A Journey of Black and Red

It takes us the better part of a day to cross the outskirts of Assidina. Although Sinead said the tree was only an hour away, he was referring to the outer shade of its nearest canopy, of which there are countless, and under whose protective shade the Fae of the Court of Spring conduct their business. As far as I can see, it mostly involves fucking.

The Day of Seeds spills like a drunk post-luncheon stroll upon the uneven streets. Fae nobles in human form and other, more exotic creatures with the appearance of dog-men, or grotesque puppets and even, in one instance, a walking plant, mingle with glasses held in various appendages. Sinead weaves smoothly between groups busying themselves reciting poetry or doing each other. We walk along the garland-covered walls and dodge bottles and naked, brown limbs grabbing at us. The scent of alcohol and sex is overwhelming, the vitality so powerful I would have fallen upon them if I were not so full. The Prince of Summer guides us to a throne nestled under a monumental trunk. From there, a very pregnant fae rules over her subjects with a shy, benevolent gaze. She blushes delicately when Sinead pays his respects, and her answer is buried under two hands held in embarrassment. We are directed onward by her laughing handmaidens as another recovers her fir-leaf crown, which had fallen during the encounter.

“The queen of the Day of Seeds is elected by the will of Assidina’s people,” Sinead explains. “This one must have been quite surprised.”

“What language do they speak?” I ask, pointing at dog-people bartering for pine cones with a doe-eared Likaean.

“The main dialect of this sphere. There will be many languages spoken around here but you only really need ours, even if it is the child version. The words carry their own meanings. You also look like one of us at first glance. Nobles almost always share humanoid traits, so speaking with our tongue will promote your social standing.”

“Should I learn adult Likaean then?”

“Of course. As soon as you have conquered your home plane and joined it to our merry band, I will be delighted to teach you. I think fifty years will be enough for a passing mastery.”

“A simple no would have sufficed,” I grumble.

As we move on, the living houses give way to what I can only define as apartment buildings: troglodyte dwellings carved from the titanic roots emerging from the rich earth. I approach one to get a closer look and spook a bird which proceeds to fly through the nearest wall in a flash of smoke. There are no traces of tools on the sill. Instead, the wood has been convinced to grow around a circular hole where some local placed a window.

“Tree singers built this. They are the best crafters around here,” Sinead explains without prompt. “Although, this specific work is lacking.”

Huh.

“Functional, at best. You should see what they can come up with when sufficiently motivated. It is just such a shame that they tend to tie up their partners when they find one. Last time I had to use a fire knife to free myself.”

“Where did you hide it?” I ask.

“In a dream. Why? What did you have in mind?” the shameless cur asks with a perfectly straight face. I should not engage with him. It makes me remember our complicity, then the memory peels off the scab of my betrayal.

“We should move on,” I reply, when suddenly something catches my eye. We are following a path up, currently devoid of people. Roots extend up on either side of us, showing brown bark except for a single flower sitting incongruously between two doors. Indigo petals as long as my arm extend from a pistil the color of gold, and from its spherical body radiates a soothing light that captivates my attention. A flutter, and the petals unfold. A delicate perfume comes to titillate my nose. It smells like blood and, inexplicably, coffee. I tilt my head.

“What a curious thing. What might it be?”

“Bait. A piece of advice, my young and impressionable friend. If you happen upon an isolated stretch of land and find there an abandoned treasure of great interest, seemingly made for you, then…”

“It is a trap,” I finish, dejected. I give one last glare to the offending piece of vegetation. It fails to wilt. Sinead and I move on soon after.

The closer we get to the trunk and the more vertical the city becomes. Haughty lords with their spear-wielding retinue ignore us, clad in bark plate and leaf scale on their way to parts unknown. Their scent remains after their passage and makes me close my fists, glad that I could feed before coming. The emerald skies progressively dim as we circle the monumental trunk, following a path that climbs offshoots and crosses chasms between two twigs. Sometimes, we come across marketplaces selling wares, favors, sometimes even people. No one pays us more attention than they do to other nobles, although I sometimes smell a delicious hint of fear from their guards. Night is falling when my guide stops before a mushroom as tall as a train station’s main hall. He knocks on a large gate that opens with a noise of shifting roots. Acrid, blueish smoke assaults my eyes.

