Myranda stowed the box and fetched its twin. The “beacon” reacted in much the same way as the “messenger,” though once both fairies were awake and aware, they seemed more comfortable knowing the other was there. They spoke quietly to one another, then addressed Deacon, both speaking at once.
“I’ve never quite gotten the hang of the fairy language. What are they saying?” Myranda said.
“They are vigorously assuring me that they are ready and willing to carry any message I require. I am having difficulty making it clear that they need not do so at this time,” Deacon said.
“We’ll give them some time. I have got to imagine being stored rather than being allowed to live their lives has left their minds a bit mixed up. Do we know their names?”
Deacon said a few more words. He shook his head lightly at their response.
“The female says she’s Messenger, and the male is Beacon.”
“Well that won’t work,” Ivy said over her shoulder. “We can’t have a Beacon and a Deacon.”
At the sound of the new voice, the fairies darted up to look past Deacon to the source. They hung in the air over either of Deacon’s shoulders, for the first time getting a clear look at Ivy, not to mention Myn’s head. Myranda prepared herself for the creatures to panic at the sight of a dragon or a malthrope, but like the extreme height, it seemed the fairies had no fear of the two creatures most others would view as a threat. On the contrary, the fairies flitted forward to investigate Myn’s face, then hung before Ivy with a look of wonder and disbelief, practically serenading her before tucking themselves into the hood that hung down behind her head.
“What were they saying?” Ivy asked.
“I… I think they’re singing,” Deacon said.
The male fairy poked his head out of the hood and addressed Deacon eye to eye.
“One moment. This will become troublesome, constantly translating.” He drew his crystal to hand and conjured a pulse of light from its heart. “There, we should all understand each other now.”
“We are flying north,” repeated the male.
The spell Deacon had cast was a curious one. The fairy was not suddenly speaking Varden, nor had the listeners suddenly learned the creature’s language, yet the meaning of the words was clear.
“Wow…” Ivy said.
“If only you’d cast that spell while I was in Entwell,” Myranda said.
“But then you wouldn’t have learned nearly as much,” Deacon said.
“North!” the male said, more insistently. “We are heading north.”
“Yes,” Deacon replied. “We do so on behalf of King Mellawin.”
“No…” the female said in this disbelief. She turned to the male. “How far north? We feel very far north. Too far north. Near the edge of Sonril.”
The male nodded. “If we do not stop going north, we will leave the kingdom. The king would not want you to leave the kingdom.”
“Again, we have been asked by the king to travel this far on his behalf. And much farther if needs be,” Deacon said.
“He wants them to die…” the female said, her voice low.
“What?” Ivy said, her ear flicking as she tried to turn to see them in her hood.
“You are using us wrong,” the female said. “He did not train you. He did not teach you. If he sent you north and did not teach you, he wants you to die.”
“No, you misunderstand,” Myranda said. “We know how he intended you to be used, but I thought it was kinder to release you until you are needed.”
“Kinder…” the female said.
“Kindness is not for fairies in Sonril,” the male replied.
“Kindness is for everyone in New Kenvard, which is where I am from. Now, what are your names?”
The male pointed to himself. “Beacon.”
“No. Not your role. Not your task. Your name. What did your parents call you?”
He looked at her askance. “… You do not need to know this to use me properly.”
“I wish to know.”
“I am the Warm Dry Breeze that Scatters the Sand.”
“Ah, another reason why a translation spell is not ideal. If I recall the means the fairies used in Entwell, that would render to… Freet Scattersand?”
“Freet,” he said, nodding.
“And you?” Myranda asked the female.
“The Fragrant Wind that Rustles the Pine Boughs.”
“Shah Rustlebough,” Deacon said.
“Freet, Shah, my name is Myranda. This is Deacon, that’s Ivy, and the dragon is Myn. For the duration of this mission—and if I have anything to say about it, from this point forward—you can consider yourself a part of our party, not a part of our equipment.”
Shah’s eyes glimmered with hope, but Freet pulled back slightly.
“We wish to be the beacon and messenger,” Freet said.
Myranda shook her head. “This is not a trick, I assure you.”
He squinted uncertainly. “You are not elves. What sort of creature are you?”
“We are humans. You’ve never seen humans before?” Myranda said.
“No. You are like elves… but different,” Freet said.
“Less… elf-y,” Shah said.
“We come from across the sea.”
Ivy turned again. “You seem to like me. Do you know what I am?”
“Malthrope,” both fairies said.
“You’re from the stories,” Shah added.
Freet shot her a stern look, and she ducked a bit farther into the hood.
“Stories?” Deacon said.
“She doesn’t know what she is saying. There are no stories,” Freet said.
“But…” Shah said, her voice small.
“There are no stories,” Freet said firmly.
“It’s fine,” Myranda said. “If you don’t want to tell us, you don’t have to.”
Shah tugged at Freet. “They aren’t like the elves. They are going where the elves don’t. They’re doing things elves don’t. Maybe…”
Freet glared at Shah, then turned to Deacon. “If you tell the elves about this, we will tell them you used us wrong, and we will all have trouble.”
