Chapter 111

Revels

The summer queen walks away. Her attendants trail after her, most of their faces blank, their transparent silver chains glittering in the heat. A couple of them look at me sideways as they pass. The ten handsome men are most definitely mortal—young and good-looking but dressed most curiously in a wide variety of costumes. One is wearing a blacksmith’s apron, another tinker’s garb, but not a pot in sight. Another wears shiny paladin’s armour, a wooden sword at his side. It looks strange, like a child’s play thing. His face is flushed red in the heat. The last wears a sailor’s outfit that I vaguely recognise as belonging to the Quellac navy.

How curious.

The whole market heaves a collective sigh of relief as the Summer Queen and her entourage promenade away from the market to disappear into the surrounding forest. I crane my neck to watch as the last man vanishes beneath the leafy boughs. There seems to be a road there, winding away through the trees.

“How did they end up down here?” I ponder aloud.

“Probably ate the food,” someone murmurs to my left.

I jump, not having realised someone was standing so close. The fortune teller has come out of her tent. Her magical jellyfish float around her, letting out harmonised sighs. They drift through the air around her head like a personal selection of tiny gelatinous, glowing clouds. Sea-blue eyes look at me over the edge of a veil that hides most of her features. I can’t tell whether she is human, or elf or some other kind of fae. She smells of brine, and I wonder if she is a disciple of the Wavewalker.

“Or they fell into a fairy ring,” croaks the frogman. His eyes are bulging so hard they look like they might pop out of his head.

“That happens?” I say in surprise. Everyone has heard tales of people disappearing in fairy rings on moonless nights. I just didn’t think it could be true.

“It does,” says the fortune teller.

All three of us stare into the distant woods.

“Can you tell me where I can find the summer queen's field?” I ask.

“The queen has many meadows,” says the fortune teller. “The realm is hers. Every tree, every hill, every field-”

“I’m looking for a specific field,” I snap, a little more peevishly than I intended. “Where there are dandelions.”

Or maybe the task is easy, and I can just go to any field and grab one? But no- the frogman drops his tray again, slimy green hands shaking, and his wares go leaping. He swears and goes scrambling after them.

“I can tell you,” says the fortune teller, “for a price.”

“What do you want?”

“A scarf,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, even though I can’t see her lips.

Well that is certainly easy enough.

I hand one over, woad-blue to match her robes, and the jellyfish sing in approval.

“Thank you,” she says, examining it with long white fingers. She is wearing a lot of rings. “Follow the forest road. At the hollow oak, struck by lighting, take the left pathway, through the marshes and across the starry river. When you reach a silver palace surrounded by a hedge of thorns and roses you have found it. The Summer Queen’s fields lie before the palace gates. It is where the queen holds her revels.”

“Wonderful,” I say with a sigh. Just what I need. Revels. “Thank you.”

The fortune teller returns to her tent. The frogman retrieves his wares for the umpteenth time, and around me the market returns to normal. Or what passes for normal at a goblin market.

I bid the frogman farewell, and pack away what is left of my knitting. My bag is much lighter now. The two frogs I place on top, a state of affairs they seem happy enough with for the time being.

With one last dubious glance at the corpse of the table-mimic, I set off, towards the forest edge. Time to get a dandelion and go home. It should be simple enough? Even if the summer queen is throwing a party or whatever. I can just sneak in, pluck a dandelion and be gone. And if those handsome men are hanging about, well, even better.

The treeline is further away than it looked. This is mostly because the trees are much, much larger than the ones I am used to. Normal sized flowers and trees are dwarfed by absolute giants. By the time I reach it I feel like a mouse creeping beneath the enormous branches. I pass a stand of cowslips taller than me, with petals each the size of my head.

The road winds, narrow and cobbled beneath hot, dappled patches of shade and light. Fairies flutter about, some no bigger than my finger, others human size, or sometimes larger. I really need a broomstick.

By the time I have been walking for half an hour, I realise how utterly different this forest is from my own. For one thing it is completely, rudely, obscenely alive. Frogs (normal sized ones) copulate on the banks of the stream. Giant bees buzz through the glades. Birds the size of cattle wash themselves in the water. Deer run through the glades every few minutes. Once, I am nearly trampled by a completely naked horse-man who comes charging along the road. He has the nerve to wave, but I am too busy unflattening myself from a tree trunk to return the greeting.

Everywhere I look there is something. And I can’t believe I am saying this, but there are too many flowers. Too many flowers, too many vibrant hues clashing and fighting for attention. The sheer amount of stuff is giving me a headache, and it is all so gaudy.

