Part 6.

A few days later, Berwyn settled down to rest after another grueling exertion under my supervision. He was walking, after a fashion, and his knee bore up under his weight, though the limp was pronounced.

 

 

“If you’re going to carry a dead man’s sword, you might as well use it.”

 

He slashed the air wildly, reveling in the keen of the blade through the air. “You know how to do such a thing?”

 

My experience with a blade was limited, outside of a few dalliances at a local fencing club. It was still better than Berwyn’s grasp on the matter - his first attempts were broad swings, utterly lacking in control or accuracy.

 

“Perhaps. Shall we duel?”

 

Berwyn nodded, and I cast about the immediate vicinity for two likely looking sticks. Once I found a pair of the appropriate length, I indicated that he should put down the sword for the moment. Disappointed, he nevertheless complied, morosely accepting the proffered stick.

 

“Stick fighting is a child’s occupation,” he said.

Without warning, I took my stick and leveled a swing at his head, rapping his skull quite smartly. He shouted in pain, clutching at his head.

 

“Why did you do that, human?”

“Any reason, I suppose - maybe I’m tired of listening to your aggrievements every moment you’re conscious, or maybe you need to realize not every opponent will be interested in fighting on your terms. Or perhaps I am weary of being called human. My name,” I said, slashing at him, “is Robert.”

 

Berwyn parried it barely, the sticks clacking as they rebounded off each other. He stared at me for a moment, as if delicately balanced, the only thing deciding which way he fell sheer caprice. He laughed, then, and nodded.

 

“Very well, Robert.”

 

And so we dueled, moving as if underwater to accommodate Berwyn’s condition. The exercise exhausted him, but I could tell he enjoyed it - as I thrust and slashed at him, his motions became more practiced, as he immediately grasped the intricacies of fencing.

 

“This is easier to learn than your language,” he panted, mounting a counter-offensive. I laughed and drove him backwards.

 

“Not so pretty as language, though. No poetry, no song, no stories.”

I could tell from his eyes he disagreed, and in fact was enthralled with the foreign poetry of fencing, the song of mock battle. His desire to tell his own stories of pain… coming face to face with such passion for violence, my interest dropped, and he scored a point on me, thwapping me solidly with the stick right on the shoulder. The bloom of pain made me grit my teeth, and I waved him to a halt.

 

“What is it, Robert?” I could see that it took some measure of resolve to prevent himself from administering a coup d’grace, even in training. The sight of a defenseless opponent made his voice excited, strange.

 

I made a disgusted noise and tossed aside my weapon, thinking of the faerie I had slain.

 

“The raid. Who sent them?”

 

Berwyn’s face sobered, and he lowered his sword. “It was my father the king’s decision. He knew the humans would never accept the terms without first an object lesson.”

 

I shook my head, bleakly. “You’re wrong. I might have convinced them.”

 

“Might, Robert.” His voice was gentle. “It was, however, a certainty that they would take those axes to the grove unless we convinced them otherwise.”

 

“And you tell me you had no hand in that decision.”

 

Berwyn shook his head. “None. I sought the duel from the first - that raid was… dishonorable.”

I laughed, bitterly. “You might call it that. Did you know that I killed one of yours?”

“I did not know this.”

“He was a smaller one, still a sprite. He came alone, tried to attack the widow and her children… I stopped him. I do not know what possessed me, but believe me when I say something did possess me. I choked the life from him, Berwyn.” I spread my hands wide, unsure of what I expected him to say.

 

He listened without blinking, perhaps envisioning the scene.

 

“I first killed when I was just a sprite, my wings hardly dried. I never knew his name - they were from the South, a great pack of sprites, wreaking havoc. Burnt up the better part of a village, massacred cattle. Then they came onto our lands. Snatched up an elder, some blameless ancient, and hanged him from a high branch. We found the body the next morning, and I remember the way his eyes were popping out of his skull, how his face was the color of a blueberry. Me and mine, we went out that night. Found them that night, too. They were not careless, I will give them that - they were waiting for us. They knew the kind of consequence they had brought upon themselves, and they were ready for it - that’s why the sprite is so dangerous. No sense of self preservation. And I’ll tell you, Robert, that creeping upon their camp was the most fearful thing I’d done. But when the first one spotted us, and we broke from cover… I was alive. I had never known before that moment how I had been merely passing, ever since I was born. It all lead to that. I killed the leader, staved in his head with a club. I felt powerful - I felt free.”

