Thirteen tiny dancers, each perhaps the size of a small imp or sprite, with gray skin and shapely feminine bodies, swayed and twirled in rhythm with beating drums. Their faces hidden by black scarves, long dark hair pulled into a topknot to swing and bounce, in unison they moved.
They raised their arms, then swooped in a low windmill motion, grazing the stone floor with their fingertips. As they raised their upper bodies to stand straight they flung both arms forth as if throwing a ball of force into the immense hourglass ahead of them.
A distinctive hissing sound arose in the hourglass as the dust within it – made from bone powder and diamond dust - poured from the top to the bottom chamber. Streamers of colored light flowed around the bodies of the dancers, streaking from their hands into the sands of the hourglass each time they repeated the throwing motion.
Apart they twirled to form a ring. Around they danced, and around in a circle they moved.
The circle broke apart and thirteen twirling dancers converged to form a line. They spun and jumped, threw their arms high and dipped down into the windmill motion again.
Again and again they repeated these steps, at the end always hurling unseen forces into the hourglass. The streamers of light flitted and swirled and the sands hissed.
At the edge of the dance floor stood three robed figures, their faces hidden beneath the heavy cowls of their purple robes. Occasionally one of the robed figures made a gesture and hissed or uttered a strange syllable.
One of the dancers fell mid-twirl, lifeless as she hit the cavern floor. The remaining twelve continued the dance paying no heed to their fallen sister.
“It’s lovely.” Beazentine said from the shadows.
“It is.” said the melodic female voice. “With their magic and their sacrifice they encourage the dark tide to infect the ocean of time during the alignment of the sun and the Crown of Heaven.”
“Who knows what chaos they’ll sew.” Beazentine pointed out.
Both he and the lovely female voice laughed and laughed.
“It is the Hourglass of Entropy?” Beazentine pointed to the large timekeeping device the dancers shared their energy with.
“It is,” sang the female. “A powerful artifact discovered by our heroes this past year. If turned over it allows one to turn back time to loop an hour, a day, or longer.”
“What an advantage!” the warrior gasped. “We can use it to correct our every setback.”
“No,” said the female. “It is not safe to use so freely for the user continues to age normally no matter how the timeline is manipulated.”
“What do you mean?” asked the warrior.
“If I use the hourglass to repeat a day, I do not lose that day and then relive it,” said the female. “I simply live another day as normal without regard for the loop.”
Silence lingered. The warrior did not understand the significance of what the female said.
“If I use the hourglass to loop a day twenty times until I create the perfect outcome, those caught in the timeloop will only age one day when my work is done and time flows forward again,” the female explained. “However I will age twenty days during that time. You understand? The hourglass gives no temporal protection to its user.”
“I see,” said the warrior. “But you are immortal so why does that matter?”
The female voice chirped and laughed. “I am certainly not. It only seems that way because I am so long-lived. I age and die like other beings.”
The two watched the sands of bone and diamond dust slowly filter through the tube down into the bottom chamber.
“Twenty days is nothing to the span of my life. Nor even is twenty years,” the female admitted. “Going back in time to change things is an activity that naturally lends itself to obsession, or addiction to use another word. It would be an easy thing to spend years of one’s life correcting endless details. Even a creature such as I might burn their life away before they realize it.”
The warrior pondered these words.
“As a pathway to the past the hourglass must be used with caution and only as needed,” said the female. “As you see before you, however, it may be safely used in other ways.”
The dancers once more threw colorful energy into the hourglass, sending their magical intent to disrupt and loop time into the falling sands.
“What of their role?” the warrior nodded towards the robed figures.
“The Sororix Triune,” the female sang. “The three highest among my thirteen prefects, answerable only to the Prioress and I. Their role as ever is one of support and spiritual guidance, among other tasks. Always at least one of them will be present here until the dance is finished.”
“How long have the dancers been going like this?” Beazentine asked.
“Three days now.” the female voice answered.
As if on cue another dancer went limp and collapsed.
“They give all they have to the dark tide, and when they can give no more the One Below claims their spirit.” explained the female voice. “We service both a greater cause and our immediate patron with a single ritual.”
“Terribly efficient.” Beazentine noted.
“Terribly.” agreed the fairy queen in her musical voice as she stepped from the shadow and approached the dancing sprites.
