PART 2

OWLODIN

By about midday, the dead chicken I'd hung on a lower branch is no longer dripping blood, and my legs have completely fallen asleep. I'm starting to think my trap isn't going to work, and I've spent hours of my day perched in a tree for nothing.

Remind me again, Balsevor's voice grumbles in my mind, why you so desperately need to speak with this…Koren."

"Korrigan," I say under my breath.

Mmm, my mistake. I can hear the eyeroll in his tone. Some faerie hag who whispers nonsensical prophecy to gullible fools. They're all the same.

"I just need-" I cut off my retort as trees on the other side of the small clearing begin to rustle.

Another rabbit? Balsevor chuckles.

I'm tempted to shush him, even though I'm the only one cursed to hear his constant commentary.

When she emerges from the shadows, she looks harmless enough: skeletally thin, with a cloak of brown feathers and hooked nose much too large for her pinched face. She walks with her head bent forward, using a cane for support, reaching up every so often to push a pair of spectacles back into place. The thick glass lenses are round and framed with gold, adding to her owlish appearance. These grab my attention instantly; it is unusual for faeries to wear such contraptions, no matter how blind they are. In fact, blindness is fashionable in faerie circles, as it lends an air of wisdom and mystery. Even those who could regain their sight by magical means would probably choose not to. They'd be more likely to gouge out their own eyes on purpose. I know by now just how important the fae folk consider aesthetic. Korrigan's spectacles are out of place in The Wood, obviously handcrafted and unnatural in a way most fae would find incredibly distasteful. And that makes them all the more interesting to me.

Korrigan tilts her head, sniffing the air. If my plan works, the smell of the chicken should overpower my scent. It better work, considering how hard it was to find that bird. There aren't many chickens roaming about this far from human civilization.

I don't breathe as she creeps slowly closer to the tree. On the ground below, I placed a circle of golden berries, making sure they are sweet, edible, free of any magical properties. Let her mistake it for another offering. Really, the berries are just a marker for me, the brightness of them standing out against the blanket of dead leaves. I wait for her to cross that barrier, every muscle in my body tensed.

Close enough, Balsevor says, as Korrigan pauses with one foot over the berry-line and peers up at the dangling poultry.

No, just a little closer. Come on. My chest hurts; I desperately need to draw air into my lungs. There! As soon as she steps fully over the line, I snap my fingers, inhaling deeply at the same time. A circle of flames bursts up from the ground, and the faerie shrieks. I swing down from my hiding place, landing in a crouch. My stiff joints protest the sudden movement and weight, shooting sharp pain up my legs.

The faerie spins around, looking for a gap in the wall of fire. "Let me out!" she screeches, waving her cane in my direction.

I bounce backwards, putting another couple feet of distance between us. She's short enough that I tower above her, and her cane doesn't scare me all that much. What I'm really worried about is any spells she might decide to cast. Hopefully nothing powerful enough to get through my personal wards.

"I just have some questions!" I say, loud enough to be heard over her wordless screams of rage.

She goes still, turning her neck to peer up at me through her spectacles. "I've heard of you," she says, blinking. She pushes the eyeware back up her nose. "Adain, the lost human prince." She says both "human" and "prince" as though they're dirty words.

"I haven't gone by that name in over eight years," I say, frowning.

She purses her already tiny lips. "You think because you go by a different name you can change who you are? Owlodin, Wizard of The Wood. That fiery heart doesn't make you belong. Beneath those feathers and flames, you're still a mortal boy." She spits out the word "mortal" with a clack of her teeth.

I sigh, more frustrated with Balsevor's laughter in my skull than the faerie crone. "Listen, I only want to ask some questions. Once you answer them, I'll set you free."

"How many? Don't play games with me," she snaps. "Be clear."

I smile. Straight to the point. No games. That is not something I'm used to hearing from a faerie, especially not a seer. "Three," I say, hoping she'll appreciate tradition.

She scrunches her nose. "How boring. Of course you would."

That surprises me. Something is different about this faerie. "Fine, seven."

"Too many. I'll give you two. One for each of your hearts." I open my mouth to take the deal. "But!" she adds, "You have to answer a question as well. A total of three, and you set me free." She holds up three bony fingers.

This is not the kind of bargaining I expected. Why does she want to ask me a question? What could I possibly know that she doesn't? "Agreed," I say, before I can have any second thoughts.

"Ask what you will, mortal prince," she says, blinking at me.

