“Right. Did she put you up to this? Get off my property, now!”
“She who?” Duncan asked in confusion.
“Don’t play dumb,” the smith retorted, and he leveled an accusing finger toward a window in the opposite wall. “She’s over there watching right now, isn’t she? She’s always over there watching!”
Duncan and Wildfire both peered past him to the open window. A small, feminine face suddenly ducked out of view.
“Otis,” said Wildfire, “we have no idea who she is.”
“How do you know my name, then?” asked the smith accusingly. “She put you up to this. She puts loads of people up to this same trick, coming here and trying to commission big jobs for lots of money. They all have what looks like genuine gold, but it vanishes the next day, or turns into wood, completely worthless to me!”
“I wish my gold would turn back,” Duncan said to Wildfire.
“Quiet, you,” the horse replied scornfully.
“An enchanted horse is a first,” Otis continued wrathfully, “but it’s hardly surprising, considering all the other things she’s done to me! Now if you know what’s good for you—”
“They’re not mine,” said a piping little voice. Duncan and Wildfire both turned to the corner of the smithy, where a shy head peeked back at them. Her hair was a wild mane of red curls. She looked like a child, almost, her features so delicate and feminine, but there was an odd air of agelessness about her as well.
Otis thrust his head across the open wall with a sneer. “Like I’m supposed to believe you!” he cried.
“They’re not mine, Otis,” she insisted defensively. “And that’s not an enchanted horse. It’s an enchanted human. Very strong enchantment, too. Looks like the work of Dame Groach, if you ask me.”
Duncan gasped and started forward. “You know—” he began, but his words arrested in his throat when a hand seized his arm and jerked him back.
“Don’t go talking to her!” Otis cried wildly. “You have to ignore her until she goes away!”
Wildfire chuckled darkly. “You’ve gone and got a fairy-stalker, Otis?” he asked. “When did that happen?”
“That’s so rude!” said the tiny girl. “I’m not a fairy-stalker!”
“And who’re you, enchanted human?” Otis asked the white horse sarcastically.
“Oh, we’ve known each other for ages and ages, you and I,” said Wildfire. “You made me my first sword and pounded me into the ground while teaching me how to use it. You did have the decency not to charge me for the service, though. That was a first for you, I think.”
The blood drained from Otis’s face as he stared into the horse’s pale eyes. “Can it really be—” he began.
“My name’s Wildfire,” the white horse interrupted. “The boy is Duncan. We’re both in a fix, as your fairy-friend seems to perceive, and we’ve come to you for help. Will you give it or not?”
Otis gaped. No answer formed upon his lips.
“Duncan, take off your silly wig,” Wildfire commanded.
“But—!”
“Don’t protest. Just do it.”
Duncan wordlessly pulled the sheepskin from his head. Otis the blacksmith stared at his brilliant gold hair. A gasp from the corner of the smithy drew Duncan’s attention there.
“So pretty!” cried the she-fairy, and she suddenly bounded forward. “You found goldwater! Where did you find it? It’s so pretty!”
Her movements snapped Otis from his stupor. “Away with you!” he snarled, and he swatted at the girl. “You two, get inside. She can’t come inside. We can talk in peace in here.”
“Don’t be stingy, Otis!” cried the fairy. “I want to see it shine in the sunlight!”
“Inside, inside,” the blacksmith urged. “Hurry!”
Duncan shot an apologetic glance toward the rejected girl, but then he followed Wildfire through the smithy door into the hot room beyond. The white horse took up most of the free space, but Duncan located a small bench in the corner and settled nicely there.
“That boy’s head is real gold?” Otis asked the horse suspiciously.
“Yup. He’s lucky the rest of him isn’t as well.”
“And you’re really who I think you are?”
“You were the best blacksmith in our town before you abandoned us to come to this little hamlet. They told me you left for better prospects, but I can’t imagine that you’ve found them here.”