 

I listened to this all, and he broke from his reverie.

 

“Did you feel that power?”

I nodded, throat tight.

“And you rejected it.”

I nodded again.

“Good. You know what it is to kill. Is there any water left?”

 

I checked the gourd we kept for such purposes, but found it empty. I went to the nearby creek to refill it. As I crouched at the water’s edge, shoes sinking in the thick muck, I listened to the steady flow of the water, rippling over buried stones, sedately rushing to a destination so far away as to seem impossible, and yet certain. No matter how long its journey, this creek lead somewhere. To a lake, or to a larger river, or to the ocean, perhaps. But it had a course, defined. I felt myself drifting, and watched the dark waters for some time, filled gourd laid beside me. In this trance like state, my senses faded, drowned in the sound of the creek. But there was a discordant note - in my time among the faerie, I knew all the sounds one might expect to hear, from the insects to the animals to the wind, and this was surely not one of those. I glanced upwards, startled as a deer, and listened carefully. The noise sounded again, and this time I could discern it: the sound of a scuffle.

 

I immediately thought of the weakened Berwyn and his fears of false friends, and took to my feet. I sprinted back to where I had left him, and I found him struggling with an assassin. As I blundered into view, Berwyn’s eyes were wide with fear and desperation. The assassin held a knife at his throat, the only thing keeping the blade from its wish was Berwyn’s own hands. They struggled grimly, and I froze for a moment. There was only the muted sounds of a deadly struggle, and the night. There I stood at the edge of it. My decision was already made - I barrelled forward and hurled all my weight into the assassin, catching him squarely in the ribs. He staggered off Berwyn, who seized his opportunity. The cossack’s sword was in his hand in an instant, and it flashed forward, burying itself at the base of the assassin’s neck. With a gurgle he fell. Berwyn lay there panting, and I watched the dark blood ooze from the faerie’s ruined throat.

 

“My debt is repaid,” I told him.

 

“Bring me Morgana,” he said.

 

I fetched her immediately, and she did not ask any questions of me, merely followed in my wake. I was edgy, the wooden faces of the faerie we passed by masks, concealing murderous intent. If Berywn’s life was in danger, might not mine own? I banished the thought, for we neared Berwyn’s position, and I knew that it would be essential to see her reaction. So I breathed deeply and brought her into the clearing.

 

Berwyn sat on his pallet, bloodied sword laid over his knees. He contemplated the dead assassin with bird-like curiosity and steepled fingers - Morgana uttered a low gasp when she saw the scene.

 

She took it all in instantaneously, hurrying to her brother’s side. The tip of the sword convinced her to keep her distance, however, and Berwyn’s eyes ran down the spine of the blade, terminating just above her heart.

 

“Good evening, dear sister.”

 

“Surely you don’t think I had a hand in this?”

 

“Forgive me if my thoughts seem… scattered. I had steel at my throat quite recently - I’m sure you understand.”

Morgana’s eyes hardened, and her spine stiffened as she looked down at Berwyn.

 

“Will you not proclaim your innocence?”

“A sister should not have to.”

“You’ve spoken too much with the human - I know you have eyed that crown for as long as I have.”

 

Regardless of the truth of that statement, Morgana’s next action proved to me she would make a fine queen indeed - with not a word she batted aside the sword with the back of her hand, and stepped close to Berwyn.

 

“Who is responsible?” she asked as she sat down.

 

Berwyn laughed, and sheathed the sword in the soft earth, stabbing the ground between his feet. Only then did I breathe easy.

 

“Would you prefer it if I left?”