"How fares my mother?" I ask. "My parents," I correct, wincing. That was a mistake. Korrigan doesn't have to answer the revised question, or she could count it as two questions and answer no more. It didn't take me long at all to make a mess of this.

"Your mother…" Korrigan murmurs, narrowing her eyes. "She let you fly, and you flew all the way to The Faerie Wood." She chuckles. "Lady Katalyn is well," she says. "For now. By next moon she will perish."

I forget to breathe.

Pft. All this trouble for that? Balsevor scoffs. No one can see the future with such certainty. This Korrigan is a charlatan.

"First, she will grow ill," the faerie continues. "Poison. The whole land is poisoned." Korrigan wrinkles her nose. "It reeks of iron and rot. The king will demand a cure, and none will be found. Lost in his despair, his kingdom will slip even farther out of his hands. He will fall."

"Thank you. You are generous," I say. My voice sounds hollow. I want to ask who will poison my mother, want to beg the seer for more detail about the fall of my father. But I only have one more question, and I already know what it needs to be. "How can I reverse these changes to my body?" I gesture down at myself, the fiery glow beneath my skin, the iridescent black feathers growing along my limbs. "How do I become… myself again?"

She giggles, hands fluttering in front of her mouth. "You cannot undo what is done. Your fragile human body can't contain it. It breaks you apart." The faerie reaches toward my chest with one long-fingered hand. "I can see it. Burning... Not of this world. That power…" She licks her thin lips with a pointed tongue. "Delicious." She draws out the word, like she's tasting it. "Tell me, mortal. Where did you get it? Where?"

I step away from her, from the wild, desperate look in her eyes. I don't want to answer her question, would rather release her from the cage of flames and run. But that wouldn't be wise. Faeries take their bargains very seriously, and breaking one always has terrible consequences. "It fell from the sky," I say. It is the truth, but far from the whole truth. I only hope it is enough to satisfy her.

She bares her teeth in a hiss. "From the sky," she repeats. She exclaims with frustration. Quickly, I release the spell and the wall of flames flickers out around us.

"Don't forget your chicken," I say, leaping backwards into the air so I'm hovering a few feet out of her reach. "I am sorry for my selfishness, and I thank you for your wisdom."

"You will learn better than to toy with me, mortal!" Korrigan calls after me as I fly away. When I glance back, I see her tearing into the bird carcass, blood oozing down her pointed chin.

Well then, Balsevor says. Did that go as you planned?

"No," I mutter, soaring above the thick foliage. Around the base of the small mountain I have claimed for myself, the trees begin to thin out. I fly a bit faster, my robes flapping in the wind as I ascend the rocky incline. I've heard rumors that this area used to belong to the dwarves, before they died out. I haven't been able to find any doors or openings in the mountainside, but I have a feeling they are there, hidden.

"I have to go back," I say.

Why? Do you have some plan to save the kingdom from its rotting iron poison? Prevent the fall of your father and rescue your mother from her supposed fate? Balsevor's disapproval is clear.

"I don't care about the kingdom. My father doesn't need my help," I say.

Ah, he says.

"We'll go to Underhill tomorrow," I tell him, stepping onto the mountain's uppermost ledge. My rickety house is perched at the rim of the summit. It is an odd, lopsided structure, more windows than walls, scorched wooden planks and colorful panes of glass held together mainly by force of will. I am no architect, but I still made myself a home.

Underhill? Balsevor makes a sound of disgust. More faeries?

"I have no other choice," I say, sighing. "I need glamour." The front door of my house leads to a large kitchen, with a stone hearth as the main feature, and a long table off to one side that is cluttered with loose sheets of paper, bundles of herbs and jars of various substances. As soon as I enter, a fire bursts into existence in the hearth. Afternoon sun filters in through the many windows, filling the room with rainbow light. I collapse into the nearest chair, putting my hands over my face.

Balsevor snorts. Dragons don't do glamour. That's manipulative, sneaky business. It's beneath us.

"Oh," I say, rolling my eyes. "In that case, I'll go back to Ylvemore with feathers out and flames blazing. I'm sure that'll end well for us both."

The sun dragon is silent.

"Did you hear that?" I ask, looking towards the door. A soft knock, then another.

Someone's here, Balsevor says. Lovely.

