Dandelion Fire

by N. D. Wilson

  He nodded at the log. “Sit,” he said. “Your questions will be answered.”

  Henrietta could not imagine herself obeying. She needed to run and yell, she needed to kick Eli, or something, hard. But for some reason, she found herself calming. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and moved slowly toward the log.

  “I am sorry,” Eli said. “At least in a way. And her question is not a hard one to answer. I am a man without a people, a tree with wheels and no roots. You feel the blood draining from the land, you feel the crackling in the grass as the lightning builds. FitzFaeren offers me no protection. And I am unwelcome in Hylfing. Both are thanks to her grandfather. But she brings Hylfing into my debt, perhaps even the gifting of a boat or a berth off of these shores. She could earn me the gratitude of a city that banned me from within its walls.”

  “How is that?” Caleb asked.

  “Caleb,” Eli said, and smiled. “Are your eyes as weak as that? You owe me thanks. I was traveling to return your kin, daughter to your brother.”

  Henrietta reeled, nearly slipping off the log. Caleb stood perfectly still.

  “Francis,” he said.

  Eli nodded.

  looked around himself. He was wearing his backpack and kneeling in the low mouth of something half-cave, half-burrow. The young wizard was beside him, and the fat faerie stood in front. Henry could look out, down a hill, above a copse of trees, at a rocky beach and the ocean beyond. They'd run the boat aground. Now, it leaned to one side with its hull supported by round stones. Its sails were still flapping. They hadn't bothered to take them down.

  When he looked in, over the shoulder of the fat faerie, he still wasn't sure if he should believe what he saw.

  The clay ceiling was domed about six feet above the ground, and it was crawling with mud sculptures of faces, most of them contorted into rude expressions. Crude tongues were sticking out, cheeks were puffed, eyes were crossed. One wall was covered as well. The other was littered with papers pinned to its surface with twigs. In the center of the small room, on the fairly flat floor, there was a barrel supporting a tabletop. Around it sat four small men holding cards and squat wineglasses full of something brown. Beyond them, a door frame of sticks had been pressed into the mud of the end-wall. It led nowhere, but the earth was smooth inside it, the only place unmarred by the bizarre sculptures.

  All of the little men had wild, thick hair bushing out from their heads. On three of them, the hair was black, as black as their eyes. One wore a beard, another a thick mustache connected to sideburns, and the last wore sideburns that reached all the way down to a bare, pointed chin. The fourth man, the man closest to the door, had red hair, wilder and brighter than any Henry had ever seen. He had more freckles than he had face.

  “Are you daft, Frank?” the red-haired faerie asked. “You know what the bylaws say.”

  “Frank?” Henry asked. “That's my uncle's name.”

  Frank the fat faerie looked back over his shoulder at Henry. “He must be very proud.” Then he turned back. “This is the faerie hall for this district. Access is part of our union privileges, though the committee make us pay for some of the drink.”

  The red-haired faerie stood up, dropping his cards on the table. His freckles were darkening. “They oughtn't be here, Franklin Fat-Faerie. The committee will have your ears.”

  “Transfer!” one of the other faeries yelled. “Frank'll be off to the walrus farms!”

  They all burst into laughter, and the laughter turned into a muddled chorus of “walrus farms.”

  Frank crossed his arms above his belly and spread his legs.

  “Oh, you're merry lads, aren't you? I know the bylaws, and I've paid my union dues, which is more than I can say for some of you musical lumps. As sub-assistant-treasurer in this archipelago, there are conversations I've been meaning to have. We could have those now, young Loam.” Frank paused and stared at the dark-haired side-burned faerie. “Or we could put it off a bit. Would you like to hear why I brung him?”

  “It doesn't matter,” the red-headed faerie said. “I've never seen an allowance.”

  Frank snorted, eyeing the taller faerie. “Young Roland, I'll have you remember to which body you're speaking. Five years I've been on Badon Hill while you been scurrying after goats on this little bit of nothing. If I bring man-blood into a hall, you know there's been an importance. And if your mind can't hold your tongue, try using your teeth.”

