by GARY DARBY
A moment later, Amil and Phigby enter and once again Cara and the others settle themselves around Phigby, but I find my corner, away from the others and sit, unsure of my place among this small company.
Phigby catches my eye and motions me over. “Come closer, Hooper,” he instructs, “you’re a part of this, and you need to hear what we have to say.”
I scoot closer, and as I do, Amil clears his voice and says, “While you slept, I pondered deeply over your story.” He takes a deep breath. “Though none of you said it, nevertheless your unspoken thought hangs as heavy over our conversation as a river fog in the dead of night.”
His eyes turn hard. “You believe that someone in the royal family is behind the attacks and the attempt to spirit Golden Wind off to the Wilders’ strongholds.”
Surprisingly, at least, to me, none of my companions speak, nor do they challenge his accusation. My eyebrows rise at that, and I sit a bit straighter. Are they really thinking that the king or some other royal is actually conspiring with the Wilders? My head buzzes at the thought.
Like distant thunder, Amil’s deep voice is a low rumble in the hut. “I am not convinced that King Leo had any part in the evil that’s occurred, that’s just not the king I know. However, as far as the king’s brothers go — ”
“Or his sons . . . ” Cara’s voice is hardly more than a whisper, but her bold statement holds me nonetheless.
Amil hesitates before saying, “Or his sons, well, that’s another matter.”
“A golden dragon,” Phigby pronounces, “would be a powerful asset for one who sought a crown.”
“Aye,” Amil acknowledges, “that it would. Powerful enough that it would make allies out of those who have been enemies for generations.”
I glance from face to face with the stark realization of just what they’re alluding to. “Wait,” I breathe, “are you saying that — ”
“What we’re saying, Hooper,” Phigby interrupts sharply, “is that in the games that the high-born play they believe that the rules do not apply to them but only to us little people.”
I open my mouth as if to speak but Phigby leans forward and snarls, “And that’s all we’re going to say about that.”
He motions to Amil and then says, “As Amil does, we too take our fidelity to King Leo and the royal family seriously, and that is a sufficient enough explanation for now.”
I promptly shut my mouth as I recognize the warning. Treason, even disloyalty can be a serious crime and royalty thoroughly dislike having their words or actions questioned by us “little people.”
Amil swings his arm around at the lot of us while saying, “I am not doubting yours or anyone’s fidelity, Phigby. But I admit, your story leaves me with more questions than answers. For now, I will accept that all that I’ve heard is the truth.”
He glances around, and his voice deepens. “The question is what do we do about it?”
“Thank you, Amil,” Phigby acknowledges. “At this point, we can use any friend that we can find.”
He pulls at his beard for so long that I begin to think that the conversation is done without us resolving anything. Then he starts up again, solemn and slow.
“I’ve shared with Amil our experience at Fairy Falls, and of Hooper’s encounter with his apparition at Draconstead. I will hold, for the moment, my pronouncement of who that is. Instead, it would be best if you first learned just who the three were that appeared to us in the glade.”
I lean forward, eager to hear. “But not here,” Phigby states and waves a hand at the hut’s inside. “Not where it’s dark and gloomy. This needs to be outside in the light of day.” He jumps to his feet, grabs his bag, and orders, “Follow me.”
Surprised, we rise and follow. He marches us out and into the glade where the dragons are resting. I spot the sprogs curled up asleep next to the golden. I guess our march to the stream tired them out. I look around for Scamper, but he’s nowhere to be seen. We find some fallen logs to sit on, and Phigby stands before us as if he’s about to deliver a lecture.
“The beings that we saw at Fairy Falls,” Phigby announces, “were none other than three of the four Gaelian Fae, Osa, Nadia, and Eskar.”
Phigby’s words instantly bring Amil’s intense gaze from the golden. I wouldn’t have thought that a King’s Traveler who’s seen so many things would be impressed by anything but it’s obvious by the way his eyes gleam and his face holds a certain eagerness that Amil is awed by Golden Wind.