“I left to get away from the creature you’ve just met outside,” Otis retorted. “What was I supposed to tell your parents, that a fairy had taken a fancy for tormenting me? I’d’ve never worked again!”
“I’m not tormenting you!” cried an indignant voice at the half-wall. “I love you, Otis!”
“You’re a fairy!” he countered. “You don’t know what it means to love!”
“All you have to do is give me a name, and I’ll prove how much I love you!”
“Go away!” he cried.
“You’ve had her hanging on you ever since you left?” Wildfire asked in surprise. “It’s amazing you’ve held out for so long. How long has it been, anyway?”
Otis eyed the horse suspiciously. “You’ve been missing for three years,” he told him bluntly. “I left the year before that. You do the math.”
Wildfire silently looked away, and Duncan realized that the horse had never known just how long he had been a horse. Three years’ imprisonment in a dark stable stall was a very long time.
“How’d you end up like this, anyway?” asked Otis.
“As your fairy friend said, I fell into the clutches of an old witch by the name of Dame Groach.”
“And you lived to tell the tale. Now that you’re back, your parents are going to be so relieved—”
“I’m not back,” Wildfire interrupted severely. “I’m a horse, Otis.” He seemed like he would say more, but he suddenly glanced toward Duncan in the corner and clamped his mouth shut. Otis looked between the pair curiously.
“Should I leave you two to talk alone?” Duncan asked. He was a little jealous—here he knew next to nothing about Wildfire, but obviously the horse and the blacksmith were old friends. Duncan had never had any friends before.
Otis looked to Wildfire, who considered the question. “It would probably be better if you did,” the horse said apologetically. “It shouldn’t take us too long, if you want to wait outside.”
“Don’t talk to that fairy,” Otis quickly commanded, “and whatever you do, don’t give her a name!”
“Give her a name?” Duncan echoed, and he glanced between the two of them as though they had both gone crazy.
“Naming a fairy will complete a charm around her,” Wildfire explained. “Don’t do it. We have enough mischief upon us already, understand?”
Duncan swallowed and nodded. Then, he raised one hand in a feeble farewell and exited the smithy, back into the bright sunshine beyond. He heard Wildfire begin to speak, but in such low tones that he could not make out any words. He decided to add to their privacy and walked further into the yard, where he sat down on a stump used for splitting wood.
“So pretty,” crooned a voice in his ear, and he jumped in surprise. The nameless fairy had followed him.
“What’re you doing?” he asked as she fingered his golden hair with her small hands. If he had to guess, he would say she was roughly the size of a seven-year-old.
“It’s so pretty,” she said again, fixated on his head. “Look at how it shines!”
Duncan half-heartedly tried to pull away from her, but he didn’t see the harm in allowing her to play with his hair. Besides, if she’d followed someone around for four years, she would have no trouble trailing after him for however long the conversation in the smithy took.
Thus, “Play with it all you want,” he said in resignation.
She squealed in delight and immediately began twisting and twining the strands of gold. They held their shape, much to her pleasure.
For several moments, neither h
e nor she spoke. Duncan had been commanded not to talk to her, and the fairy was too enamored of his hair to pay attention to anything else, including conversation.
“I want hair of gold,” she said at last, and there was a small pout in her voice.
“No you don’t,” Duncan replied. “It’s heavy and itchy, and treasure-seekers are going to come hunting me because of it.”
“But it’s so pretty,” she said again, and he wondered whether she was daft.
“Are you really a fairy?” he asked abruptly. He’d always pictured the fairies from stories as insect-like creatures, with fragile wings and bug-eyed faces. Although there was certainly something not-quite-human about this girl, she did not fit his fancied image at all.
She frowned at the question. “Of course. What else would I be?”
“I dunno. I’ve never really believed in fairies before.”
“How rude! We’re not that unreliable!”
“That’s not what I—” he started to say, but he thought it better not to explain. She would probably think it was even ruder that he’d never believed in the existence of fairies at all. Instead, “If you’re a fairy, you know some magic, don’t you?” he asked. “Could you change my hair back to hair instead of gold?”