She lifted off the floor of the chamber, her wings a blur of motion. Quickly and gracefully she flitted about the dancers, moving in and out of their ranks to smile at each one in turn while holding eye contact for a few seconds. The queen took great care not to disrupt their rhythm.
She gently stroked the face of one dancer, kissed the forehead of another, and silently blessed every one of them with renewed vigor and sense of potent gladness.
As Claercholybus backed out of the ritual area the remaining dancers moved with even more enthusiasm than before. The love and pride of their mother – and some of her magic as well – inspired and drove them on in their sacred work.
“While a little chaos sent into the world from our clan is a lovely gift to the dark tide and a boon to the laughter of dark gods that is only the beginning.” The High Morrigan went on. “My designs involve more than befuddling a worker who finds himself starting his shift all over again, somehow certain he had already finished this work day, or giving the father who barely saved his child from a goblin kidnapper the opportunity to relive the terror and who knows – maybe this time he will fail at saving the child.”
The queen turned to walk towards two closed double-doors across from the dance area. The doors opened inward. Incense smoke drifted out from beyond the doors. She paused before entering.
“More you say? the warrior inquired. “It already sounds so wonderful. What more have you in store, my matron?”
Beazentine stepped from the shadows as he asked this question. A towering specimen of a fairy, the warrior stood a few inches taller than his queen, who – at twelve inches - was among the tallest of her clan. A long chainmail coat of luminathite hung to his knees; the sparkling white metal reflected the torchlight from every link. He carried a spear – forged from a single piece of shiny metal and six inches taller than he; a sword hung on his belt. His helm, made from adamantite, had been forged to perfectly resemble the head and face of a ferret. The warrior walked to where his queen stood and stopped at her side.
“The looping of time will provide opportunities for new mischief to those who are aware of the fluctuations,” the matron explained. “Most will not know for certain they are reliving some past moment or day, but some will. Even if unaware of the time loop, those within will still have the chance to choose or act again.”
The warrior nodded.
“In other words those who were thwarted by the goodly races or their beneficiaries will have another opportunity to change that outcome,” Claercholybus smiled. “Imagine you were set to steal the breath of a new baby, but its parents entered the room with a lamp and a holy symbol or protective amulet, forcing you to flee.”
“I don’t have to imagine Your Radiance,” Beazentine lamented. “For that has happened to me before.”
The matron went on. “Now, imagine you found yourself in that same moment again. Even if you arrived with no memory of the future you came back from would you not do all you could do to steal the child’s breath before the parent’s entered?”
“Well, yes. I tried before and fell short,” Beazentine explained. “I always do my best. If in that position again I would again try to succeed at my goal.”
“Of course you would,” the fairy queen affirmed. “The chaos of unsettled, moving timelines will provide opportunities for countless beings to have another go at their dark work. Like all wars, our fight against goodwill and the wellness of the goodly races is ‘a numbers game’.”
“A numbers game, matron?” Beazentine didn’t understand.
“The winner simply achieves more victories or destroys more enemies than the loser,” the High Morrigan articulated. “Related to this fact, the more chances you have to achieve a goal, the more likely you will eventually succeed.”
“Yes,” the warrior understood. “I take your point!”
“My designs include powerful magic that will enable individuals and groups to become aware of the time loop and benefit from the hindsight of having lived those moments already. They will remember the future they came from and be able to adjust according to the lessons of their previous defeat.”
“Brilliant!” the warrior exclaimed. “Each defeat the warrior survives improves his skill and makes him stronger. What you speak of here… this would be the ultimate advantage for anyone engaged in warfare.”
“You are beginning to see what is at hand here,” the queen encouraged her bodyguard. “The obvious next step will be not only relying on time to loop as it will, but also choosing the time to revisit and returning to those moments with a decided advantage - whatever is needed to secure the victory.”
The queen and the warrior laughed some more. The warrior almost doubled over in his glee, and the queen became so caught up in the moment of mirth she had to place her hand on her bodyguard’s arm to stay upright. After a good, long moment of genuine laughter, the warrior cleared his throat and stood back up as straight and tall as he could.
“Come,” said the queen. She walked through the open double doors.