 

The siblings looked up at me blankly. I sat down, then, and listened as they examined the possibities.

 

“Crose?” Berwyn suggested.

“Unlikely - a crown holds no allure for him. What about one of your people?”

“Possible. But I’m not king yet, so why now?”

She shrugged. “What about… father?”

 

They were both silent at that. Berwyn dug the sword a little deeper into the loam, and shook his head firmly. “Not father - he wouldn’t.”

“No? And your sister might?”

“How do we respond?”

“We don’t,” Morgana said. “All you need do at the moment is heal.”

 

Berwyn did heal, though the trees were relinquishing their withered leaves to winter’s howling wind when he was again whole. No further attempts on his, or any other faerie’s life were made, though the fear of hidden daggers made his sleep restless. He became changed - his eyes, once blazing with either anger or good-humor, were now two closed gates, a dark wariness peering out from between the bars. He rarely ate at his father’s table, instead sequestering himself with me and firing off question after question about human life. One such evening, perhaps frustrated by the cold, I asked him why he cared. He evaded the question, and I resolved to ask Morgana next I saw her.

 

 

My days become languid stretches of time, interspersed with the occasional encounter, but generally unmarred by anything save my own thoughts. I slept poorly, hounded by dark dreams. One morning I woke in a start, the fast fading imprint of a nightmare filling me with a vague sense of unease. I looked about me, and saw that the dawn had not yet broken, and a soft grey ruled the world. I stood, feeling a tremendous lightness in my being, as if the bare fact of still drawing breath after a night passed in the void was a triumph. I then realized that the first snow was falling. I gazed upward in pure wonderment as the flakes fell, spiralling in their graceful descents. I struck out, away from the camp, seeking to immerse myself totally in the blankness of it all. I went walking, my shoes sinking ever so slightly into the thin powdery carpet already on the ground. Once all sight of the faerie had been lost, I sat upon a fallen tree and let the snow come down.

 

It was so quiet that I could hear them as they struck the earth, like angel’s music.

 

Winter had come, and I wondered at what it meant to me. A long time prior, in my former life, winter was an inconvenience, to be viewed from thick panes of glass, in rooms lit by roaring fires.

 

Out there in the trees, it was a revelation.

 

When would my sojourn end? How long could this madness continue, and when would I be freed from this bondage? These questions echoed faintly, fundamentally hollow at their core. At the moment, the only thing of substance was the utter silence of the woods. I let it fill me, let it enter me - or perhaps I entered it, each inhabiting the other, becoming the other, nullifying the other. Robert faded, and then he was merely another fallen thing in the woods, a dusting of snow on the shoulders of his coat.

 

Perhaps he heard the soft tread of Morgana, perhaps he merely imagined it. When he turned, there was no one there.

 

Fully recovered, Berwyn set in motion the series of events that would culminate in his coronation. He went about the camp, consolidating his power, making promises in exchange for loyalty. It seemed at every gathering, he was whispering in another faerie’s ear. He took no pains to conceal his goings-on, and I watched as the king observed it all with a sort of resignation. He looked like a man bound for the gallows.

 

After dinner one evening, I brought Morgana into the woods.

 

“It will begin, soon,” I said.

“And end as well.”

“Will you act?”

She looked at me questioningly.

“Your claim is as strong as his, I meant.”

She laughed, genuinely amused. “If one desires to rise, they must prepare to fall. I have no need of a crown.”

“What do you need?”

She was silent, thoughtful. “I need to be free.”

“Of what? Your kind are as free as birds.”

“The cage might be too large for you to perceive, Robert. It does not mean it is not there. There is nothing for me… I may have young ones, I may hold a crown, or I might watch my people die. In the end, it is nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She shook her head. “And what do you need, Robert?”

“I need… something. Anything.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means I’m hollow, empty. You’ve ripped me from my world and kept me here in your own, and now I belong to neither. A man cannot survive without knowing where he belongs.”

“A man is where he is - he belongs to no one and nothing save himself. You should know this, Robert.”