We walk into an antechamber midway between a reception desk and a museum of morbid curiosities. Shelves cover the white walls, occupying every inch of free space. They bear items as varied as can be. I turn and inspect the closest one. Each alcove bears a different treasure. I see a red ball made from an unknown material. A slab of steel covered in golden filigree. A long, green crystal that resembles the horn of the Herald I removed from its body. An ancient book, cracked with age. A small, dry head with bulging eyes opens its mouth in silent agony. A flower. An ingot made of unknown metal bearing the mark of its maker. As the outside light briefly touches it, the surface bubbles like boiling pitch.

A person huffs from behind the counter. His traits are a perfect blend of man and goat down to the pointy white beard and horizontal pupils. An impeccably ironed shirt covers his hairy chest. He breathes into spectacles and places the pair on his nose.

“She is expecting you,” the man bleats softly.

Sinead walks forward with resolute steps while I sustain the unerring gaze of the receptionist. My Charm finds no purchase here and I do not try to force it. The Prince of Summer lifts a curtain and leads us deeper into the mushroom, past scented candles and cluttered corridors. Finally, a ray of light from a side door announces our destination. We walk into an intimate boudoir, with low walls made of the bark of the tree itself. A brazier gives the place a warm and comfortable mood. My armor-covered feet sink into the lush carpet, the cold aura momentarily subdued.

From atop a pouf, a curious woman inspects us with amusement. Long black hair falls freely from her head, melding with a multicolored robe she wears loosely upon one shoulder. The other is naked and her cleavage reveals much of a small breast. She does not appear to care. Shockingly yellow snake eyes peer at us from under heavy bangs, full of mirth. Her sensual lips blow smoke from a long, heavily decorated pipe. It turns into a cloudy dragon and flies away. The scent of cinnamon and clove remains.

“Amaryll’s child. Welcome. We thought you lost,” she says in adult Likaean. Her voice is low and purring.

“I was.”

“And you brought back many fallen children and… one not quite lost as well. Welcome, morsel.”

“Thank you,” I reply curtly.

“And she speaks like one of us too. We are glad. What do you wish for, child of Amaryll? We do not know where your mother is right now.”

“I am not looking for her. I want passage to Voidmoore.”

The declaration must have come as quite the surprise, because our host blinks exactly once, then after a few seconds, her lips part into the tiniest smile.

“Ambitious. Or foolish? The line blurs, sometimes.”

Another puff turns into a small fish, then another into a shark that eats it.

“We expect payment.”

Sinead removes his plundered backpack and reveals the juicy fruits he picked earlier. The woman smiles again.

“Oh little one, you know us too well. Call us by the name we like, and you will have yourself a deal.”

“Yes, Aunt Carnaciel.”

“This pleases us. Will you consider staying for dinner?”

“I apologize, my aunt. Time is of the essence right now.”

“So it is. Sit down then.”

We do so. A pillow seemingly rises from the sea of fabric to accommodate the eternal ice of my tasses.

“It is your first passage, yes? Morsel?” the woman enunciates in Child Likaean. Her eyes almost draw me in and for an instant, I fight off her influence.

“Auntie,” Sinead curtly interrupts.

“My apologies. Force of habit.”

“It is indeed my first passage,” I agree to get this strange interaction over with.

“Then relax and let yourself be carried across the weave. It is unusual but we know what needs doing and will send you on your way.”

“What… now?” I cannot help but ask.

Sinead coughs lightly, then explains.

“The, ahem, portals of this plane are within the tree, making them excessively difficult to reach outside of special times. This is the fastest and safest way to travel.”

“We will hallucinate our way out of this sphere!” the woman calmly explains.

“We what?” I ask.

She smiles and reaches for a fold, removing a tiny, dry plant she places into her lit and quite hot pipe. A strange scent emerges from it.

“I am not sure it will work,” I inform them. In answer, the woman blows smoke in my face. The smell grows more powerful, and I believe I can see strange, tiny butterflies floating at the edge of my vision.

“Intoxicants have no effect oooooooooooowowowowowo”

I am floating!

I am floating under the massive eye of Carnaciel, her form growing to massive proportions. Her robe is now a billowing gown trailing after her, its end vaporous as it merges with the night sky. We fly. We leave the house behind. We leave Assidina behind.