The warrior followed her into a large circular, candlelit chamber. A cloud of sweet-smelling smoke hung just below the ceiling. On the far wall four black candles, three white candles, and seven gray candles burned atop an obsidian pedestal. On either side of the pedestal two urns, one brass and the other copper, burned incense.
An immense quartz altar or table, three feet long and a foot wide, sat in the center of the room. Atop the massive crystal slab were three items, each covered by a black, silk blanket.
A withered old fairy adding lavender and sulfur to each of the urns paid no attention to the queen and warrior as they entered.
Claercholybus walked to the left of the quartz table and waited. The old fairy looked over her shoulder and saw the queen; she stopped what she was doing and walked very slowly and with great effort to stand across the table from her queen.
“Hard at work as always dear Zeldus,” the High Morrigan greeted the fairy hag.
The old fairy pulled back the black silk blanket that covered one of the items on the table. She revealed a large crystal lens, perfectly round and three inches in diameter, encased in a brass ring and set at the end of a five-inch wooden shaft.
“Behold the Chronophage Lens,” the queen said proudly.
“It’s a magnifying glass for a human or elf.” the warrior pointed out.
“It is a device that allows one to travel backward or forward in time,” the High Morrigan corrected. “It can also cause time to speed up or slow down or to move in a loop. However it does not allow the user to remember the old timeline once changes have been made.”
“A pity,” the warrior lamented. “That’s no good at all.”
“If the need is great enough memory can be sacrificed,” said the queen. “The lens also has an ability that offsets that price; look.”
She waved her hand over the lens. “Show me the reflection of this thread of time on which we stand before it was altered.”
A faint image appeared as a reflection in the lens. The dancing chamber with the fairy dancers and the hourglass came into view. The scene very much resembled what had transpired before the two fairies entered the circular chamber with the great quartz table.
One striking difference could not be missed. Two young fairies, one wearing a skull-mask and the other wearing the pelt of a rabbit, accompanied the queen and the warrior.
“The children.” Beazentine pointed out. “What is this image?”
“It is another version of these past few moments wherein the children accompanied me into the dancing chamber,” said the matron. “Time has looped without our knowledge, and this time I told the children to remain in their day room with their instructor and continue practicing.”
The warrior said nothing. In awe he considered what he had seen and heard.
Finally he spoke: “So you can use this device to alter time after all, then reclaim your memory by reviewing the old timeline.”
“It can be done,” the matron admitted. “However only with great caution. When history is altered through the use of the lens, you are changing, even removing a page from the Aevum Archives – a realm from which time itself emerges and where all events from all the worlds are eternally recorded by the Archivist.”
She went on. “Changing time is against the law of the Archive and the lens was created in alignment with that law. Every alteration conjures a creature from the continuum who seeks out the meddler and exacts a toll. Minor changes call up a chronimp, gremlin-like creatures who can take memories, cause one to experience results before actions, even take small increments of time away from the offender.”
“More significant changes will cause a Paradox Hound to arise from the primordial substance of the archives. Such creatures can drag you away and trap you in another timeline or take years – even centuries – of your lifespan.”
“Two devils,” the warrior recoiled. “That sounds horrible.”
“It does,” the queen agreed. “This is perhaps why the device is called the Chronophage Lens, as chronophage means devourer of time.”
“This is hardly ideal,” Beazentine stated the obvious.
“How very astute of you,” the queen sang. “I hadn’t come to that conclusion just yet.”
“Oh,” the obtuse warrior didn’t catch the sarcasm. “I’m sure it would have occurred to you soon enough.”
“Surely,” the matron sang. “Each artifact on this table has its value and uses, as well as its risks and challenges. They can be used strategically and studied that new devices with improved function may be created.”
She motioned to the center of the table where stood an object nearly as tall as her and covered by a black blanket. The old fairy pulled the silk blanket away to reveal a lantern of old wood and worn glass.
“The Ghost Light.” Claercholybus explained. “Its dark light can be cast into the past or future. The user can see into either the before or hereafter and can appear as a ghost or whisper their message to communicate with those in the time being viewed. Very useful, but limited for one is intangible and cannot touch anything, able only to influence others to enact any needed work.”
“I see.” the warrior saw. “Indeed useful but frustrating if you cannot act on the past or future you view.”