Myranda smiled. “Understood.”
“When we are little, with the other fairies, before the elves make their choices, the older fairies tell us stories,” Shah said.
“Stories from their parents, and their parents. Stories from before everything,” Freet said.
“And there were stories about the fox people, the malthropes,” Shah said.
“They did terrible things to elves. Stole from them. Killed them,” Freet said.
“They’ve never heard of humans, but of course they’ve heard all the same stories about malthropes,” Ivy murmured.
“But they don’t do terrible things to fairies!” Shah said, leaning back to stroke Ivy’s hair.
Freet nodded. “Malthropes are friends of fairies.”
“That’s why I didn’t think they were real,” Shah added.
Ivy turned, again trying to glance at them. “So in your stories, I’m not a monster?”
“You are a monster. But you are a monster to the people who command us. And you don’t command us. So you are a monster who is safe for us,” Freet said.
Ivy laughed. “That’s still probably the best opinion of a malthrope I’ve ever heard.”
“And dragons?”
“Dragons are the same,” said Shah. “The biggest story is about dragons, and how they—”
Freet once again silenced her with a hard look.
“Is something wrong?” Deacon asked.
“The elves do not like the big story. They don’t like when we tell any of our stories, but the big story is the only one they’ve told us we should never tell. Even if you promise not to tell them, I still don’t think we should talk about the big story.”
“Yes,” Shah said. “But dragons are like malthropes. Bad to elves, but no story ever tells of them being bad to fairies. They are
monsters that are safe for fairies.”
“You don’t have any stories about humans?” Myranda asked.
“We don’t,” Freet said.
“The elves have some. They talk about humans sometimes. You fight each other. You’ve been fighting each other for a long time. And you have money. You pay the elves to help you fight each other.”
“The fighting is over now,” Myranda said. “And I’m honored for us to be the first humans you’ve met. Hopefully, when this adventure is through, the stories you tell will remember us kindly.”
“You did introduce us to a malthrope and a dragon,” Shah said. “And you are taking us north. That’s where a lot of the stories take place.”
“Really? You know about the north?” Myranda said.
“We have heard things. But I’m a beacon,” Freet said. “I only really know where I am. Mostly, I get to see little bits of here or there while the messenger asks where we are. The rest of my time I’m just in my home grove.”
“I know a lot about the south. But I only really get to see the things between the beacon and one of the gems and back again,” Shah said.
“But the stories, the best stories, are from the north. That’s where most of the fairy families started,” Freet said.
“Someone attacked the elves in their new cities to the north. The elves think it may be something called the Aluall. Do you have any stories about them?” Myranda asked.
“The Aluall,” Freet said, face pinched in thought.
“The elves tell stories sometimes about the Aluall. They sound like spirits,” Shah said.
Freet nodded. “Vengeful spirits. I think maybe the elves make everyone mad at them.”
Deacon compelled his stylus to jot down some notes. “It does seem that the elves have not had much success in earning allies.”
“They all…” Shah paused. “You’re sure you won’t tell them anything we say, right?”
“It will be our secret,” Myranda said.
“They just seem like they want to be in charge of everything,” Shah gushed, as if she’d been fighting to keep the words inside. “Everything has to be their way. They always act like just because they’re elves and everyone else isn’t an elf, everyone else should do what they say. Like just being an elf makes them better. Which they really aren’t.”
“They aren’t,” Freet agreed.
“They live a long time, and they’re bigger than us, but most things are bigger than us and live longer.”
“Are you slaves?” Myranda asked.
“Every fairy grove that provides a messenger and beacon is protected and cared for,” Freet explained.
“And the ones that don’t provide a messenger and beacon?”
“I don’t know,” Shah said. “We all do it. We don’t always like it, but the elves act as though it is an honor to serve them. If they’re so great, why do they need us to fly for them? Why do they need to snatch up the best males to make them beacons?”
“And they aren’t very good at reading the wind,” Freet said. “I’m not sure they can at all.”
“Only male fairies are beacons?” Deacon said. “Fascinating.”
“Sure,” Shah said. “It’s because male fairies are so easy to find, because they’re so hard to find.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Myranda said.
“There are ten females for every one male,” Deacon said. “So I can understand why males would be difficult to find, but I must admit to ignorance regarding why they are also easy to find.”
“A female fairy can always find a male fairy,” Shah said simply. “Males protect the home grove. They stir the wind differently than anything else. It’s because of male fairies that we can always find our way home.”
“Fascinating…” Deacon said.
“If you don’t know about the Aluall, can you at least tell us what sort of creatures we can expect to find in the north?”
“All kinds,” Freet said. “Except elves.”
“It’s a wild place. Dangerous,” Shah said.
“There is a reason even fairies who hate the elves don’t go back there,” Freet said.
“Sounds like just the sort of place we’d end up,” Ivy said.
