha crept beside him. She placed the horn in Sir Nye’s lap, then glanced over her shoulder at Jane.

  Jane shook her head as she pulled on the gilded door. “Still locked. I don’t think that’s good enough.”

  Agatha remembered what Sir Nye had said when she tried to give the horn back to him. “He said his horn and heart are mine.”

  “Then I think you need to break them both to break the spe
ll.”

  Agatha bit down on her lip as she reached for the horn again. Her thoughts were a repeating chant begging him to not wake up, please don’t wake up. She gripped the horn and lifted it from his lap and threw it on the ground by her feet. A calloused hand grabbed her wrist and she let out a startled yelp.

  “My Songbird, what are you doing?”

  Pulling away from him, she raised her foot above the horn. “Where I’m from we call it a break up.” She stomped down hard on the horn and heard a hard crunch. “There’s no betrothal, Sir Nye. Never has been, never will be.” Agatha raised her foot one more time and stomped on the horn again.

  A plume of gold light waved away from them, causing the ground to tremor and the willow tree to shudder. It sounded like one hundred different birds took flight at once, flapping and calling in an angry chorus. The tree roots holding up Sir Nye retreated and left him sprawled on his back, scrambling to get up.

  Jane shouted, “Agatha! It’s open, the door’s open, come on!”

  Without hesitation, Agatha turned and ran from the cage. Reaching the gilded door she took Jane’s outstretched hand and together they hurried up the path and back to the fountain.

  “Should we search for the next gate?” Jane said.

  Agatha shook her head, “No, no, end it. End it now. Get us out of here.”

  Agatha and Jane sat in silence as they exited the sim. Agatha knew there was something off about Sir Nye, but there was more going on with the level they had just finished besides the over-adoring red haired knight.

  “Agatha,” Jane said in a hushed voice, “my feet are wet.”

  “What?” Agatha said, pulling off her sim helmet to get a better look at Jane’s wet feet. Scrunching her toes, Agatha felt a squish of water in her shoes. Holding her breath she shifted her gaze and saw her feet were wet, too. She looked up at Jane in shock and covered her mouth when she saw Jane’s hair. It was as wet as if they were still in Feyland.