“Maybe if you gave me a name,” she lightly replied.
“I can’t do that,” said Duncan, firm in his resolve to abide by Wildfire’s counsel.
She harrumphed. “Well, I couldn’t change it back anyway,” she admitted. “Goldwater’s irreversible, one of those enchantments that sticks once it takes hold of you.”
Duncan glanced dryly up at her, thankful that he hadn’t fallen for her false bargain. “What about Wildfire?” he asked, though. “Could you break his enchantment?”
“That’s one of Dame Groach’s,” she replied. “Death is the only cure for a curse like that. I’d recommend something quick, like chopping off his head.”
“I’m not going to do that!” Duncan cried, recoiling from her.
The fairy stared at him with eyes that did not understand his outrage. “It’s the only cure,” she said simply.
“There has to be some other way,” Duncan insisted.
She screwed up her tiny face in contemplation. “Maybe if you killed Dame Groach it would go away. Some curses are like that. But I don’t think so. Look, it wouldn’t be very hard. Just make sure you have a really sharp ax, and swing it with all your strength—”
“No!” cried Duncan. “I’m not going to kill him!”
She tilted her head in confusion. “Why not?”
“B-because—” he stammered.
“It’s no use trying to explain it to her,” said Wildfire from behind him. Duncan whirled, only to discover that the horse and the blacksmith had ended their private conversation and come together to find him. “She’s a fairy—she doesn’t understand the concepts of life and death, because she’s always been alive.”
“How rude,” said the fairy reproachfully. “I know well enough that death is the only cure for a curse like yours.”
“Enough,” said Otis. “You’ve done your worst with the boy, so go on your way.”
“Otis,” she pleaded in a whining little voice, “don’t send me away. You always send me away.”
He heartlessly turned his back on her and tramped into the smithy again.
“Come on, Duncan,” said Wildfire, and he tipped his head toward the door. “He’s going to help us. I told him to start by cutting off your extra hair.”
“No!” cried the fairy in dismay. “I spent so long sculpting it to look so perfect!”
Duncan suddenly wanted a mirror to see just what she’d done. Wildfire eyed the top of his head dubiously and said, “You’d best come get it cut off.”
“Sorry,” Duncan told the fairy apologetically. “It really is more of a hassle than it’s worth, though.”
She huffed and sat upon the ground, her arms crossed and a full sulk upon her face.
“Come on,” Wildfire prompted again, and Duncan followed him through the open door.
Within, Otis had procured a pair of tin snips. “Have a seat,” he instructed, and he gestured to a short, three-legged stool in front of him. He had a metal platter positioned next to him, there to lay the precious gold snippings one by one.
The process was slow-going. Otis cut lock after golden lock and laid each carefully in a growing pile. Duncan observed with some chagrin that the she-fairy had twisted the strands of metal into spirals and giant coils. He couldn’t imagine what he must have looked like.
Slowly, though, the great weight on his head lightened, and he felt almost like himself again. Otis had shorn his hair as close to the scalp as he dared.
“And there we have it,” he announced as he snipped the final lock from Duncan’s head.
Duncan ran one hand along the short, spiky remnants. “I think I know what a sheep feels like after it’s had its coat of wool removed,” he said ruefully.
“Come to me any time for a shearing like that,” Otis replied, and he eyed the pile of gold with open admiration.
“Don’t be greedy,” Wildfire admonished him. “When can you start work on the armor?”
“Well, I’ve got a job to finish for a local farmer, but that should only take me a couple more days. I tell you, ever since I moved out here, it’s been nothing but horseshoes and ploughshares. The pay is terrible, but I haven’t been able to accept any real jobs because of that creature hanging around outside my smithy.”
“Don’t be mean!” the fairy called in her piping voice. “I was only trying to help!”
