The fairy queen shields her face from the wind. Above their ledge is a peak, a marker of both land and memory. In younger days she would visit the tribes of men who wandered down into the pass to graze their livestock. That time has passed like the summer heat at the roof of the world.
“At least as Sofie I had attendants,” she says.
Titania’s shift in the fresh snow, left behind by a pre-emptive spurt of Autumn. Snow that smells of lands forgotten by man. Upon it and nestled in a blanket woven with more than just wool, but threads of power, her granddaughter snores.
“Step granddaughter.”
The Evercharm lays nearby, its light dull. Over the last few days the lyre has already become re-accustomed to the girl’s hand. Soon, there will be no disguising it from robber or worse.
Her eyes dart left, and right, then stare at the steam rising from Niena’s breath. The Udur are not close, but something else tugs at the queen’s strings. “Bloody hell. The moment she uses the lyre…”
Between this fear and another, the Teamor reach out to their agent and touch her mind.
You are thinking of the Artisan.
She shivers. The voices of these forsaken men grate like glass crunched by hobnailed boots.
“He’s more dangerous than that,” whispering. “He’s an Inspector of the Princeps Inspectorem, and very clever. Even if he acts the buffoon.”
There is wisdom in fear. For look, the hunters close in!
At once a gust stirs the snow at her feet, and lifts it high, and higher still. And where the flakes fall slowly to the ground once more, an image reveals itself. Three men. Three hunters. Titania recognizes the spot where they rest.
“We were nearly a week ahead of them,” she cries.
No more
Leave a Reply