  Henry watched Roland's face contort, change color, and then settle back into its original flame. He stepped back, sat on his bench, picked up a glass, and drained it.

  The room was quiet, so Frank continued. “I brung him because I am aware that a faerie's purpose is larger than souring the goat milk of fat, already-soured wizards. This boy's name is Henry, and the other is Mon-mouth, and when they looks, they sees, if you know what I mean.” Frank stepped back and put his small, thick hand on Henry's shoulder. The room was still quiet. “Do I need to explain it? Have you forgotten the seasons as well?” The fat faerie sighed and slowed down. “What we're talking about is a couple of seventh sons with both ways of seeing.”

  Roland's brows dropped, crowding down over his eyes. He stared from Henry to Monmouth and back again. One of the other faeries knocked over his glass.

  “A pauper son,” Frank continued. “And more. We were set up on Badon Hill waiting for him. He'd been expected and prohibited from walking on that island, as are all men without the birth. But he has the birth. We were never told he was a seventh. Then the five of us were ambushed by mancers from Carnassus. We were sacked, and the other four are forever sleeping at the bottom of the sea.”

  Roland's mouth hung open. “The wizards stepped on Badon Hill?”

  Frank nodded.

  “But that's direct encroachment. And they killed faeren?”

  Frank nodded again.

  “I don't believe that,” one of the other faeries said. “How do we know you speak true, Fat-Faerie?”

  “I'm not finished,” Frank said. “I've got one more thing to say before you call me liar. Would the wizards risk Badon Hill for a boy with little strength and nearly blind eyes, for I must say, so he seems to me? Would they risk darkness for that? This boy is a certain man's son, though he hasn't nearly the mettle. You don't need to have been in this district long to remember the name. Have you heard stories of a green man called Mordecai?”

  Frank stopped. The faeries sat in near perfect silence.

  “Is it true?” Roland finally asked, looking at Henry.

  Henry swallowed. He didn't know. Not really.

  “It is,” Monmouth said, looking around the room. “And the wizards were collecting him for another.”

  The faeries ignored him.

  “But Mordecai had only six before he was lost,” the sideburned faerie said.

  “All the same, Loam, this is his son, and he is not one of the six that I knew.” Henry was tired of being spoken about, and he was just as curious as the faeries.

  “How do you know?” he blurted out. “I mean, are you using magic?”

  Roland walked over to where Henry was kneeling. They were nearly eye to eye. His freckled hands closed on Henry's cheeks, prying his face back. Suddenly, Roland winced and dropped one hand away from his jaw. He poked at the old burn scars on Henry's face.

  “He's a budding green man, right enough, but what is this? Why would Mordecai's son have death-pox?”

  Henry tried to turn his head, to pull his other cheek from Roland's hand. Roland gripped tighter.

  “They're burns,” Henry managed to say. “From witch's blood. I was fighting her. She got away.”

  The faeries all laughed. Even Frank smiled.

  “Which witch would that be?” Roland grinned.

  “She was called Nimiane,” Henry said.

  Once more, the room fell silent. Roland let go of Henry's face.

  “That's not a pleasant jest,” Frank said quietly.

  “I'm not joking,” Henry said. />
  “Nimiane,” said Monmouth, “is the one who sent us to get him.”

  “Us?” Roland said. “You are in service to darkness?” He turned to Frank. “He is a wizard and an underling to the undying witch?”

  “He freed us,” Frank said. “And helped destroy the other wizards. Even Carnassus's own son. And he is a seventh.”

  “I think I should tell you everything,” Monmouth said, turning from faerie to faerie, trying to catch their eyes with his. “There really isn't time for more doubt.”

  “The bylaws prohibit you from speaking here,” Roland said. He turned and walked toward the wall littered with papers. Running his hands over them, he read aloud.

  “Hand washing, beer rations, hall-expansion guidelines, sanitation proclaration … here's one of the first. The committee sent out a couple variations. ‘Henry York, aka Whimpering Child, aka WC (hair sample included), is hereby identified as Enemy, Hazard, and Human Mishap to all faeren in all districts, in all ways, and in all worlds. If identified, all faeren are authorized and requested to hamper, hinder, detain, damage, or destroy.'”