#
A few hours later, they reached the nearest village that had been menaced by the Aluall, a place they’d called Dusand. Myn and Garr touched down and the others hopped to the ground to investigate. Myranda realized she needn’t have worried about missing the city, as unlike the more established elven city they’d left behind, this one was much more like a human settlement. The structures were built rather than grown, though much of the lumber still had a live edge, and the stoutest timbers of some buildings had fresh sprouts.
“It doesn’t look like it was attacked,” Ivy said, cautiously approaching the edge of the town.
It was indeed disturbing just how intact the place was. Myranda had unfortunately become quite familiar with the ruins of whole towns laid low by attacks. This was unlike any she’d seen. The buildings were whole. Not a single door had been broken down, though every door in the village was wide open. The only real damage seemed to be the charred remains of the town gate.
“It’s been ransacked,” Myranda said, peering through the window of the first of the dozen or so houses in town.
Grustim crouched down and peered at the ground. “No footprints,” he said.
The others scanned the ground.
“None at all,” Myranda agreed. “There should at least be footprints from the townspeople. Could the wind have wiped them all away?”
“The wind isn’t so thorough,” Grustim said. “Or selective. I see animal tracks there, and there. But they vanish when they approach the town.”
“Then those who attacked this place took care to cover their footprints,” Deacon said, wary but intrigued.
“Or they didn’t have feet.” Ivy sniffed. “I don’t smell anything. No creatures, anyway. I smell a bit of char from the gate, some greenness from the wood, but that’s all. There aren’t even any fresh trails from woodland creatures. It’s as if things are staying away from this place.”
Myranda, Ivy, and Deacon stepped inside the nearest house. Cabinets and cupboards had been stripped clean with far more care than a panicked departure of the residents would explain. Not a scrap of food remained, not even a single kernel of wheat or carrot green. And on the back of each door, a carved message.
“‘Heed the warnings. There shall be more blood,’” Deacon read, running his fingers over the shallow shapes hacked into the wood. “At least, I believe that’s what it says. It is very poorly rendered.”
“I guess evil spirits don’t care much about penmanship,” Ivy said.
“I don’t think evil spirits would steal bags of flour,” Myranda said, nudging a bit of burlap sack torn free by the edge of a plank.
Deacon copied the complex elven letters etched into the door. He fetched a small knife from his bag and found a discarded plank that had once been a shelf.
“What are you doing?” Ivy asked.
Freet and Shah climbed from her hood and perched on opposite shoulders to watch as well. Deacon carved a word in Elven, then held it up to the carvings on the door.
“I am not certain the person who carved this knew how to write in Elven at all,” Deacon said.
“Why not?”
“Here,” he said, indicating his carving. “The word ‘blood’ is very simple in Elven. Three quick marks and anyone who knows the language would be able to read it. But this. Care was taken to try to make the curve here. No one familiar with the language would bother when it would be clear enough as a straight line. The way this is written is like it was an attempt to carve a picture of the words, rather than simply carving the words. They didn’t know what was important for meaning or understanding and what wasn’t.”
“And what do you make of this?” Myranda called.
Ivy and Deacon slipped into what must have been the personal workshop of
the former homeowner. Myranda held a small painted tile, one of quite a few that were scattered about on the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Ivy asked.
“Let us suppose this town was raided. It has been so thoroughly stripped of its goods, it is tempting to believe it was a clan of bandits that was responsible. But why wouldn’t they steal these tiles? These could fetch quite a price.”
“Maybe there wasn’t time?”
“I am willing to believe that there wasn’t time to take them, or perhaps they were too heavy, and that’s why they were left behind by their creator. But that was weeks ago. Whoever chased them away has had ample time to take anything of value. They’ve taken the curtains.” She peered out the window. “The rope and bucket from the well is gone. They’ve taken things that aren’t worth a fraction of what these are worth, but these have been left behind. Curious…”
“This is a dragon’s doing,” called Grustim.
They hurried outside and found him beside the devastated gate. Garr had craned his neck, and Grustim was perched atop it, peering at the blackened wood at the top of the single pylon that had remained standing.
“It would stand to reason,” Deacon called. “Witnesses of both attacks claim massive gouts of flame appeared from nowhere. Where there is fire, often there are dragons. But are you certain this is the work of dragon fire?”
“The way this burned, the heat was far more intense here, near the top, than elsewhere. This is where the flame was focused. A burning arrow couldn’t achieve this, nor could dousing something in oil. This is either magic or fiery breath. And I have seen enough dragon fire in my life to know what it leaves behind.”
“Was it an infant dragon perhaps? Or a smaller breed?”
“No,” Grustim said, running his fingers across the charred surface. It crumbled beneath his fingers. “This is the work of an elder. Something towering.”
“Difficult to miss then,” Myranda said.
“It would be massive. Its wings would cast half this town in shadow.”
“Then it would have had to be hidden, veiled such that even in the light of day the people of the village could not see it. Powerful magic.”
“And powerful magic leaves its mark,” Myranda said.
She stepped to Myn’s side and carefully slid her staff from where it had been strapped to her back. Deacon summoned his crystal to his hand. They stood side by side and both shut their eyes to focus.
The Crescents Page 11