When I open the door, I find a small man standing there, maybe three feet tall, with a bushy white mustache and beard almost as big as he is, and a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles covering the entire upper half of his face. He's wearing a patched brown cloak with the hood up and a worn leather tunic. At his hip a small blade hangs in its scabbard; I see a flash of gold where the hilt rests in the folds of his cloak.

"I'm Gulver, hmph," he says. I'm not sure if the soft grunt is one of annoyance or is meant for emphasis. "I saw ya, talkin' ta The Korrigan. You and that dragon o' yers."

I open my mouth to say something, only to close it again, speechless.

"Ya gonna let me in, hmph?"

I stand aside, and the dwarf enters my home. He heads to the darkest corner of the room and crouches down, leaning against the wall. "Not used to all this light, hmph," he mutters, taking off the spectacles and rubbing his eyes. "Been in the caves so long." He squints over at me from beneath his hood.

I blink, then close the door, shutting out a portion of the light. "What brought you to the surface?" I ask.

"I told ya, hmph," Gulver says. "I saw ye. That's why I came."

"I'm not sure I understand," I say, taking a seat at the table close to him. "How could you have seen me without coming out of your caves?"

"Hmph. These." He taps a lens of the spectacles with a finger. "My craftsmanship, The Korrigan's enchantment. I see what the old witch sees. That was the deal, hmph."

"I thought…" I consider my words, mindlessly shuffling through piles of parchment before me. "I thought dwarves had all… gone," I say.

"Hmph, yes, that's what we want ya ta think," he says, shifting his weight and settling farther into the corner. "Humans, 'specially, but also them courtly fae. Never much got along, hmph. Even worse after the wars."

"So are there many of you? Down in the caves?" I say, with hesitation. "If you don't mind me asking."

He chuckles. "No, I've been all alone down there," he says. "For a long while. Just old Gulver, keepin' watch. Everyone else's gone north. That's why I came to talk to ye."

"Oh!" I say, as though pleasantly surprised. "Because…?" I trail off, hoping he'll fill in with more of an explanation. What do I have to do with the dwarves? The more he speaks, the more confused I get.

What I want to know, Balsevor adds, is how he 'saw' me. That Korrigan didn't know what I was. She saw only power, and thirsted for it.

"Because you got a dragon in ye," Gulver says. "Dragons and dwarves didn't used ta like each other, I'm sure ya know. Squabblin' over treasure and whose mountain was whose. But after the war… We made an alliance, o' sorts. It was the only way either o' us would survive."

Two races supposedly extinct, both dragged into a war between man and fae. I'd been told they'd fought, and died, on opposite sides. That the dwarves were humankind's only immortal ally. That dragons were already dwindling in numbers, and we shot the last of them down from the sky. Turns out the history books tell an even more incomplete story than I'd thought.

"Anyways, hmph," Gulver says, breaking through my musing. "They'll want ta see ya, the dragon queen, and King Holnur. They've been tellin' all sorts of prophecies about ya, the mortal with the dragon heart. Ya know the sort, hmph. The dragons'll love that they're right about it. Always goin' on about their Sun Mothers." He rolls his eyes.

Balsevor snorts. I'm no mother.

"I'm sorry," I say, "but I can't go see your king, or the queen of the dragons. I'm going south, not north. Back to Ylvemore."

"Ah, hmph," he says. "I don't envy ya. Terrible place. But I trust you have yer reasons, eh? Wouldn't blame ya if you burned it all down."

Not a bad idea, Balsevor says.

I attempt to make my shrug less ambivalent and more agreeable by adding a smile.

"I'll go for ya, then. The way through the tunnels won't take me too long, hmph." He gets to his feet with a creek of the knees and a hand on the wall. "I'll leave soon, and tell 'em of ye. They'll want ta know. Here." He digs around in a deep pocket inside his cloak, pulls out a flat, polished piece of silver about the size of an egg.

I take it from him with a questioning tilt of the head. "Thank you," I say.

"Breathe on it a bit and give it a rub, and you'll be able ta see me in it. See, like this," he pulls an identical piece out of his pocket to demonstrate. "Won't be able to hear ya, but I'll know yer lookin', and I'll do my best ta help if ya need me. Like if yer in danger, y'know."

Is that supposed to be useful? Balsevor asks.

"Will you be able to see me?" I gesture to his piece of metal.

"Oh, I suppose," he says. "I see a whole lot, one way or another, hmph."

I puzzle over what that means as the dwarf slowly makes his way to the door. He waves back at me as he slips behind a large boulder and disappears.