Chapter 4
Veil sat up slowly from her blankets, careful not to wake Tressa who lay beside her. Her mother’s cheeks were gray, furrowed by the tears she had let fall while Veil slept. A staggered series of light columns filtered through the gems set in the thin wall, casting blue and red specks of light on the floor. Veil walked to the door and stared out into the street. The walls looked duller than they had the night before, dry like aged bones. A tiny green figure flitted by along the street and entered a nearby building. Veil followed curiously.
As she entered the building, she heard a light hum. The fairy in the green dress hovered near the center of the room, eyes closed and fists clenched. All about the room, silver laces, golden weaving, and crystal flowers floated trembling in the air, glowing just brighter than the room itself. Veil smiled. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“The others are letting things fade,” the fairy said, “even the things that have always been. I can’t let it happen. I don’t want them to fade—like Maeva.”
Veil lifted one of the crystal flowers, spinning it gently in her fingers. “Did you make these?” she asked.
“Yes. I used to have thousands.”
Veil sniffed the flower. It smelled of stone dust and jasmine. “Father said that fairies never kept what they made.”
“They don’t,” the fairy said. She glanced around. “I used to hide them here. I would come and sit and admire them when I was alone. The others wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t understand.”
“Well, I think they’re beautiful,” Veil said, setting the flower back down. “I’m Veil. What’s your name?”
“Randiriel,” the fairy replied. “But you can call me Rand.”
“Are you alone?” Veil asked. “I haven’t seen any others here.”
“The others are hiding,” Randiriel said sadly. “Ariel and the council have gathered them in the tower. They’re scared . . . Bad things happened.”
Veil frowned. “Father said the fairies needed help.”
“Yes, we are alone. We—I—” she seemed to struggle with the word. “I’ve never been alone before. The Tear was all of us.”
“What will happen without the Tear?” Veil asked.
“The flowers broke,” Randiriel replied distractedly. “All the flowers broke.”
“The city’s getting dimmer,” Veil said.
“The Tear was all of us, and we are the city.”
“You sound old,” Veil said. “Father said that the fairies were children.”
Randiriel smiled sadly. “We’re alone now. But I’ve always been different.” She pointed to the flowers. “The others let them fade.”
Veil nodded and backed toward the door. “I won’t tell,” she said as she left.
* * *
Hefthon stood in the keep of the Fairy City. The building was clean now, scrubbed free of gore and blood, sprinkled with water scented by wildflowers. Over a thousand fairies flit to and fro in the main hall and huddled in masses in the little alcoves and ridges and chairs that covered the walls, tiny ledges to the human eye but balconies as large as rooms to the fairies.
Ariel stood on Hefthon’s shoulder, gesturing to the trembling innocents. “They’re broken,” she said, her voice holding the tears she could never shed. “They’re broken, and I can’t fix them.”
Hefthon sighed. “You’re doing what you can. Father will bring the Tear.”
“It wasn’t meant to be like this,” Ariel said. “They were meant to be protected—eternal.”
Hefthon reached a hand as if to offer comfort and then realized the foolishness of the gesture. “You did your best. This place has been a haven longer than the oldest race can remember.”
Ariel sat down. “Life is bitter,” she said slowly. “It is cold and cruel and full of hurt. I thought I could give them something else, some beautiful little corner where time was cheated.” She gestured to all her sisters and brothers. “They were the weak, the soft, and the gentle. I was supposed to keep them pure.”
“You did,” Hefthon replied. “And you kept the world that much purer as well.”
Ariel ran her fingers through her dark hair. “But what is a thousand years in this world? The space between a smile and a tear? I meant to give them eternity, just one beautiful constant in this changing world . . . But I was weak.”
“Perhaps you don’t need to be strong,” Hefthon replied. “I love this place as well. More than all the glory of the human empire. I cannot promise you eternity, but I can promise you that should Father succeed, for as long as I live, I will protect this city.”
Ariel looked up at his face. “For as long as you live?” she asked.
“Yes.”
* * *
Geuel woke late. His back lay propped against the wall facing his building’s main archway. He stared for a few seconds, accustoming himself to his surroundings. A light breeze sang in the withered crystal blossoms outside the door. The city looked dull and sickly, the silver buried beneath a gray hue, closer to lead. He picked at the wall at his back and felt it flake off in slivers under his nail.