“The Fairy Queens,” Cara murmurs.
“Yes,” Phigby acknowledges. “Or as some call them, simply, the Fae.”
At Phigby’s declaration, my head jerks up. So it was the Gaelian Fae we saw, the same ones that the golden spoke of when we first entered the glade. Phigby must have seen my startled reaction for he asks with a narrowing of the eyes, “And what do you know of the Gaelian Fae, Hooper?”
“Uh,” I reply slowly, trying to think how to respond. I certainly can’t tell him that the golden told me about the fairies and their part in creating dragons. “I probably read about them in one of your books. The falls are named after them, right?”
“Hmmm . . . ” Phigby murmurs. “Yes, the falls are named after them, but no, I don’t believe I ever gave you a book that spoke of the Fae.”
I’m stuck. I don’t have an answer for Phigby, and he’s peering at me at me like a hawk that’s hovering over a rabbit hole, just waiting for the rabbit to stick its head out.
“I think I may have told him, Phigby,” Cara abruptly says. “When we were discussing where to take the golden after Hooper got her away from Draconstead.”
I turn toward Cara, but she’s not looking in my direction. Instead, she has her eyes on Phigby. I don’t know why she spoke up for me, but I’m grateful she did. For the moment, it gets me out of Phigby’s noose.
Phigby gives a little nod, but before he can speak, Helmar asks, “Phigby, Cara may know something about the Gaelian Fae, but I don’t. Just who are they? What exactly did we see, and why?”
“I’m not sure I can entirely answer the why,” Phigby replied, “but I may have something that will address some of your questions.”
He reaches into his haversack, rummages around a bit before he draws out a thick manuscript. Its rumpled binding seems to glow in the lowering sun’s light.
He hands it to me. “Here, Hooper, a book that really does speak of the Gaelian Fairies, and not one you imagined reading.”
Cara is amazing. Phigby no sooner plops the book into my lap, then she’s off her log like an arrow shot and slides next to me. She runs her hand over the book’s covering and wags a finger at Phigby. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t add an “again” to the end of the sentence, but she doesn’t. Phigby sniffs in retort. “An old man is entitled to some secrets, young lady.”
“Oh, bosh,” Cara answers. “That’s not how you should treat your best customer, and you know it.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Hurry, Hooper, open it.”
The book is heavy, quite thick, and so broad that it covers my whole lap. I shake my head at the size of the thing. How does Phigby carry all of this in his bag and yet be as spry as he is? If I were carrying just this, I’d be straining under its weight.
Cara gives me another impatient jab with her elbow. I run a hand over the cover. The soft and pliant leather is timeworn, so I know it’s been opened many, many times.
Helmar and Amil come to stand behind us, and glance over our shoulders. With Cara’s help, I hold the book up so that they can see the front cover’s lettering. Cara reads aloud, Fantastical Creatures, and other Myths, Lore, and Legends.
She gives me an eager smile, and her eyes gleam. To Cara, it would appear that a new and unread book is as exciting as a previously unknown treasure map is to a pirate.
To me, well, though I wish Phigby had explained it himself, I’m glad to see Cara with a smile again, and her eyes clear and bright instead of dull fro
m harboring tears.
I open the volume to the first page and find it’s an alphabetical index. I run my finger down the listing while Cara reads aloud. “Angels, Balrogs, Centaurs, Demons, Empousai, Fairies or Faeries in Old Tongue.”
She nudges me again. “Page forty-seven, Hooper.”
I turn the pages until I come to the part about fairies. Cara reads aloud while I read along with her. The book describes woodland and mountain fairies, fairies that live in people’s homes, invisible fairies, and cloud fairies, the ones that make white, fluffy clouds.
Then we come to the part on the Gaelian Fae or as Cara called them, the Fairy Queens. Cara reads aloud in a small voice, “During the Time of Creation, the four Gaelian Fae sisters, Osa, Eskar, Nadia, and Vay were favorites of the gods and given the privilege of creating dragons.”