“Fine words, Morgana, but you speak of solitude. I have lived this solitude, and it is no fine thing.”

“And why not?”

“Because I need to believe in something. I need to surrender to something greater than myself - otherwise I’m only a man.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“A man is a fraction of a being, half of what he should be.”

“And the other half?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

 

She grew angry, her face tightening into a frigid mask, and walked away without another word. I sat down right where I stood, staring at the ground. Inside of myself I only felt a great emptiness, a chasm, void of all emotion. This made me angry, but the anger was quickly deadened by the emptiness, like a shout upon a lonely moor. Muffled and hollow, I sat.

 

“Odd place to sit down, isn’t it, Robert?”

I looked up to see Berwyn standing there, a faint smile on his face.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, I suppose. I did want to tell you that it happens, tonight.”

“I don’t understand why I should care.”

“Because when the moon next looks down on us, I might not be numbered among the living. And if that is the case, then there is nothing keeping you here.”

I realized then that he was one of my many wardens, that he held the keys to my cell. A murderous rage suffused me, and I leapt to my feet. He cocked his head, bemused, and I punched him in the jaw, snapping his head to the side. The shock of the impact ran through my hand - it was if I had struck granite. He fixed me with a cold stare, but I was not to be deterred. I hit him again, this time catching him in his throat. He seemed unaffected. I threw myself upon him, all fists and knees, throwing punch after futile punch. He weathered the half-hearted flurry with the imperturbability of a stone, and when I had exhausted myself, he neatly slapped me, sending me spiraling to the ground.

 

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

My head ringing, I spat, expectoration bloody. “No.”

 

“The spectacle begins shortly,” he said. I could not tell if his voice was tinged with anxiety or excitement.

 

 

THE HISTORY OF THE FAERIE

————————-

 

The question of the faerie’s lineage is one of great interest to me, and I researched it extensively. The faerie, having no written history but a strong oral tradition, did their best to illuminate me on this matter. I have included here my recollections of their creation myths and legends as related to me.

 

 

 

In the beginning, there was only the Great Tree. Some time after the beginning, a seed fell from it, and this seed was the planet Earth. For a long time the earth was barren, devoid of all life. But in its slow heart, germination occurred, and an incredible profusion of trees sprang from its desolate grounds. In this tree-filled world it was ever summer, and time passed so slowly as to not exist at all. The trees grew tall and strong, and nothing but the wind could be heard soughing through their branches, caressing the sun-stippled ground.

 

But something was amiss. At the heart of one tree there grew a sickness. This blight gestated for many years, and one day the infected tree, black and rotting, crumbled. From its bole emerged the first man. The first man was helpless as a newborn, and the trees took pity on him. They grew fruit and deposited great windfalls of it at his feet, and he was nourished. But man was ever hungry, and he was not satisfied. So the trees gave him more fruit, and he was still dissatisfied. And so man climbed to the highest branches of one tree and stripped it bare, consuming every piece of fruit, every leaf, and every twig. This was a great outrage, and the whole of the planet wept for the tree man had destroyed. As the man slumped on the ground, belly swollen and huge before him, a chill wind blew. This was not normal. The human stood and looked about himself, confused and frightened. Winter was coming. And so for the first time the trees lost their leaves, and these leaves fell to the ground, and as they touched the earth, they became the faerie kin. But man was not intimidated, for he never is, and he began to multiply, like some weed.

 

Their genesis story is interesting mainly for its anthrocentric bent - the faerie themselves are only mentioned in passing. It is as if humanity is a necessary force that the faerie must counteract - if we were not present, their role as stewards of nature would become obsolete. And then they would be forced to become something else. This fundamental inability to progress is troubling - what is it that can hold an entire race in suspension for milleniae?