Tressa stood nearby at a fake counter, spreading honey onto some bread. She smiled. “Morning, son. The others are outside already.”
“Did you tell Veil to stay close?”
“She’s in the building across the street,” Tressa said. “I think Hefthon headed for the keep.”
“Hope his stomach’s empty,” Geuel muttered.
“Pardon?” Tressa asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll tell Veil there’s food.”
“Thank you.”
Geuel walked out into the street. “Veil?” he called.
Silence. He walked into the building across the way and stopped. Crystal flowers and sculptures levitated around the room, glowing brightly in the dimmed surroundings, the only objects lit by the Fairy City’s usual dreamlike brightness. In the center of the room, the green-dressed fairy floated in the air, shuddering violently with exertion.
“Randiriel?” he asked.
The fairy nodded. “You were at the keep.”
“Yes, when it fell,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”
Randiriel turned to face him, her skin papery and muted. “I’m holding on. It’s harder without the Tear, but possible.”
“I thought that fairies never held on.”
Randiriel laughed. “That’s what the girl said. But we’re hardly fairies now, are we? We’re something different, something new.”
Geuel sat down on a bench along the wall. “How’s that?”
“We were the city. We were the Tear. We were each other. Look at the city.”
“It’s fading,” Geuel said.
Randiriel nodded. “But I’m not. The others aren’t. The flowers broke. The city’s fading. But I’m still here. There is no we anymore, just I and you and he and she.”
“Is that why you’re holding on?” Geuel asked.
“I’m holding on because I want to hold on.”
“Why did you stay? Yesterday? You stayed when the others ran.”
“Not all,” Randiriel replied. “Ariel stayed. Ariel will always stay. She’s not like the rest of us. She cries . . . I’ve seen her. Not with tears. We don’t have tears. But in her eyes, she weeps. I wanted to weep.”
“Most people hate to weep,” Geuel said. “Isn’t that what being a fairy is all about?”
“Perhaps,” Randiriel replied, “but we’re not fairies. Fairies are pure.”
“You’re not pure?” Geuel asked.
“I’ve felt the pain,” Randiriel said. “I don’t know about the others, but yesterday I felt life’s pain. Fairies don’t feel pain. Only Ariel.”
“Out there,” Geuel gestured to the horizon, “we all feel pain. We consider it the cost of beauty.”
“And is it worth it?” Randiriel asked.
“Yes,” Geuel said. “There’s a flag out there somewhere, a Golden Iris sown in sky-blue silk. Men have bled for it, laughed under it, sang of it, and been buried with it wrapped around their shoulders. And every one of them would bleed again, just to see it wave where it has never waved before. There’s nothing more beautiful.”
“I will see this flag someday,” Randiriel said.
Geuel smiled. “Tell me then if beauty is worth its cost.”
Just then Veil came running in through the door. “Geuel,” she said, “Hefthon’s back. Mother says we need to eat now.”
Geuel nodded. “All right, Veil. I’ll be along.” He turned back to Randiriel. “I hope you can hold on,” he said.
As Geuel entered the opposing building, a bright, red-dressed figure caught his eye on the counter. Ariel smiled. “Enjoy your visit with Rand?” she asked.
Geuel clapped his brother on the back in greeting and nodded to Ariel. “Enlightening, at least. I thought fairies drew their power from the Tear.”
“They do—in a way,” Ariel replied. “The Tear is linked to Innocence. It is her cyntras that we use in wielding it. But our connection to the Tear has left us with some of our own cyntras. That is what we use now. My brothers and sisters, those remaining of the nine, can keep the city standing. But that is all. It will continue to fade.”
“And the other fairies?” Geuel asked.
“Frightened, confused,” Hefthon said, “they won’t help with anything.”
Ariel nodded. “The Tear connected our emotions as well as our power. They do not know how to feel alone. So they are regressing past childhood, almost to an infant state.”
“Not Randiriel,” Geuel replied. “She seems as strong as you.”
“Perhaps she is. She is no more a child now than I. She has discovered self and will only grow stronger in isolation.”