The queen nodded, then walked to the third object on the table. She and the warrior waited patiently as the ancient fairy hag ambled at the speed of a snail to the final blanket.
“Tell me Matron.” Beazentine tilted his head like a curious puppy. “Why use magical artifacts when your people are among the fay who can manipulate and travel through time as they wish?”
“It’s true my people can move through time differently from other creatures and that time passes differently in our homeland than it does in the mortal realms,” the queen explained. “I can steal time from a single mortal or alter time in the forest above or across the northern coast, but I cannot cause the whole world to repeat, or loop, an entire day, for example. These artifacts give me that power. They also allow me to navigate time with great precision, which is not an easy thing to do all by oneself.”
“That makes sense.” The warrior sounded surprised. “Is it also true that in your home world time passes differently from the way it passes in the mortal realms?”
“Very differently,” said the matron. “One might spend a moment in Dokkhalis and find days or years have passed in the sunlit world. Or the same one might spend a century in my homeland only to discover an hour has passed in the realm of mortals. It can be different for each individual and time can even pass differently from one visit to another.”
“I see.” the warrior lied.
“Do you?” his queen pressed.
“Not at all my queen.” he admitted.
The matron laughed, then said: “As you know the sanctum of this keep, including this level, lies not underground with the upper levels but exists in Dokkhalis.”
“So I have been told,” Beazentine confirmed.
“It is true,” Claercholybus assured him. “Therefore even now as I am to meet a mortal in two hours of his time, I can spend a week on magical work or planning with the thirteen prefects and the prioress – or do nothing at all but relax. I can then easily return to the ring ahead of schedule.”
“What an advantage!” the warrior was just as stunned by this information as he sounded.
The old fairy finally arrived at the last covered item. After a brief pause to rest she removed the blanket. A stitcher’s spindle lay atop the quartz surface.
“The Spindle of Necessity,” the queen announced. “It can poke holes in the fabric of time, allowing me to step into the past. However I must take care and only make subtle changes, for though this artifact time behaves like a wound rawhide strap. The reality I change will snap back like a bowstring according to the magnitude of change I make. Small changes create only ripples or vibrations but a large alteration may cause the original timeline to snap back violently and harm or even kill me.”
“You must be careful matron!” Beazentine exclaimed.
“Really?” the queen faked sincerity. “You mean I shouldn’t just go about changing major events at a whim?”
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“No!” the warrior brought his hand to his mouth, realizing he had raised his voice. “Forgive me Your Radiance. Certainly you should not do that lest you be harmed.”
“My sweet Beazentine.” Claercholybus hummed. “You are nearly as smart as the ferret you resemble.”
“Thank you matron.” The warrior didn’t realize ferrets were particularly intelligent creatures; he always learned new things when talking with his queen. “Does the spindle not allow you to enter the future?”
“It does but I would do so only under the most desperate circumstances,” the queen cautioned. “For once I view a future event it is locked into the march of time and I may never alter it.”
The warrior pondered this. He didn’t understand exactly why that would be a problem.
“Let us go for now,” the matron had little remaining patience for explaining details to her protector. She led the way back out through the dance chamber.
“Have you seen any more of your trouble-makers in the mists?” Beazentine inquired, referring to one of the oracles the fairy queen consulted.
“Yes.” the Mother of Thorns hissed. “They are prolific. I have managed to outmaneuver them, however.”
Another dancer collapsed as the female speaker and the warrior with her exited the chamber of the dancing. They stepped out into a wide hallway.
“I should go back outside with you.” the warrior suggested.
“I know that is your wish my loyal bodyguard but you cannot.” said Claercholybus.
“Because I am not one of ‘your kind’?” the bodyguard complained. “Have I not yet proven both my worth and my loyalty to you?”
“I never said you were not my kind.” the queen corrected her servant. “You have more than proven these things to me, and if it were in my power to defy the ancient traditions of my people I would have you always by my side.”
The warrior said nothing. Silence settled in for a moment as the pair walked along a well-constructed tunnel with a mosaic stone walkway.
Glowing orbs hovered over round plates fixed to the wall at intervals, very much the way humans might hang torches along their corridors to light the way.