She stops and points. “Look, a drawing of the four.”
Bending over our shoulders to see better, Helmar mutters, “Either the fairies drew that themselves or the artist had his own visitation, I would say, at least of the three that we saw.”
I have to agree with Helmar. The faces in the illustration are remarkably similar to the faces that we saw emerge from the pillars.
“Perhaps,” Phigby mutters, “but as I mentioned, those who appeared to us are Osa, Eskar, and Nadia. The one set apart is Vay.”
Behind Osa, Eskar, and Nadia is a subdued glow that seems to highlight and soften each face. But not Vay. Her expression is hard and dark. She stands apart from her sisters and where they have light behind them like a velvety aura, not Vay. There is no radiance to shine on her, no glow upon her haggard face, no serenity or peace as in the other three.
Instead, above her are gloomy, roiling clouds as if she were about to bring a tempest and darkness upon the land. I can almost feel the thunder and lightning that would come from such storm clouds.
“Why is Vay’s face so dark? She looks mad,” I say to Phigby, “and so different from the other three.”
“Turn the page,” Phigby instructs.
I flip the page over. Cara reads, “A fragment of the Ode of the Gaelian Fae, said to come from the Parchment of Soracles.”
“Soracles?” Amil asks.
“A historian, long dead,” Phigby quickly replies. “Who, it’s believed, gathered together the histories and writings of the ancient ones, kings, rulers, everything he could get his hands on.
“He compiled those documents into a running parchment supposedly a thousand rods long. It had to be wound together on a giant spool like some enormous paper barrel.”
“A thousand rods long,” Cara breathes.
“Yes,” Phigby returns. “It would take even you, Cara Dracon, several cycles of the moons, maybe even a full season to read it all.”
“Oh no,” she quickly responds, “a few fortnights perhaps, but not an entire season.”
She bends her head to the page and begins to read aloud,
Vay it was who broke the trust
Brought forth the golden to slake her lust
For greed, envy, fear, and power
So that she oe’r all would tower
One dragon to rule them all
One Queen, to her we’d fall.
“Wait,” Cara declares, “isn’t that part of what the three said to us?”
“Yes,” Phigby answers, “but if you’ll remember, they had a fuller version than what’s written there.”
“That’s right,” Cara breathes. “I remember it filled me with both hope and dread.”
“Do you remember any of it?” Phigby asks.
Cara shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“Hooper? Helmar?” Phigby questions.
We both shake our heads in answer. He nods in understanding and says, “Then let me help you.”
Vay it was who broke the trust
Brought forth the golden to slake her lust
For greed, envy, fear, and power
So that oe’r all she would tower
One dragon to rule them all
One Queen, to her we’d fall
The dragon to rule over its own kind
But to Vay, she would bend the mind
Of the Drach and dragon too
That to her only they would be true
One Dark Queen upon her throne
Seeds of evil she has sown
And of the moment, we did partake
Now the right we must make
From heaven above to the earth below
The gods will grant that we will go
To set the right
In fiery fight.
After Phigby stops, I ask, “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Phigby answers, “that the seventh epoch is over, and the eighth has begun.”
“Wait,” I quickly point out, “didn’t you recite or chant something about the eighth epoch the night the evil spirit attacked me?”
“Yes, Hooper,” Phigby replies, “I did.” He again begins to chant low,
Seven have come, seven are done,
Four did sleep, and now three will weep,
For now comes the eighth and open swings the gate,
On high the four shall align, a portent, an omen, a blazing sign,
That chains have burst, and the evil that thirsts,
Will walk once more, on hill, dale, and rolling moor,
As a seed, it will grow, up high and down low,
Rage and ruin, merciless death, pain will come with every breath,
All to slave, all to obey, all to serve the Domain of Vay.
“The evil that thirsts,” Cara murmurs and shudders. “Is that Vay?”
“It is,” Phigby replies. “And the chains that held her and her sisters for seven epochs have been torn asunder, and they are now free to roam Erdron. Vay to work her wickedness, her sisters, evidently to fight against that evil.”
