Chapter 113

Ten Handsome Men, Five Blood Crazed Mimics, Two Cursed Frogs and a Beehive in an Oak Tree

I would lurk in the shadows, but there are no shadows. Everything about this blasted meadow is movement and light. Light and movement and ribald frivolity. Every corner has a kissing couple, every empty space is filled with music and chatter and sparkling wings. Even the air is intense, loaded with the heavy, cloying scent of summer pollen.

My eyes are on the queen, and her glittering court, seated before the rose-covered silver castle. Her servants stand behind her, their transparent chains barely visible in the flickering half light. I contemplate my options. Perhaps I should just thunder through the crowd and grab one of the dandelions? How much trouble can one enormous, horse sized magical predator with sharp teeth be, anyway? Huh. Once they are dead they should be docile enough.

A distraction is in order. What chaos can I manufacture?

Seeking inspiration, my eyes roam across the revels, over the guests, the orchestra, the servers. They alight at last on the great thorn boundary hedge that keeps out the undesirables such as myself. The bone headed ogre is arguing with a half naked elf woman who appears to have lost her frock. After much shouting, the poor dear is turned away, furious but still radiant in my beautifully sewn petticoats. Waiting to enter behind the elf are a couple of shambling, vacant-eyed fairies with red hats. They are likewise refused entry.

Interesting. It seems that the ogre is not merely decorative.

A good enough place to start.

I lift a curse frog out of my pack, and look it square in the eyes. It blinks at me mindlessly and croaks encouragingly. “The ogre doorman!” I say. “Curse him please, my pretty.”

The frog departs with green, damp googly-eyed enthusiasm and I lose sight of it in the crowd. Then, because I really want to know what will happen, I send the other frog after the summer queen. “Curse her the best you can!” I whisper to it.

Off it hops.

Hopefully all the summer queen’s luscious hair will fall out, or her toes will shrivel into little smelly old dried prunes. Or something actually helpful, which will make her leave for a while so I can steal a dandelion in peace. I don’t have high hopes. After all, the frogs are sold at a market where anyone can buy them.

My wicked contemplations are interrupted by a fairy in an oak leaf mask.

“May I have this dance?” he asks.

Distracted, I accept the brown, outstretched hand, with the vague thought that this is an innocuous way to get closer to the queen without arousing suspicion. As the fairy’s hand lands on my waist I swallow down panic. I do not know how to dance. A forest witch born of peasant stock might dance by herself in lonely forest glades with just the moon for company, but this does not prepare one for such an occasion as this.

Fortunately my lack of expertise does not seem to matter. My partner spins me into the melee of swirling couples. His enjoyment is infectious as he sweeps me around in a wide circle, grinning through a thick beard, honey brown eyes twinkling through his mask.

It is… not unpleasant.

My fairy partner lifts his arm to twirl me, and I oblige, the silver edges of my skirts glittering beneath the wisp lights. As I turn, I spy what appears to be the beginnings of a beehive nestling between my partner's armpit and waistcoat. As he pulls me back into his embrace a trio of bumblebees fly out of his roughly stitched lapels.

“Herne?” I say, on a hunch.

“Shhhh!” says the tree spirit, his eyes darting around wildly. “No names! I trust you dead woman. Don’t make me regret.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

We carry on dancing, although Herne looks a little rattled. Now that I know it is him I'm surprised I didn’t recognise him immediately. Although, to be fair, he looks quite different with clothes on. And it is not just the clothes (where did he buy those trousers?)—here in the fae realm he seems to have more weight to him. More substance. I can feel his touch, and smell the loam and honey scent of him.

He has also traded his spring accessories for those of summer, and they suit him well. The branches of his antlers are sprouting full oak leaves, and he has wisteria woven into his crown.

“What happens- what happens if someone knows your name?” I ask curiously. “Down here I mean?”

Herne blinks at me, stumbling over his feet.

“It gives them power over you.”

“How?” I demand. Herne looks very uncomfortable, and slides away sideways, letting go of my hand.

“Spells,” he says. “Wicked things.” He sidles away even more. “Goodbye, dead woman.”

“Why did you even come?” I ask with some annoyance.

“I wanted to dance,” he says. As if it's the most natural thing in the world.

He melts into the crowd, and I lose sight of him behind three whirling fairies and a tall owl-man. Before I can go after him, to declare him the most annoying tree spirit in the entire world, a scream rips through the air.

The music falters.

The dancers pause, heads turn. At last! I catch a brief glimpse of the ogre, green face covered in pustules that swell and burst as he rushes away, clawing at his eyes. Next to the thorn hedge, a nixie springs through the opening, landing on all fours with predatory grace. With dripping, bog-limned limbs it leaps upon a nearby elf. The pair fall to the ground with a crash and a snarl. Before the elf can scream the nixie has started eating his face.

The mood of the party shifts to immediate panic.

Some of the fairies start to run, one or two approach the nixie, trying to pull it off the now dead elf. A faun goes down with a cry, the skin of his forearms in tatters, and the nixie leaps to the fresh victim, fangs and spindly fingers dripping crimson. None of the fae seem to have weapons and most of them seem too drunk to even attempt to fight.