“There are those whose roles are decided even before they are born.” the matron explained patiently in her pleasant voice. “Those warriors are privileged to protect me in the holy places like the ring or the inner temple.”
“I understand.” Beazentine tried to do as he said he did but found it difficult. His people were not so stuck on traditions and laws that they could not make sound tactical decisions.
“Besides I have important work for you here.” the matron gestured to a large archway to their left flanked by two fairy guards with spears.
As the queen and her attendant passed through the archway the latter gave a nod of acknowledgement to the guard closest to him. The walkway became a wide arcade with elaborate yet sturdy spiraling pillars on each side joined by intricately carved, massive archways. Whenever a fairy passed through this massive hallway he or she could feel the ancient magic emanating from the hundreds of glyphs and runes cut into the pillars and arches.
The ceiling hung high overhead, with enough space between it and the floor to accommodate multiple levels of flying fairy traffic. During important rites or festival days the hallway teemed with fay. The space felt lonely with only the queen and her escort passing through it.
The great hallway was illuminated by the ceiling. It glowed in an even light that filled the entire space and chased the shadows back into the corners or to the bases of the pillars.
Heavy, elegant tiles adorned the aisle they moved along and the ceiling high above. Vivid scenes depicting battles between the Graulocht and pixies, the coronation of the clan’s queens, and other events from the long history of the people who called this underground keep home.
Admiring the artwork above and below the fairy queen said:
“You know these tiles were all individually painted and later assembled into these amazing scenes. Artists who received visions from our ancestors painted a tile at a time with no idea what the completed picture would be. Many artists received visions to paint on the tiles of a single image. After construction was completed the tiles were gathered and put in place one at a time under the direction of a seeress.”
“That is stunning.” said the warrior. “The paintings are incredibly realistic and lifelike.”
Another fairy approached on the walkway, coming from the direction the queen and her warrior were heading. A male wearing a dark cloak with a high collar and clad in shiny black leather armor. Not a particularly tall sprite, his regal features and upturned nose exuded confidence. His back seemed impossibly straight and his shoulders perfectly squared with his hips below.
“Your Radiance.” the aristocratic fairy bowed deeply.
“Banus Rol.” the queen replied.
Beazentine gave a sharp salute as soon as the queen finished speaking. Rol returned the salute without looking at the queen’s escort.
“I was just speaking with Dorn F’ligius and Dorn Kutralis. There is concern over the usurpers to the north? Why was I not informed by you personally?”
Banus Rol cleared his throat. “Forgive me matron. I felt the matter trivial in light of your current concerns. I assure you they will be removed ahead of the raising of the Dark One.”
“Very well,” said the queen. “You’ll of course let me know when it is done.”
The Banus bowed in acknowledgement and continued on his way.
“Usurpers?” Beazentine asked once the Banus had cleared earshot.
“An enclave of pixies has settled in the north part of our forest,” the queen explained. “They are not of the local tribe but settlers from elsewhere. I thought initially they were but wanderers, yet it seems a few dozen have built a small settlement.”
“How odd,” the warrior commented. “Pixies are not known to relocate in this manner.”
“They are not,” the queen agreed. “I will inform the Banus that you are to be part of the extermination campaign. Then you will keep me advised as to all that is said and done regarding the matter.”
“Of course my queen,” said the obedient bodyguard.
He then added, “You don’t trust the Banus, do you?”
The warrior instantly wished he had not asked such a probing question; he braced himself for the rebuke to come.
Sensing his tension, the queen sent a wave of calm to wash over him. Unbothered by his inquiry, she answered the question.
“I trust his competence and his loyalty to the throne. Yet I do not trust his obedience to all that I command, for he believes I am in violation of the laws of our people on some matters.”
The warrior gasped. “Treason, then!”
“In a way, yes,” the queen conceded. “As it is written in our laws of old, and as it is bound up within our nature.”
This made the mustelafae soldier’s head hurt. What in two hells did that mean?
The queen laughed out loud at her bodyguard’s reaction, for she knew his thoughts and felt what he felt. “We are the dark fay; I know there are and have been other dark fairies in these and other realms, but they are of a lesser nature than the Drachkin. It is we who walk in stride with the evil that plots the demise of the goodly races, and we who sew the seeds of strife among men and plant suffering in the wombs of the Yunni and even hurl misfortune onto the alkar.”