 

The primary figure in the faerie mythos is Sylvain, an epic hero on the order of Sigfried or Odysseus. While he fell in love with most features of nature, be it his torrid affairs with the North Wind, Spring, and the Spirit of the Rivers, his true love was the sovereign of night herself: the Moon. The moon, before she ascended her lonely throne in the night sky, was the Sun’s daughter. She and her younger sisters, the Stars, would spend countless hours frolicking in the rivers - in those days, night did not yet exist. Sylvain was walking through the woods one day when he came across the great multitude at the river. And though the Stars were as numerous as the leaves, his eyes were immediately drawn to the Moon - she stood above them all, her skin fairer, her face more demure, her eyes more perfect. Sylvain (who seems very human indeed to me) had to have her. And so he pursued her, contriving to meet her away from her sisters. He pressed his suit, relentless and steady as a man walking down a stag. The Moon, who had never been in the presence of any male save her own father, was swept up in his charms, and soon her resistance flagged. Their love was consummated on a perfect day, and they did their best to be discreet. But young lovers have little talent for such subterfuge, and the Sun discovered their tryst. His rage was so great that he set the whole world ablaze, turning the leaves a brilliant conflagration of reds yellows and oranges. His anger became so great that he feared he might destroy the world, and so he flew into the sky and out of sight. Night, the first ever, fell across the land, and man and faerie alike quailed in terror of this darkness. After a period of time, the Sun’s anger dulled such that he could return to the world. But the Sun is not forgiving, and his daughter had to be punished. So he banished her to the sky, to watch over the earth whenever his rage returned and forced him to leave it.

 

Sylvain was heartbroken, to see his lover so close and yet so impossibly far. He spent the long nights (in those days, the Sun’s anger was such that nights could last what would be months to us) at the river where he had first seen her, playing his flute and singing love songs to her. But she could say nothing back, and it drove him mad. To be tormented by her face every night, it was too much for Sylvain to bear. And so he devised a desperate scheme to be with her, forever and always. On the surface of the river floated her reflection, and Sylvain laid down his instrument and dove into the cold waters, swimming out to embrace it. But when he reached it, his arms only closed over more water. Such is the foolhardiness of young love. And so Sylvain turned his face to regard his love, high above - and was content. He let himself sink beneath the waters, and drowned.

 

We finally arrived at the territory of the faerie in the north of France, after long months of travel. Unfortunately, a wolf cannot abandon his territory and not expect to discover rivals have laid claim to it. So it was with the King’s territory - another tribe of faerie had swallowed up a great portion of it.

 

THE FERAL

———

The interlopers were referred to strictly as the Feral. We first encountered their sentries on the outskirts of the King’s former territory. They were large, much larger than the King’s faerie, and covered in a sparse coat of shaggy fur. Their hair was wild and tangled, and their eyes held the brute vacancy of beasts everywhere. When their keen eyes first apprehended us, they loosed horrifying cries. Clapping my hand to my ears, I asked Morgana what they were carrying on about.

 

“They claim this land, now.”

 

The king strode forward in outrage, and addressed them in the high tongue. They jabbered back with a gross bastardization of the low tongue, so low as to be nearly indistinct from the cries of animals. While I could not understand the specifics of the exchange, I quickly divined the general intent when one of the Feral snatched up a rock and hurled at at our party. We ducked, and it cracked into a tree behind us with a solid “thok”. Point made, the brutes turned and leapt onto a nearby tree, powerful claws finding fast purchase in the bark. Then, lunging methodically upward like overgrown squirrels, they fled, wailing all the way.

 

As their cries echoed and faded, the king put a weary hand over his eyes.

 

“Come. We shall see what remains of the court.”

 

The clearing upon which I had first beheld the faerie, what seemed like ages ago, was untouched and free of the Ferals. The faerie heaved a sigh of relief at this, and set about reestablishing their camp. As the lower members of society busied themselves with their banal efforts, the king convened an emergency council. I aimlessly assisted one of the Talents in erecting a thicket as the powers of the faerie camp drew their wizened heads together. Berwyn stood among them too, clearly aloof, his body in an attitude of disdain. I sensed a storm on the horizon. As their council grew more heated, and the gesticulations more animated, the other faerie around me abandoned all pretext of effort, and stood gawking at their leaders. Finally, some sort of accord or impasse was reached, and the little piper was summoned to call the faerie to court. We pressed forward eagerly, abuzz with speculation and rumors about the Ferals. The king held up his hands for silence, and the faerie quieted.