The people are like ants crawling over the face of a giant, their long lives still blinks for an existence beyond time. Wars and reigns matter little, though fugacious moments inexplicably do.

Farther, familiar flowers lure a young dogman in. The simple creature smells its tantalizing nectar, it bends forward. The petals snap around their neck. A creature swims from behind a fold of reality, pulling the flower back from the end of its stem. It grabs its prey with long, transparent fangs. A massive eye turns over an angler body. We are seen.

Farther, church-sized dandelion seeds glide over unseen currents while tendrils from its disks lazily grab passing sprites. Their luminous bodies blink out and the other sprites disperse.

Farther, the tree is one and it is all, moving close to a small white star. The star is incredibly hot but the tree is well prepared. It does not need a sphere of mud like its lesser cousins for it moves inward as well as horizontally, and vertically, and in depth, and across time, and across thoughts as well.

Farther, the tree is eternal.

Farther, the tree is not eternal, it is still a living thing in a fragment of a fragment of the universe, only eternal relative to small organisms and not other, also eternal things. There are degrees of eternity. The tree knows one of them. The void, too.

Farther, I wake up to cold, wet stone under my head.

Which hurts.

“HELLOW!” a… turtle man dressed in rags greets.

“Ow. Not so loud.”

“Sorry. HELLOW!”

I look around. I lay on a paved square surrounded by gray, water-stained walls topped by high-peaked roofs. Low clouds hang overhead. A statue stands in the middle of it. It shows a grotesquely obese man kneeling mid-declaration, a flower held between two sausage fingers. The artist perfectly captured the extreme agony, the desperate struggle of his lower buttons. A few cheap stalls complete the impression of a bad London district I got from some of the books I favor. One sells clocks and the other, some leek-like vegetables.

“Would you like a sneeze?” the turtle man whispers.

Sinead brushes himself off and I stand, imitating him. We appear to be both intact. He still has his bag, rapier, and waypoint tree branch. I would have expected us to be robbed by now but the small, insulated pocket near my armored back still holds my money purse.

“Pardon?” I ask the sales, errr, person.

“Would you like a sneeze?” he asks, brandishing an ethereal feather. “Freshly harvested from the dust cleaner guild. Only one summer token for five. Really cheap!”

“I haven’t sneezed in almost eighty years,” I idly remark.

“Then treat yourself!”

“I would prefer if we settle down first before going shopping. For safety’s sake,” Sinead interrupts. “Besides, your unique constitution may prevent his goods from working.”

“I have extra strength ones! Mustard flavor! One token for two, three because the lady is cute.”

“Let’s go,” Sinead interrupts. He seems worried.

“Perhaps another time,” I tell the turtleman with a placating smile.

“Have a nice day!” he calls after us.

We leave the square from a narrow street. Sinead appears to know where we are going, and I follow him without a word. Poorly dressed fae pass us by, scurrying in the gutters and casting worried glances our way. They seem much more diverse than the Spring Court species, with many sharing animal features or strange, exaggerated traits like bulbous noses or long teeth. Everyone gives us a large berth.

“I should show you the edge, at least. We are very close.”

Very close apparently implies a half an hour fast walk through winding paths. We come across a theater room advertising creative public executions, three marketplaces, a large square where two bands of street thugs are battling it out with merciless fury — they split and let us through when they see us — and a large greenhouse. Finally, the houses grow taller and fancier. Guards with pitbull faces or geometrically square jaws start to line street corners, hands contracted over large truncheons. They, too, let us pass with fear clear in their hunched shoulders. I find their terror appealing, but refrain from indulging for now.

Finally, we end up on a broad road lined on one side by fancy houses with small gardens. The other side has a single barrier of what appears to be wrought copper. On the other side of it is the void.

I approach, unable to resist the pull of curiosity. I lean over the banister. I see stone beneath us, some passages. A tunnel spills waste water into the air. It dissolves into rainbow colors.

Above us, there are clouds.

In front of us is the void. Pure, black nothing as deep as the abyss. I stare at it for a while because I have never seen anything so dark since I was turned. It quite simply fascinates me. Wind blows. Where does the light even come from?