She let her words sink in and gauged Beazentine’s reaction with her psychic probe. He seemed to be processing what she said, so she continued.
“We are evil incarnate, or one with the essence of darkness, you see? No fell designs hatch in these realms without at least a clandestine visit to the dreams of the ones chosen by the darkness for its cause. We play a part, small or large, in every design of true evil.”
“Because we are made from the fabric of wickedness, from our first generation we were made to be self-limiting.” The queen stopped and looked at the warrior, who stopped and looked back at her.
“Do you know what this means?” she asked him.
“Self-limiting I believe means we restrict ourselves or prevent ourselves from our best efforts,” said the warrior innocently.
“Yes!” The queen sounded delighted. “Exactly that. The Graulocht as we have called ourselves for twelve-thousand years, or the Drachkin as we were first called over one-hundred-thousand years ago have always been a treacherous people, willing to cut one another down or betray their own kind to serve a lower cause. That cause would be the designs of evil or the furthering of the darkness itself. It is a natural thing for a Banus to despise a queen if he thinks she breaks the traditions of the dark fay.”
“I… I suppose I understand,” the warrior replied.
“You understand with your mind, meaning you see the lines connected,” the matron suggested. “Yet in your heart you do not truly see the value or the correctness of it; isn’t that right?”
The warrior started to speak, then hesitated.
“Answer!” the High Morrigan roared like an orcish warrior.
“You are right matron,” her bodyguard quickly replied. “I put what you are saying together but it seems wrong to me.”
“Yes.” The queen touched that warrior’s breastplate. “Because it is utterly foolish and completely counterproductive. We have set ourselves back thousands upon thousands of years through the constant quarrelling and the culling of our numbers by our own hands!”
The Mother of Thorns bit her lip; she closed her eyes a moment to contain her emotion and her temper. A faint tremor rolled through the hallway.
Already on the level above the queen, the Banus registered the shaking of the walls and floor around him. Brief and faint, but he definitely felt it.
Shezaheza’s eyes opened wide; roused from her meditation she too heard and felt the tremor.
In a dark cavern somewhere in the lower keep two blazing red eyes blinked. The prioress heard and felt the tremors. She sat still and quiet a moment, listening, wondering if the queen came her way.
Beazentine said nothing, did not interrupt his queen as she composed herself. He also did not take his eyes away from her; should she reach to him or speak his name he would respond in an instant.
The queen exhaled slowly and said. “Pardon me. I am often gripped by anger when I think of how we were cursed by the creator gods, who meddle in the genesis of evil creatures and affix such natures and limitations as I have just explained. It is also painful how those among us in positions of power fail to see this blight for what it is.”
A tear rolled down the queen’s face. “They would have us continue to act out these self-limiting cycles until our people are vanquished, all the while claiming immoral authority.”
“I have seen through the great hindrance put upon us from the beginning and I will lead our people beyond their sabotaged destiny.” The queen smiled. “I will not be stopped by the fools who wear their undoing as a talisman of honor.”
The warrior had no idea what to say; he was furthermore frightened to speak and hoped the queen would put no more questions upon him.
The queen laughed again and wiped the tears from her eyes. She smiled and started walking once more; the warrior of course immediately began moving alongside her.
“I’ve always liked it down here.” said the fairy queen. “It’s quiet and the air has an ancient, profound taste to it don’t you think?”
“It is definitely a solemn atmosphere.” the warrior agreed. “To be honest I always feel as though I am being watched when I am in this part of the keep.”
“You are.” said the Mistress of the Anemone.
“Is it because…” Beazentine began.
“No!” Claercholybus cut him off sharply. “It has nothing to do with the fact that your people are of a different type of creature from my children and I. You must let go of this strange obsession of yours. You may have been born a mustelafae, but you are now one of my children and you shall remain thus for the rest of your days.”
“Forgive me matron.” asked the warrior. “And thank you.”
The matron nodded. “The eyes of our ancient forebears are upon all who tread here, myself included. Soo too is the watchful gaze of the spirit guardians of our clan.”
They came to an archway in the center of the grand arcade with the carved reliefs of two creatures. One resembled a man with bat-like wings and the head of a ram; it pointed to the left. The being across from it had the body of a man with feathered wings and the head of a bull; it pointed right.