  Roland picked one strand of hair off the paper and turned around. “Why would old Radulf send that out if he's Mordecai's son?”

  “Because,” Frank Fat-Faerie said, “old Radulf hated serving Mordecai and was glad to see him go.”

  “That's a bit treasonous,” Roland said. He walked back to Henry, plucked one hair from his head, and tasted it. Then he tasted his sample and nodded.

  “What's treasonous,” Frank said, “is any mistreatment of Mordecai's blood, when he was our bonded green man, that's what's treasonous.”

  Henry's knees were hurting. He wanted to lie down. Or stand up. Anything other than what he was doing.

  Monmouth coughed loudly and waddled forward on his knees. His pale face was flushed in irritation. “I'm talking now,” he said. “I don't care about your bylaws or old Radulf, whoever he is.”

  The dark-haired faeries all stood slowly.

  “Take it back,” Roland said.

  “Oh, let the boy talk,” said Frank. “What can he hurt?”

  Roland curled his lip and ran one hand through his hair. “Who are you, then, little wizard?”

  “My name is Monmouth—”

  “What's that mean?” Roland interrupted. “Mountain mouth?”

  “Something like that,” Monmouth said. “My father thought I was magical after I received the second sight. He apprenticed me to the wizards four years ago. He didn't realize how much they hate seventh sons. I had to keep it hidden.”

  “Why?” Henry asked suddenly. “The hate, I mean.”

  Frank swiped a glass off the table. “Because,” he said, “the sevenths have a right to be touching what they touch. They don't need all the rigmarole of the wizards. The sevenths, especially the green men, are like man-faeries.”

  “Green men?” Henry asked.

  Monmouth looked at him. “Seventh sons that are connected to growing things. Green things. Like your dandelion.” He raised his right hand, and Henry stared at the wizard's branded palm. “My aspen tree.”

  Henry closed his hand tight over his own burn. Monmouth had looked at it, he'd recognized it.

  “Not long ago,” Monmouth continued, “a woman appeared in Carnassus's throne room. She was weak, and some advised Carnassus to crush her quickly. But he did not, and she grew stronger daily. Now, were all the wizards to turn against her at once, they would have no hope. She leeches life to herself from everything capable of dying, from the world itself. She is a parasite.”

  Frank looked at the other faeries and raised his eyebrows. One of them nodded. Roland spoke.

  “We have heard of this farther south. But we have not felt it.”

  “I do not know where on the map we are,” Mon-mouth said. “We traveled through a doorway prepared for us and then sailed to Badon Hill.”

  Frank shifted his belt farther below his belly. “In a straight line, with only your legs or a sail to carry you, two weeks would pass before you found Carnassus in his perch. We are in the far north.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Monmouth said, shifting his weight. He looked at his palm and then ran it through his hair. “Every place will feel it in turn. She will drink what she can and pour out the rest. Only two, maybe three days ago, a new wizard arrived, stronger than any I have ever seen. Stronger than Carnassus himself. He is called Darius, and he has been filled by the witch. Now, even now, or very soon, he is to be sent out with lesser wizards behind him. The witch was once defeated by Mordecai, and out of hatred for his memory, they will begin with Hylfing, in the far south. After, they will turn to the empire. She will find a new seat and create a new Endor. Whether out of spite or fear, I can't say, but we were sent to collect the boy called Henry, the son of Mordecai. She told us all that his blood was meant to be the first spilled, that it would serve as a christening for her second coming.”

  Henry opened his mouth in surprise. Hylfing was in this world. He had to find his way to Hylfing, but he would be running toward the witch. It might be destroyed before he got there, along with his family. It might be destroyed right after he got there.

  “They cannot reach Hylfing quickly,” Roland said. “They can be stopped.”

  Frank puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms. “They have opened the old ways, you nit. They reached Badon Hill quickly.”

  Roland scowled at Frank and then turned to Mon-mouth. “Why are we to trust you? You helped to capture the boy beside you and assisted in the deaths of our brother-faeren.”