“I… admit that this is quite the sight,” I tell Sinead. My anger is almost gone by this point, although I shall never forgive him for this treachery, even if he brings me the most amazing sights.

The cur smiles sadly again and points upward. I follow the direction and see a ship hanging in mid air.

“By the Watcher. By the Watcher, is it what I think it is?”

An oblong balloon holds a ship body aloft as it flies through the ether, propelled by horizontal sails and what seems to be some sort of crystal. The crew moves with energy around its sturdy body. A four-armed crewman busies himself cleaning the hull.

“Welcome to Voidmoore,” Sinead says.

“What happens to those who fall?” I ask as we make our way inland.

“They line the skylark guild’s pockets. Unless they are considered to be especially obnoxious, then they feed the void. We are not quite sure what happens to them but Voidmoore keeps growing so who knows? The city is built on an inverted pyramid of rock. It somehow grows much faster than its population despite the tendency of lost ones to end up swallowed in its labyrinthine streets.”

He tilts his head, considering.

“Sometimes literally. In any case, we shall find refuge in a certain pension, then I will start the challenge process. Thankfully, the Court of Summer has an embassy here. I will enjoy access to quite a few nobles without the inconvenience of Revas breathing down my neck. You will be safe while I organize everything.”

“Kindly elaborate. What does the challenge entail?”

Sinead looks with interest as a dozen thugs come out of nearby alleys, smirks adorning their ugly mugs. They take a single look at us and flee. Truly, the Likaean survival instinct vastly outperforms the human one.

“The King of Summer has ruled since time immemorial. Few expect him to relinquish his throne within the next couple of centuries, at the very least. Nevertheless, intrigue must occur or the people grow weak, or worse, bored. His majesty has many children. The most devious, powerful, successful, and wise gather in the council of eighty-one. Its members have some say in the conduct of the kingdom and its wars. They are given land and soldiers, so there are real benefits to it that no one would scoff at. Revas is number fifty-six and one of its, shall we say, order keepers. I am going to replace him through a ritual challenge.”

“I assume those are not easy?”

“No. Sadly, we are missing one key element of every successful venture: competent allies within the court. The favor we have accrued should offset this, but it will not be easy. The challenge will consist of three different ordeals. He who wins two will be victorious. Due to time constraints, the dragon hunt will be the second one.”

“I see.”

“The first one will occur here if I can manage it. It should give us time to prepare. I will travel to the embassy first thing in the, well, morning, or what passes for it in Voidmoore while you familiarize yourself with the surroundings.”

He looks at me, then licks his lips in hesitation. His fiery hair flutters in a wilder fashion.

“I understand that after what I have done, you would see my words with doubt, and I do know that you are a resourceful and careful woman, but I would kindly request that you exert extreme caution while visiting Voidmoore. Contracts and such often carry traps, as do promises though you are familiar with the concept. What others will mostly fail to obtain by force, they will attempt to steal through guile. Do not underestimate them, Ariane dear. They have been at this game for far longer than you and I. Voidmoore is, well, this place has a propensity to make people disappear, sometimes. I beg you. Be careful.”

“I have no death wish,” I remind him.

“Quite so, poppet. Ah, we are here.”

He turns before I can finish my bristling to tell him he can shove his nicknames where the Watcher cannot see, but my retort dies in my throat. We stand in front of an orchard, a forested vale somehow nestled in the heart of the city. Yellow crystal atop metal posts provides a warm, soft light that sets my teeth on edge. Ruby fruits hang heavy from the nearest branches. As we get closer, I see more trees loaded with a bountiful harvest. Large dogs patrol the ground and, as I look, one samples the air with the flick of a forked tongue.

Sinead resolutely takes the winding path heading deeper. So long as we remain on the stones, the hounds leave us alone, though a particularly large specimen growls when our eyes meet.

“Please do not kill the creature, Ariane dearest, or our would-be host will refuse us his roof.”

I shrug. I do not necessarily kill aggressive wildlife. He should see all those werewolves prospering on my land. I even consider some of them as good, well, talkative pets.