A wide avenue crossed the main path of the arcade just beyond the archway of the pointing figures. The cross-path entered, or exited, wide corridors that opened into the left and right walls of the great hallway.
Here the queen paused briefly.
“What are they?” asked the warrior as he looked up at the figures cut from the stone.
“Calligomariens; ushers and guides along the dark path.” the queen replied. “It is said they are the dark spot when the blinding light of goodness overwhelms the senses and one is beset on all sides by the heroic and optimistic. When we most need to feel the grim and are desperate for even a fleeting glimpse of despair, if our hearts hold the true darkness, a Calligomarien will come to blot out the light and lead us back to the path.”
“I have heard such tales.” Beazentine said.
“I have seen them before.” the Mother of Thorns declared.
“You have?” asked the warrior.
“Yes. You will see them too when you have the need, so long as you remain true to the dark within you.” the matron looked her escort in the eyes. “Resist the comfort of the light, and do not become as those among us who speak dark things but harbor mercy and amicability to outsiders. Do this and you will receive guidance.”
Beazentine nodded. “Of course matron.”
Claercholybus pointed to the intersection where they stood.
“To the right is a stairwell leading to the surface and the forest above with its elves and honai and other grotesque, goodly races. To the left a shaft that takes one to the Umbravale and the dominions of the Nokturim and the troll kings, among other glorious places where many delightful creatures roam.” The queen paused and looked at her bodyguard again.
“It is like the road between paradise and the hells.” the warrior replied.
“Precisely.” the matron said. “It represents the crossroads and the liminal region just before the place where the living and unliving worlds meet. This is the domain of the Graulocht; it is the place we are meant to rule and the seat of power from whence we may impose our will upon other realms.”
The queen continued walking, and the warrior followed her through the crossroads. He felt suddenly more alive than he had only a moment before; in his heart he felt the honor of some great responsibility – perhaps his oath to protect the High Morrigan, he reasoned.
The end of the arcade opened into a large chamber with a ceiling so high it was obscured by shadows above. Two more rows of pillars – these fashioned from clear quartz and supporting a plate with a glowing orb - flanked the path as it passed through this area. Like the columns in the grand arcade each pillar had etched upon it countless glyphs, symbols, and characters.
Within alcoves between the pillars sat statue after statue of regal fairies. Some of the statues held swords, others held scepters, still others made gestures with their hands and fingers, their mouths open in the uttering of magical words and commands.
This was the Maor Gleidh’tha Talla Ir, or Hall of Guardians and Sacred Keepers. Each statue stood in honor of the clan’s past matrons, patrons, and other important leaders.
The Mother of Thorns stopped at the figure of a male fairy holding aloft his wand and leading a score of fairies across a bridge. The bridge was superimposed over a map and led from one land mass across an ocean to another large body of land.
“Tarsainesiag.” the queen gestured to the statue. “He built a magical bridge allowing our kind to cross the great saltwaters that divide the lands of this world, which we are naturally unable to fly over.”
“Incredible.” Beazentine marveled.
“That was many ages ago before the law forbade a king to rule our people.” the High Morrigan explained. “A wise law to be sure. Still, it was Tarsainesiag who led us from the barren, sparsely inhabited regions we first occupied to these densely populated areas teeming with the folk of many races to torment and feed upon.”
The pair walked a little way further, to a statue depicting another fairy queen mounted atop a blue jay. She held a sword in one hand and the head of a diminutive bearded humanoid with pointy ears in the other.
“This is Hostiliamus, my great-great-great-grandmother.” the High Morrigan announced proudly. “Ender of the Laminak, a repulsive creature kin to the brownie but closer to our size, who often helped lost humans in the wilderness and even assisted with work and building tasks in human settlements.”
“Disgusting.” muttered Beazentine. “Your ancestor put a stop to these wretched little bastards? You must be so proud matron.”
“Oh I am indeed.” Claercholybus assured the warrior. “She didn’t stop at just driving the Laminak out of our forest. She hunted them to extinction. Under her leadership many forces were united in this noble cause; goblins, dark elves, ogres, even a minor demon prince.
On they walked, admiring the statues of the bygone heroes and rulers. They stopped at one more; a somewhat brutish looking mail fairy in the midst of a fight with three pixies.