 

“We stand at the brink of yet another crisis, faerie kin,” he boomed, old voice still strong, still commanding. “I now treat with you to know your minds,for we faerie must live and die as one. Take heed to that, for it becomes a very real possibility. The situation is this: the Feral have claimed a portion of our lands, and aim to hold them.”

 

Groans of dismay greeted this, and the king nodded sympathetically. “I know your anguish, fellows, for it seems just a moon ago we were engaged with the humans. Which is why I tender you this proposal: we do not make war.”

 

Cries of confusion rose from the crowd, and he eyed them coolly before continuing. “We have seen enough bloodshed in a single season to last us our lifetimes, yes?”

 

The throng nodded. “Then I propose we negotiate with the Feral.” Most in attendance were outraged, and I heard the voice of one dissenter: “You suggest we cede our homes to the Feral? What madness is this?” This sentiment was echoed all throughout the crowd, and I felt a malevolent undercurrent, as if the crowd might transmute into a mob at any second. The king sensed this too, and attempted to placate them.

 

“We would not be ceding our territory, merely recognizing that our great holdings are too extensive to maintain our grasp on - for the moment! Only for the moment! We bide our time, marshal our strength, and strike when our time presents itself.”

 

“Stop this,” someone said. The faerie who had spoken stood, and I recognized Berwyn. His bruise-blue face was the color of grief, yet his voice was strong.

“This must be stopped, father,” he said.

 

The king wheeled on him. “What is this?”

 

“This is the end of an era, the close of a golden epoch in our history. These are the last moments of your reign.”

“What madness possesses you?” his father asked him, voice unsurprised.

“I am possessed by nothing save honor, something you seem to have abandoned. You speak of rank cowardice, disguising it as tactics. I will not have it, and they” he pointed at us, “won’t have it.”

 

The crowd was in an enraptured hush, drama unfolding before them as if it were the theatre.

 

“So the moment has come at last,” the king said.

“It has. But it need not be bloody,” Berywn said.

The king shook his head slightly and laughed. At some unspoken cue, his most faithful leapt to action, weapons falling into their hands as they prepared to lay down their lives for their liege.

 

Berwyn put up a hand. “I ask you lay down your arms - if you do so, your involvement with the previous regime will be absolved, and you may enjoy a comfortable retirement.”

 

They snarled and spat on the ground. Berwyn, looking as weary as his father sometime did, made a signal. A previously disguised cadre of his supporters bounded out of the crowd and the trees, falling upon the old guard with clubs raised high. The old faerie were valiant, but were subdued with relative ease by the overwhelming number of Berwyn’s loyal. Skulls were cracked and cries of pain and outrage sounded - those of us in the crowd stood frozen, enthralled. Father and son watched each other, the struggle squarely between them, their pawns clearing the ground. When the injured were dragged aside and nothing stood between the king and his usurper, there pulsed a tremendous silence.

 

Berwyn put one hand before himself, palm-up.

 

“Relinquish your crown.”

 

His father said nothing. Something in Berwyn’s eyes cracked, like ice. “I beg of you, father. You will be able to live out your life in peace, away from the weight of that crown.”

 

He still said nothing.

 

“Please,” he said, pleading now. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

 

His father bowed his head, as if driven down by the tremendous weight of his crown. “It does,” he said.

 

Berwyn nodded, and drew his cossack sabre. As he stepped forward, sword raised, the king stood straight and tall, shoulders thrown back, head high. And then silver blade descended, and the king’s head was parted from his body as easily as a dandelion flower from its stem. The dismembered head thumped to the earth with sickening weight, and Berwyn claimed the crown from it. He straightened and laid it upon his brow, grisly coronation complete.