Unaware of my grumblings, Sinead moves on until we find an isolated cottage at the heart of the orchard. Candles and lanterns hang from every sill, bathing it in a warm glow. While many of the houses outside look damaged because they are derelicts, this one looks well-lived in, with squat walls plopped comfortably on the loam and leaning a bit like an old bottom-heavy chef reading a book of recipes. We knock on the door and hear a lupine growl. The door opens. A powerful cloud of canine scent aggresses me, forcing me to hiss. I meet a pair of moon-touched eyes, but force myself to stop before I can show further signs of aggression.

I still take a step back to protect my nose.

We face a gentleman with graying hair in a tweed and velvet ensemble, a comfortable bonnet sitting on his face. He also has a wolf head but not a real one, more like what illustrators would have come up with trying to draw the Little Red Riding Hood. It explains the smell.

“Yes? Oh, a Prince of Summer. Wait, you are… Amaryll’s child. Sinead, was it?”

“Correct,” my companion replies. He bows graciously, though he does not quite lower his gaze.

“Greetings to you, Old Marrow. We wish to ask for your hospitality for two times seven day cycles.”

“You will be doing politics,” the wolfman grumbles with surprisingly clean enunciation.

“Yes.”

“I do not like politics.”

“I have brought something that might compensate you for the displeasure,” Sinead coldly replies, though I see a slight bend in the way his lips move that tells me he expects success.

The prince casually shows the branch he obtained from the Waypoint Tree back in the previous sphere. Old Marrow inspects the stick with obvious doubt for a few seconds, but then his eyes widen comically. He grasps for it with very, very hairy hands. They pick the innocuous piece of wood with the reverence normally reserved for chalices and other sacred things. A callous finger caresses the thin bark.

“A sapling… you brought me a sapling. It wants earth, can you hear it? Such an energetic little thing…”

Old Marrow blinks, suddenly remembering that we are here. His gaze lingers on me for a bit longer than I am comfortable with, but in the end he shrugs.

“Yes, yes indeed. Lodgings. That is quite fine. Will you be going to the embassy?”

“Quite often.”

“I have a nephew there, if you wish to employ a messenger. Yes. Such a beautiful young thing. She will love it, when it has grown. Amaryll. Come child, let me give you access.”

Old Marrow huddles back into his cottage and returns with two intricate keys. He points to the side, where the winding path continues towards a small, isolated square with large houses.

“Take the center one. There is food in the pantry and you will be safe. You can stay for a while, young Sinead. It was thoughtful of you to grant me this boon. Now where shall I place you, you little hellion…”

We leave the wolf man rummaging through a wheelbarrow and reach the square in short order. The keys let us in, and I feel powerful enchantments settle around us as we move in. We enter a corridor with blue walls and dark wood furniture. It smells like embers and old books here. I follow Sinead through a receiving room in which a fire crackles merrily. There is tea on the table. We explore, finding a kitchen and a pair of bedrooms on the upper floor. I pick the larger one because I want to annoy Sinnead.

For the first time in a while, I can finally get out of my armor. I leave it in a storage room before it can freeze off the carpet, but I hit a snag. I do not have a change of clothes. Fortunately, I was not wounded and so the gambeson and pants I wear under the plante remain white and pristine. I use the attending bathroom to wash myself before returning to the receiving room for a little tea. It tastes minty and delicious.

This place is idly comfortable.

I shall rest my eyes just a little bit.

I slept, or slumbered, I am not quite sure. The light outside the narrow windows is brighter than before. Birds tweet in the distance, their cries strange and exotic. A glance shows that the cloud cover has retreated up and the light they offer is whiter than before, though it cannot be called bright, or can it? Did I really sleep, or was it a normal slumber? And why did I wake up in what appears to be the morning?

It makes no sense. This place upsets all the rules by which we function on earth. I am not the most dangerous species here. I do not fall at dawn, and the light of the day does not burn me. I could ignore it during our foray into the Dead World because the portal to earth was constantly open, but here I cannot. I am trapped with new rules and a culture I have little understanding of.

Suddenly annoyed, I stand up to see someone placed a cover on me. It has to be Sinead. The cur saw me sleep and I did not even react! Ugh.

He left me a letter on the coffee table. I open it and read.