There are no towns, or villages within the forest, at least none that I can see, but there are many fae dwellings. Doors and windows are cleverly built into the trunks of many of the larger trees, and tiny houses shelter under mammoth petals. Lines of tiny clothes are hung on spiderwebs. Stone and moss steps lead up to rounded doors, and curious eyes glint at me from beneath every log.

The sun sets behind me as I walk, flooding the glades with blood red light. Twilight is a blaze of bright summer stars peeking through the canopy. How is there a sun here? Or stars? The constellations that I can see between the trees are all wrong.

The colours at least are softened with the ailing light but if anything the woods become even more obnoxiously lively. Strains of music float on the warm air, not entirely unpleasant mind you, but still not how I expect a forest to behave. There is nothing of the peaceful stillness here. Everything is sparkling lights and gossamer twinkling wings.

“Gah,” I say to the frogs. They do not respond.

I tramp on without respite, the urge to murder something becoming stronger with every footstep. At one point a trio of riders on fine white horses canter past me. They are moving too fast for me to see them properly, but I receive an impression of jangling bells, and merry laughter. It is enough to make me want to throw up.

Before I am forced to dry heave the non-existent contents of my stomach over some poor fairy’s front door, I arrive at a hollow oak, and a fork in the road. I take the left and continue on my way, grumbling gently under my breath.

After a while the air becomes even hotter and more humid. The trees become low, stumpy and brown with vines draping into the swamp below. An unwholesome mist clouds the air. The road darkens, then disappears into muddy puddles, and more than once I lose my way. Wisp lights bob in the shadows. They giggle and whisper, telling me which way to go, urging me forwards. After I suck out several of their little, cackling souls, the rest leave me alone. Which is a pity because they taste like aniseed, and are surprisingly delicious. My mood brightens slightly, improving even more after I smash the knuckles of a nixie that fastens spindly hands around my ankles and tries to drag me in the bog. The nixie’s soul also tastes good, like watercress and fresh shrimp.

Perhaps fairies are just tasty? I continue along the barely visible way, dangling my ankles seductively in the low water. By the time the ground firms once more, I have left behind me a substantial trail of corpses and my hair is beginning to grow back. If I think of this as a hunting trip things are much more satisfactory. By demanding my head on a platter, the Whisperer means to punish, but he has miscalculated. If my understanding is correct, Jenkins will come to life as a lich-cat with the power of all the souls I lose in my sacrifice. That amount should be considerable. He will be a god amongst cats, and I will be proud to gift him such a rebirth.

A river marks the boundary between marsh and twilight forest once more—the starry river, the fortune teller called it. I can see why. The glow is visible from some distance. The water is not just water but swimming with lights. Constellations flare and dart, shooting stars and glowing aurorae bloom in the swirling waters in an unending dance.

I stand and watch it for a long time before moving on.

The road broadens one more and is joined by others coming from many directions. Once more, tall trees rise on every side, and wings flit overhead. Horses and airy carriages become my frequent companions on the road, although none of the incumbents notice the solitary barefoot lich by the side of the road. That is fine. I will take my dandelion and go. I’m not really interested in getting embroiled with… well, with whatever it is that is going on down here. As long as the obnoxious wench stays out of my forest, we are fine.

A silver palace greets my eyes at a rise in the road.

It is very fine, with delicate spires, and pointed towers rising from elegant, gleaming pillars. It looks a little impractical. I don’t see any siege engines, and there are far too many windows. The main defensive feature seems to be the sharp black thorns that rise from the surrounding ground in a spike wall. They are made more attractive by the plethora of red roses in full bloom but the thorns are as long as my thigh and look wicked enough to pierce a man’s heart. No doubt she has other, magical defences as well.

The building is ablaze with light and colour, and set before it is a field full of dancing fae. Shrieks and music assault my ears in a sonorific tumble. In my innocence I imagined… well a field. Perhaps a maypole and some musicians, little puffy dandelions underfoot. The party before me is like nothing I have ever seen. I have to avert my gaze several times, and if I had blood my cheeks would be the colour of ripe tomatoes.

I approach the entrance with decorous dignity.

A gap in the thorns is staffed by what appears to be an ogre standing behind a lectern. A queue of lords and ladies in exquisite formal attire wait before him, laughing and chatting. All of them are wearing elaborate masks.

The ogre is taking his time to admit guests. Faintly green, the muscles in his arms are the size of watermelons. He is approximately double my height. Half moon spectacles perch snuggly on a nose the size and shape of an onion, and he mutters under his breath as he checks the list before him. Discreetly, I join the back of the queue.