  “If Mordecai once overthrew Nimiane, then I wanted to find his son and help him,” Monmouth said. “Help him do it again.”

  Henry's mouth went dry. His throat tightened. Mon-mouth's gray eyes were staring right through him. “I can't do that,” Henry said. “I just need to get to Hylfing and meet my family. That's where they were going. I need to get them out of there.”

  The fat faerie raised his eyebrows and looked around at the other four faeries.

  “And so we came here,” Frank said. “To the closest hall of faeren. He's nothing next to Mordecai, but he's his son, and the witch and wizards are after him. We owe him some abetment.”

  “That's for the committee to decide,” Roland said quietly. “Mordecai abandoned us, and a notice has been issued on him.” He nodded at Henry. “We can't just ignore that, even if we are on some forsaken outpost. The notice must be officially waived in committee after appropriate appeal. Or other action will be taken. The committee will decide. We'll send him back to the Central Hall. Radulf can hear you.”

  “Radulf,” Frank said loudly, “is a one-toed sloth. The union code is clear on pauper sons and green men. The pauper sons formed the union in the first place. Ralph Radulf will drag things out, table motions, move to recess, and then just bury him alive in some hill somewhere for further deliberation!” The fat faerie's voice rose even further. He stood on his toes. “Endor wakes, Roland! Nimiane, daughter of Nimroth and every other ancient life-sucking death-demon, is looking for him, Roland! She sends her wizards to Hylfing now, Roland! Let's do more than call the committee!”

  The fat faerie dropped back to his heels, sputtered his lips, and waved his hands above his head. Finally, he stuck out his tongue and was quiet.

  Roland chewed his lower lip and then rubbed his freckled nose. “You may be right, Franklin, but I'm the one who'll have my hair sheared for a mistake. That one,” he pointed at Monmouth, “is free to go, so long as he doesn't return to the wizards. But the WC is off to Central. You and I will escort. Loam here will act in my absence.”

  “You mean drink and play cards in your absence,” Frank muttered. Loam smiled. “Well,” he continued, “if we must, we must. Fix the door, then.”

  “I'm coming as well,” Monmouth said. He looked at Henry. Roland shrugged.

  * * *

  Henry hadn't seen the buckets behind the table. He didn't know how many more there were, but Roland pulled out two. They we
re battered and rusty, and he set both of them on the table. One was full of black dirt, the other of water.

  Singing quietly under his breath, Roland cupped his hands in the water, turned to the stick door frame, and dribbled it down over the lintel. Filling his hands again, he rubbed the water first on one post and then the other. When that was done, he filled his hands with black earth from the second bucket and nodded at Frank.

  “Turn them around,” he said.

  Frank couldn't turn them around, not kneeling side by side in the doorway. So he pulled them both into the room and had them stand.

  Henry creaked gratefully to his feet. His toes throbbed as blood rushed back into them. Inside, they both turned their backs to Roland and examined the mud sculptures around the entrance. Just above it, Henry recognized the man from the seals on his letters and from the tomb on Badon Hill. This time, his beard and eyes and crawling vines were all crudely formed with mud. It was still unnerving.

  “Right,” Roland said. “Lead them backward. Loam, scrape the door clean when we've gone.”

  Someone pulled Henry's backpack. Another hand gripped his arm. He was led around one side of the table, Monmouth around the other.

  Monmouth was held back. Henry was being taken first.

  Henry watched Loam holding Monmouth tight, making certain that he did not turn his head.

  He stepped backward into the smell of roots and compost. Utter blackness surrounded him, carried by a warm underground wind. His mind slipped away, back to Kansas, behind the barn. He was watching the storm roll in, watching dandelions sprout up around him, watching their fire and listening to the stories in their names. He was on Badon Hill, smelling trees and moss and sharp sea air. He was falling off a building in Byzanthamum.

  Henry opened his eyes. Light flicked from somewhere behind him. He blinked, but could see nothing. Darius was in this world, going where he was trying to go. He put his hand to his stomach. He could feel the sealed-up lines even through his shirt. He did not want to see Darius again.

  “Roland?” a voice asked. “Fat Franklin? What are you doing? Who are they?”