“My dear Ariane,

I must away to the embassy. As you know, time is of the essence, and I must move things forward for our sakes. I must apologize again for being a poor host on top of the rest of my many offenses, as I will be unable to show you the wonders of our worlds. I had planned on explaining the opportunities and dangers of this place yesterday, but sadly you were asleep. I beg you to spend the day here and wait for my return, perhaps get accustomed to our lodgings and the gardens outside. Voidmoore is dangerous, more so than you would believe at first sight. Please be careful, and no matter what you do, do not travel underground.

Yours sincerely,

Sinead.”

Blah blah blah, verbose, dishonest, faithless, manipulative handsome devil. ‘Wait for me home, hen, I’ll take good care of you!’ As if.

I grumble and forage the pantry for something to drink. The teapot contains steaming water as if freshly boiled, and I use it to make an infusion, then notice the pillows are all spread haphazardly so I fix that, and reorganize our belongings, move some of the furniture back where they OBVIOUSLY had to be, frankly, did nobody notice they were in the way? And then I find a small library and read about the early colonization of Voidmoore and how it had a village but no habitants. One of the images turns into a floating painting with a little essence, and I realize it used to be much smaller. Curious. Apparently, Voidmoore has a portal to quite a few spheres and an actual port as well, where floating ships come to roost. I have to see it.

I want to see it.

Alright, I am going. But first, I need a dress. I cannot possibly move around in form-fitting gambeson, or I will be made fun of and will have to kill people. Ugh.

Maybe I can find a spare ja—

“Aaaaa!”

“Bonjour bonjour!” a fluttering form says as it flies before me.

The use of French stops me from shredding it mid-flight and I watch, mesmerized, as the form is soon joined by similar creatures.

They are humanoid, as large as a forearm, and quite naked, but strange dragonfly wings emerge from their shoulderblades and long filaments from their head and spine. Both wings and hair seem made from the same white thread with a multitude of feather-like extremities. Those filaments are as long as they are and float behind them as if they were immersed in liquid. The French speaking one floats gently in front of my face until I recognize familiar traits around the dark pits of his eyes.

“Makyas? This place was supposed to be locked! How… oh, of course.”

“Court of wings and keyholes, darling eyyyyy.”

“Darling darling!”

“Yes yes, listen to us!”

At least two dozen of the creatures stop flying around and join up in a fluffy cloud. Their wings and hair puff out around them in spheres, shaking and bobbing.

“We have a proposal,” Makyas announces.

“Tis a good one too!” a tiny woman adds excitedly.

“A bloody good one, hehehehehe!” a third on exclaims.

They all snicker. The drone grates my ears.

“Alright, alright! Let me hear it!”

“Feed us eyes!”

“Yes yes yes!”

“Soft and squishy.”

“NOOOOOOO!” Makyas interrupts, and his vitreous humorthirsty companions shut up.

“Everything in order. First, we will guide you to the arena! Many fights! They will never expect you. We bet on you. We win big. You find us the right opponent and kill him. We eat his eyes, you get all the money minus our buy in.”

“We will like you even more!” the girl says.

“We will help for sure. You are funny, and not completely there. So strange.”

“Are you a new court?” a younger one asks.

“Hush. What do you think?” Makyas asks.

“It sounds like a plan that will get me killed.”

“You are very strong, Devourer. Not the strongest by any stretch, but this is the arena. Royals don’t come to duel it out here.”

“Tis a place for mangy prospects.”

“With squishy eyes! Fat and juicy.”

“Besides, we help from the shadows, make sure the fights are fair. For you, we mean.”

“It is never fair to face one of you predators,” Makyas concludes with a vicious sneer. “You will give us the eyes and we will make you rich, richer than you could ever hope to become alone. Tokens can buy favors or at least grease a few palms, and would you not prefer to purchase a few souvenirs? What is tourism without bragging trinkets?”

“And that will not kill me?” I ask with suspicion.

In answer, Makyas places two fingers upon his heart and takes a solemn countenance.

“Upon my life I swear that we want you healthy, happy, free, and rich. We just want you to kill someone specific for us. You will get blood and money for it.”

“And we get the eyes!”

“Well, I don’t know, maybe? I need to buy a dress first,” I half-heartedly object.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! We have disguises for you! And good ones too! You can buy a thousand dresses with the rewards. Or a single very good one.”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh and it will really annoy Sinead. He will be sick with worries.”

“Alright, I will help.”