“And why can’t the others grow stronger?” Geuel asked. “What’s so special about Randiriel?”
“We call this city The City of Youth,” Ariel replied. “But a truer title might call it The City of Innocence. What we save here is not all of childhood. It is just that part which we call most beautiful: the wondering innocence and untainted curiosity that makes the poets write of childhood as if it were godhood. The fairies are not merely linked to Innocence. They are part of her, living manifestations of the Trait herself, governed by their own hearts and minds but saturated by Innocence. Without Innocence, the fairies have no identity.”
“And Randiriel?” Geuel asked.
“I do not quite know,” Ariel replied.
Tressa handed Geuel and Hefthon each a sandwich. “Well, let’s hope that Reheuel finds the Tear then.”
“For their sake,” Geuel replied, tilting his head toward the city’s center.
“For all our sakes,” Ariel replied. “The goblins did not take the gem as a bauble. They will use it as a weapon.”
Hefthon stiffened. “The Tear is linked to Innocence. Surely no goblin could wield her cyntras.”
“The fairies access Innocence through the Tear,” Ariel replied, “but there are other Passions and Traits who had their hand in its making. You know my story. When my father died, I shed my innocence through my tears. But I felt other things as well: anger and hatred and malice. All of those feelings are bound inside the Tear. And any one might be used by a goblin.”
Hefthon paled. “There’s only one reason that the goblins would want such a weapon now . . .”
“Gath Odrenoch,” Geuel said. He glanced to the wall where his sword leaned. “I’m going after Father,” he said. “If the Tear is that important, they won’t leave it with a raiding party for long.”
Hefthon moved into another room and returned with his longbow. He tossed it to Geuel. “You gave yours to Father,” he said.
Geuel nodded. “Keep watch here, brother. When I return, be ready to leave. We ride for home.”
Hefthon grasped his shoulder. “Be safe.”
“Always.” He turned to Tressa. “Sorry, Mother, but I must.”
She nodded. “We’ll be fine.”
Geuel stepped out into the street and headed for the building where Iridius was stabled.
Tressa looked over at Ariel. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” she asked.
“I did not want Reheuel to fear,” Ariel replied. “He would have been reckless.”
Veil hugged her mother’s waist. “Where’s Geuel going?” she asked.
“To fetch Father,” Tressa whispered, still staring mistrustfully at Ariel.
* * *
The fire smoldered dully in the night, casting dark shadows on the still, silent goblins sitting around it. Their eyes were closed and their mouths set. A slab of horse meat roasted on a sickle over the fire, filling the air with the scent of burning flesh.
Four more goblins crept into the firelight, nickering and snuffling at the air. They pulled themselves along with the tips of their fingers and toes, scuttling on all fours in silence. The sitters said nothing, eyes closed.
One of the newcomers approached the edge of the firelight and shook one of the sitters by the shoulder. It slumped stiffly to the ground, uprooting the arrow that had held it in place. The goblin shrieked.
An arrow hissed in the night.
* * *
It was nearly twilight when Geuel reached the site of his father’s skirmish. He had ridden far faster than Reheuel had dared, but still he lagged many hours behind. He found the horse first, dragged behind a stand of poplar and mutilated, a massive chunk of meat carved from its thigh. Next he found the campsite.
There were eight bodies in all, four sitting stiffly around the campfire, backs propped on logs and arrows pinning their thighs to the ground. Four more lay scattered with their backs to the fire. Arrows protruded from every body. The air smelled of burning meat, and the coals were still warm.
Geuel traced the arrows in the goblins’ backs to the east of the fire. In a stand of young pine, he found the archer’s hiding spot. Downwind, obscured by the boughs of the pine. Just the kind of place Reheuel would hide. Heavy boot marks, scuffed with shifts of weight, rested in the earth beside one of the trees. He had waited for a long time. Large red slicks covered the trunk where he had leaned. Geuel grit his teeth. He was wounded, and more than once.
Further into the pines, Geuel found some snapped boughs, several spotted with blood. His father was moving erratically. What footsteps Geuel could find were unsteady and inconsistent. He spurred his horse forward. The tracks led to the east. He had to be heading for the Faeja.