“This of course is Sarboné, of whom you have no doubt heard.” said the fairy queen.
“Oh I certainly have.” said the warrior. “The valiant fay warrior who bested the pixie king himself and stole over one thousand children in his long lifetime.”
“It will be quite an honor to have my likeness placed among these great Graulocht.” said the Mother of Thorns.
“I dare say.” said the warrior in a hushed, solemn tone. “You will have earned it, and may that day be ten thousand years hence.”
“How sweet of you.” said Claercholybus. “But my time to be honored herein is nigh, and you must be brave sweet Beazentine, for the children will need you.”
“Matron do not say such things…” Beazentine began.
“You think I would make such words with a trifling heart?” the matron cut him off sharply. “This is no time for sentimentality you soft-hearted oaf!” she hissed.
The warrior stammered. “Yes matron. Forgive me.”
“Come now.” she said curtly and led him past the remaining statues; one alcove at the end of the row of statues to the right of the walkway sat conspicuously empty.
The queen ignored the bare alcove and marched to an altar at the front of the chamber. On the altar was laid a sarcophagus of gold and gemstones.
“Behold.” said the queen.
Set inside a golden rectangle, a frame of thorns and rosewood shaped like a slender fairy stretched along its length. Suddenly a wrinkled, haggard face peered over the far side of the sarcophagus; the same old fairy from the room of magical artifacts.
Almost startled by the abrupt emergence of the venerable looking fairy hag, the warrior scrutinized her intently. The hag felt his eyes upon her but paid no heed, other than to smirk at him.
The ancient, withered fairy witch brought a large sewing needle to bear, a glittery, translucent cord followed the motion of her needle. The old fairy worked on the frame of thorns, sewing the faint glittery light into the spaces between the rosewood frames.
“Like other fay, the Graulocht are made from the five elements and starlight.” explained the matron.
A door opened behind the hag and five female fairies in light purple capes entered and formed a line side-by-side near the back wall. Their posture rigid, eyes straight ahead they stood at attention.
These were the sorora; the neophyte prefects. They were chosen to be trained and groomed for a position as sororess or perhaps even sororix later in their lives.
Thereafter a tall, exceptionally slim female fairy in a multi-colored robe entered.
The thin fairy had lavender skin and a long face. Not a single hair grew upon her shiny lavender head.
She walked once along the line of five females, looking them over carefully. She turned and walked a second time across the line, scrutinizing each fairy again as she passed.
She then turned to the queen and bowed. “Mother.”
The matron greeted the bald female: “Fenbris, fourth of my prefects and first in the sororess coven. You have brought old Zeldus some help I see.”
“Indeed.” Fenbris replied. “The sorora are yours for as long as you’ll have them Zeldus.”
The old hag shrugged and waved her hand. The five females in light purple capes moved closer to the old fairy and looked over her shoulder.
Old Zeldus brought out another needle threaded with a subtle darkness that barely caught the warrior’s eye. She commenced to cross-stitch with the needle of starlight and the needle threaded with the darkness; a sort of blurry film began to fill in the space left by the thorns and rosewood outline
“We are also made of light from the new moon and from an ill wind or the breath of fear, from children’s tears and barren earth or corrupted soil, and finally the mal-intent of the vengeful,” the Mother of Thorns went on. “Zeldus will be finished with her work soon, and soon after that you will take her creation to the inner temple of the new keep.”
Beazentine did not understand what he was witnessing, nor what he was being told. “The inner temple? But I am not permitted, matron.”
“You are not permitted in the inner temple of this keep because of our traditional ways.” the matron clarified. “The new keep represents the new ways of my people. There will be no places that forbid you from being by my side, to include the new Hall of Guardians and Sacred Keepers, in which you shall have your own honored place reserved once you complete this task for me.”
Beazentine found himself overwhelmed with emotion. Not only would his soldierly duties be unhindered in the new keep, but he would have a place of honor, a statue in his own likeness in the hall of rulers and heroes of those same fay who often looked down on him as a lesser being.
“Of course your word is my law matron.” the warrior proclaimed. “Tell me when I must do this.”
“The time is coming.” the queen said cryptically. “You will recognize it when it is upon you.”