The five vacant-faced fairies in party clothes and red hats from earlier slink through the unattended gap. The mimics stand for a moment, then set about hunting drunken fae with shambling, mindless ferocity. The inebriated guests run like headless chickens; screams and cries fill the air. The smaller fae are in danger of getting trampled. I sweep my mushroom friend out of harm's way, and then double back to punch a mimic disguised as a guest in the face. The vacant eyed monster falls back, and then goes careening off in search of easier prey, mindless arms outstretched.

“Thank you,” the mushroom sprite says, before rushing away, to what I hope is safety.

I had not realised quite how effective removing the brutish bouncer would be.

Some of the more vicious-minded fairies are taking advantage of the chaos to settle personal scores. Under a delicately blooming crabapple tree, a fairy is bashing a sprite with a cello. Two fauns are doing their best to kill each other on the periphery of my vision, and beneath the silver lights of the castle, the queen’s court is rising.

The two dandelions stand on either side of the rose petal throne, heads down, eyes fierce, white tails thrashing. Low rumbling growls issue from leaf-lined throats. I have never seen a real lion before, only seen drawing once. They are fairly stupendous.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I whisper under my breath, and creep closer.

On her throne the summer queen’s cheeks have flushed scarlet.

“WHO DARES INTERRUPT MY REVELS?” she screeches. “Who has broken the sacred guest right? Who among you dares-”

Between the panicked guests I see a little green frog hopping enthusiastically towards her. It leaps. The queen sees it likewise. Spinning, she stamps down hard, with one perfect foot. Flesh and blood squirt from beneath her toes.

Sapphire chipped eyes sweep the meadow, and a tempest of power rages in those eyes. I duck behind a nearby centaur who is sobbing into a lacy handkerchief. Peeking out from behind the quivering rump I watch the enraged monarch paces the raised platform. She kicks at the nearest dandelion with her frog-stained foot.

“Deal with the intruders. Now.”

Yellow-gold mane shaking, the enormous cat monster leaps down, followed quickly by its twin. Together, the dandelions prowl through the field on enormous silken pads, white, puff tails swinging behind them. Roots rise and fall as they step, brown stringy bits momentarily binding their feet to the soil in passing.

The remaining guests start to run, apparently as afraid of the lions as they are of the invading monsters. I run with them, pretending to be scared, and holding in my giggles with some difficulty.

Slipping sideways through panicked crowds, I hunt the nearest dandelion as it hunts the nixie. The nixie, absorbed in its grisly dinner, does not see the danger until it is too late. The dandelion bounds through the guests, knocking several flying, and pounces.

Rough teeth clamp around the spindly, slime covered neck., and shake. There is a sharp crack. The nixie falls limp. A white butterfly flutters up from it, and flies towards the watching queen.

The second dandelion circles a mimic in top hat and tails. The dandelion leaps, and the mimic wails, and elongates- but I stop watching because I am close enough now to use soul magic on the first.

“Decipula alma,” I whisper.

The first dandelion, on its way to accost another mimic collapses, mid jump, into a heap of giant paws and green plant flesh. Surprise flashes across its vivid green eyes, before the light of its life winks out. The dandelion’s soul streams towards me in a lurid yellow flash, into the waiting soul gem I hold in my right hand.

Relief floods through me.

I have what I need. It is time to make a graceful exit. The body of the dandelion is too large to carry, but that is no problem. It can carry itself. I will worry about getting it up the ridiculous rope ladder later.

“Resurgemus iterum,” I whisper.

The other dandelion growls and lifts its head, broad snout sniffing the breeze.

The dandelion’s soul re-enters its body. Now it is bound to me. The draugr dandelion lumbers to its feet, shaking the petals of its mane in confusion.

“Come to me,” I urge, and it obeys. I pat it on the jagged toothed edges of the leaves of its shoulders. The creature is pungent. A mixture of bitter and sweet that makes my eyes watering. “Come on,” I whisper, “away. Quick as you can.”

The other dandelion has finished mauling the body of the mimic, and is starting in on its next victim. My prize and I run for the thorn hedge. But the crowd is thinning.

“Ambrosius, Aurelius!” shouts the summer queen. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

My dandelion twitches, towards her voice. The lure of its name must be strong indeed. But I own its soul, and now I know its name as well.

“Come away, Ambrosius,” I urge. “Quickly, now.”

We are nearly at the thorns.

“Not so fast,” the summer queen’s voice booms across the meadow. “It seems I have more uninvited guests than I realised. Gardener of Souls was it? Pretend Queen! Your kind are not welcome here! How dare you steal what is mine?”

The flushed and angry woman can see me. Her wings flair bright and colourful at her back and she points her finger towards us like a spear. The ten handsome men are running across the grass. The other dandelion is only yards away.

I leap on the dandelion’s broad back, and urge it towards the boundary fence.

For a moment I think we are going to make it, but then the thorns of the boundary wall rear up into the air, like a living thing. The rose vine walls thrash and wiggle in the air, like the tentacles of some enormous sea monster. Blood red roses the size of cartwheels burst from sticky black vines. The thorn spikes come careening towards us.

“I will show you what happens,” shouts the summer queen. “To those who disrespect me in my own domain.”