Otis snorted. “Only trying to help. I had half a dozen jobs that should’ve made me a king’s ransom in gold, but when I got paid, the stuff vanished or moldered away into dust! It’s gotten so’s I can’t trust anyone offering me a decent wage!”
“Which is why you tried to fleece us,” Wildfire surmised.
“Sorry about that,” said Otis apologetically.
“Well, this should be gold enough to satisfy even your cravings for the stuff,” the white horse told him. “In the meantime, Duncan and I need a place to stay.”
“There’s the stable for you, though it hardly seems appropriate to put you there.”
“Where else would you put a horse?” Wildfire asked with flat cynicism.
“I can sleep in the stable too,” Duncan volunteered. “I don’t mind—I was used to straw for bedding and simple accommodations.”
“There’s an extra mattress in the house for you,” Otis replied, though. “Best to keep you tucked away where no one can get to you in the middle of the night, leastwise her.” He thrust one thumb over his shoulder, and the she-fairy dropped out of view again.
Duncan did not see what sort of threat she posed, but he could tell that Otis had very strong feelings on the matter. He stayed quiet as the blacksmith discussed with Wildfire the arrangements for the coming weeks, perhaps months. His eyes often strayed to the twisted pile of gold upon the platter, and his hand frequently moved across his shorn head almost of its own accord. His attention shifted suddenly back to the conversation when he realized they were talking about him.
“I thought we’d call him Goldmayne,” Wildfire was saying.
“That does have a nice ring to it,” mused Otis. “You could build up a pretty decent legacy for Sir Goldmayne, the knight with the golden hair.”
“Wait just a—” Duncan started, but they ignored his protest.
“It’s much better than ‘Scurvyhead,’ which is what he’s gone by since he started wearing that ridiculous wig,” said Wildfire.
Otis roared with laughter. “That’s downright undignified!”
“It serves its purpose!” said Duncan with a rising blush. Of course it was undignified, but it was also an effective means of killing conversations with inquiring persons.
“You could call me Scurvyhead,” the fairy piped up hopefully from the window.
The object of her adoration ignored this remar
k. “Sir Goldmayne it is,” he said instead. “My boy, we’re going to build you a legacy that even kings will stand in awe of, just you wait!”
Duncan did not like the sounds of that at all, but he was hardly in a position to protest.
“Do whatever you like,” he sullenly told the scheming pair, not that his permission was needed. They would do as they pleased regardless, and Duncan had already promised to obey Wildfire’s commands. In a way, his lack of involvement made the hardship that lay ahead of him so much easier to bear. Whatever might possibly go wrong, at least he would’ve had very little to do with its shaping.
Part II: The Building of a Legend
Chapter 10
“People are staring again,” Wildfire muttered into Duncan’s ear.
“They always stare,” Duncan replied as he led the horse through the crowded street. “Aren’t you used to it by now?”
“You really should buy a better wig.”
“A better wig costs money.”
“Which we have.”
“Which we don’t want other people to know we have. If I go around wearing a nice wig, I couldn’t very well pass myself off as an idiot farmhand, could I? What’s that sign say over there? It doesn’t have a picture with it.”
“It says ‘Apothecary,’” Wildfire replied, “and I don’t know how many times I’ve offered to teach you how to read.”
Duncan said nothing to this. Wildfire had begun to teach him his letters half a dozen times, but all Duncan had really learned was that there were few things in life more humiliating than being taught how to read by a condescending horse. It didn’t matter that Wildfire had once been human; he was a horse now, and he shouldn’t know how to read, especially the long words like “apothecary.” Duncan knew he ought to pick up the skill, particularly because Meridiana seemed to encourage literacy among its general population, but he had a mental block against any exercises that involved Wildfire drumming the alphabet into his head.
Besides, it made the horse feel superior to be relied upon for deciphering any texts they came across. There were plenty enough here, too. Duncan had never seen a city as large as this. His eyes constantly darted from one building to the next in wonder as he tried to discern his surroundings.
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