 

As the symbol of office touched his skin, his eyes closed, as if in religious ecstasy. I stood amidst the crowd and wondered if it had been worth it. When is eyes opened again, they turned to regard the headless corpse of his father.

 

“Long live the king,” I whispered to myself.

 

My wanderings were curtailed by royal decree. I was informed that the Feral were prodigious night raiders, and had a special propensity for descending from the trees to snatch up the unsuspecting. I took this advice to heart, and stayed close to the camp. The transfer of power from father to son proved relatively bloodless, which proved important, for the faerie needed to save their violence for the Feral. A few brief days after claiming the throne, Berwyn outfitted a platoon of rough young faeries for battle. These skirmishers were ordered to test the uneasy borderlands between the Feral territory and Berwyn’s, and they went off with brave songs and wild boasts.

 

They returned decimated. I sat down with one of the survivors, a young faerie I was acquainted with, and goaded him into telling the tale. Though the trauma of the encounter made his story muddied and his thoughts unclear, I became to develop a fuller picture of our newest enemy.

 

It was clear that Berwyn’s faerie were simply incapable of engaging the Feral in close range combat. Their superior size and eviscerating talons, combined with sheer strength and horrible ferocity, made them opponents too formidable. Their techniques of stealth were similarly prodigious, and it is said that a Feral in the night is as substantial as a shadow.

 

The young king was greatly overmatched, his zeal surpassing his tactical prowess. The Feral brazenly continued to claim land, first nibbles and then great chunks of it, occupying territory that had belonged to Berwyn’s people since time immemorial. The faerie kin quickly grew discontent as their numbers, already small and wearied, were whittled down with relentless violence.

 

Berwyn, seeing reason, dispatched an emissary (thankfully not me) to seek terms with the Feral.

 

The desperation of our situation became clear the next morning when the camp awoke to horror. I recall being woken by shouts, and snapped awake, certain that the Ferals had come to finish us off. Instead I found myself in the midst of a great forest of legs, all clustered around a single tree. Due to the press of bodies surrounding me, I struggled to stand and see what held their attention.

 

The emissary dangled from the tree, a strong vine twined around his neck, and the peace offering of an oak branch between his teeth. He had been alive when they had strung him up, for his face was contorted in gruesome effort. I thought of how the Feral had stolen into the midst of our camp and hung one of our own even as we slept. It seemed impossible - we were fighting ghosts. A chill ran down my spine.

 

A pensive Berwyn called me over to speak after dinner. I sat down and asked his mind, and promptly wished I had not, when he revealed it.

 

“We are in dire straits, Robert. This much is clear. And my father always taught me that a faerie without allies is without hope.”

“So who do you seek aid from?”

He drew a finger over his lips, a nervous gesture. “Crose.”

“Crose? What help would he be?”

“I have it on good authority that his grove contains all manner of… things, that might assist us.”

“And why do you speak to me of this?”

“Because I need you to convince him.”

“No. Out of the question. The last time I met that madman he gave me this,” I said, showing Berwyn my scarred palm. “And that was the work of a scant minute - now you suggest sending me to the seat of his power, utterly at his mercy?”

“I know, it sounds like madness.”

“It is!” I interjected.

“But we are at the mercy of the Feral, and you in turn are at the mercy of me.”

“Do you threaten me?”

“I do,” Berwyn said, tired. “I will gladly slit your throat if it should mean my people survive.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He laughed, and rubbed at his jaw. “Not gladly, no. But I have to impress upon you the urgency of this mission.”

“And what if I can’t bring it off? Crose is as mad as you are - what if he wants nothing to do with me?”

“He’ll certainly want something. But if you can’t or won’t give it to him, there will be a price to pay.”

“Concerning my throat, I’d imagine.”

“I’m sorry to say.”

“I think I liked you better when you were just a usurper.”

“It is good that you can laugh about this. You leave as soon as my archers are prepared.”

“I figure I’ll laugh now, so I can think back on the good times when I’m weeping and screaming. Just as soon as your archers are prepared.”

He nodded and stood, and gripped me by the shoulder.