“And that’s why,” Cara replies softly, tapping her finger on the page, “in the drawing, Vay is apart from her sisters and cast in such a dark and foreboding light.”
“Exactly,” Phigby affirms.
Amil shakes his head and mutters, “I don’t understand. Why would the fairies be held in chains for all that time and why does Vay want to enslave us? We’re a mortal kingdom, she belongs to — ”
“The enchanted, immortal world?” Phigby finishes.
Amil nods in answer. Phigby slowly replies, “It may be that she cannot or perhaps will not be allowed to rule over anything in that kingdom, so — ”
“She would have her own world to rule over and to enslave all those who live upon it,” Amil returns.
“That is my thought,” Phigby replies.
While pointing at the book, I ask, “Is that all there is? Is there more to the story?”
Phigby wrinkles his forehead for a moment as he runs a gnarled finger over the book’s edge. Wistfully, he says, “There is a companion book that adds to what’s there.”
He breathes deeply, sighs and says with a frown, “Unfortunately, it’s been lost.”
“Lost?” Cara moans. “Don’t you know any of it?”
Phigby takes a finger and twirls several strands of his beard together as if he’s thinking to himself. “Only from what we can gather from the parts of the ode that we have, and what little I can remember.
“But as the legend goes, when the gods created Erdron, our world, it was to be a world of magic, with sorcerers and wizards, enchanters and — ”
“Witches?” I ask pointedly.
He gives me a little nod. “And witches, too. But also fantastical creatures such as — ”
“Those in the book,” Cara eagerly answers, laying a hand on the thick manuscript.
“Yes, yes,” Phigby grumps, “like those in the book. Now quit interrupting me. Because the gods favored the fairies, they allowed the Gaelian Fae to create dragons. The Fae in turn — ”
“Set the colors of their scales,” I say, “to match the bow that colors the rain.”
I blanch. M
y mind has gone for a walk in the woods, leaving my mouth to march alone and speak for itself.
Cara looks at me with wide eyes. “Where did that come from?” she asks.
“Indeed,” Phigby agrees in surprise, “just where did that come from, Hooper?”
“Uh, I must have read it,” I answer, hoping that Cara will save me again, but when she doesn’t speak, I murmur, “Or, heard it somewhere, maybe?”
“Really?” Phigby grumbles apparently not accepting my explanation.
I glance over at the golden and find that her eyes are open, and her ears cocked in our direction as if listening to every word of the conversation. Gazing at her, I seize on a way to turn this discussion away from my big mouth having a life of its own.
I point at the golden. “So, if the dragons were to be the colors of the rainbow, why did Vay create a golden dragon? That color’s not part of the rainbow.”
“Weren’t you listening, Hooper?” Helmar snaps. “‘One dragon to rule them all, one queen, to her we’d fall.’ The golden must be the dragon meant to rule them all.”
He peers at Phigby. “The golden is tied to Vay’s power in some way, isn’t she, Phigby?”
Phigby slowly nods and says, “If you had a golden bow in the sky and measured it against a rainbow’s brightness, which of the two is brightest?”
“Gold,” Amil instantly answers.
“Yes,” Phigby murmurs low. “What does the king wear on his head and what does he hold in his right hand when he’s on the throne?”
“A gold crown and scepter,” Amin again answers.
“Yes,” Phigby affirms, “and as today, gold is an ancient symbol not just of wealth, but of great power and authority.”
He gestures toward where the golden lies. “And Golden Wind is the embodiment of power, both here, and in the enchanted world.”
Suddenly, it all fits together. “Phigby,” I whisper in a voice so small that I can barely hear myself, “you’re suggesting that it’s not just the Wilders who are after the golden, it’s Vay, too.”
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to. His solemn eyes say it all.
I remember thinking that when Amil announced that we had a King’s Warrant on our heads that was bad. Add that to the Wilders trying to kill us and things were looking awful. But I honestly didn’t think it could get any worse.