PRINCESS ASHUELI KICKED A perfectly innocent tuft of grass with surprising venom. “Relatives! You’d think my great-grandfather would at least move like an Elf well over a hundred years old, but no. I was lucky to escape with both of my pointy ears intact.”

“I see,” Yaarah offered politely. “It went poorly, then?”

“More like it didn’t go at all.”

“He recognised his favourite great-granddaughter, mrrr-hssst?”

“Insofar as he did not murder me outright in his initial ambush, o most noble scholar,” said she, sweeping into a deep, mocking bow, “that would be –”

Smack! Someone yelled, “Ouch!”

So did the Princess. She, however, straightened up and whirled in a flash, her zalish sword threatening the neck of a foe before the Felidragon even had chance to blink. “Varzune, you – who? Who are you?”

The half-dazed silver Faerie glanced about in evident consternation. Clearly, he was not accustomed to assaulting Princess’ behinds with his antennae at high speed. Ashueli sheathed her blade with a swift zing! Her scowl did not waver for an instant, however.

Scrambling to his feet, the fellow bowed with surpassing elegance. The Golden Purrmaine decided on the spot that he despised any creature who was that stupidly good-looking. Harzune was bad enough. This male Faerie was like a prettier version of the Chameleon Fae. Lean but muscular. Gorgeous colouration, as if he had stepped out of Durc’s treasury with the shiniest bits all buffed up and sculpted into an outstandingly handsome exemplar of the species. Quick glance? Aye. Every one of their female Faerie companions’ visages confirmed his conclusion.

Yaarah’s intestines curdled within his belly. This one was not to be trusted, not from the tips of his eight gorgeous, silver-chased wings to the ends of his perfect toes.

“I offer my most humble apologies, o Princess,” said the gleaming one.

Oh, even the resonant voice. What else had he expected? The Golden Purrmaine bared his fangs lazily. That drew the fellow’s attention.

The Elf demanded, “Do I know you?”

“Nay, I believe not,” he said, “but does the striking Sylvanchild heritage not dwell in your visage and matchless beauty, unless I miss my mark?”

Ashueli narrowed her gaze as if this eloquent compliment presented unexpected complications. “Alright. I am the Princess Ashueli of Durhelm Castle and Ahm-Shira, daughter of Zinueli Sylvanchild. And who might you be? What are you doing here?”

He began to strike a pose.

Sabline snuck up behind him and purred into his right ear, “The trrrr-uth?”

One frozen silver statue.

Magnificent huntress! Yaarah could listen to that rumbling voice of hers all day long, like death slathered in honey.

“Well, I was – I lost –” he spluttered, evidently reminded of his mortality “– I mean, I was chasing something. I’m awfully sorry about my clumsy arrival, Princess. If you must know, I would have picked one of those two Pixies over you, had I the choice, because your derriere is –”

Perhaps it was Ashueli’s eyes that informed him he could make that comparison and die. Instantly.

“My deepest apologies for the unfortunate incident,” he corrected course, as smoothly as a forest brook slipping past a mossy boulder. “As I was saying, I was pursuing – well, you don’t happen to have seen a group or sort of collection of sapphire sparkles about yea big –”

“Sparkles?” Yaarah puled.

“A most peculiar and charming phenomenon,” he noted reflectively, tugging at his left antenna. “I believe that she may have led me here.”

“She?” he snarled, recovering his draconic fury.

“Ah – aye?” The fellow glanced over his shoulder as Sabline’s talons snicked against the turf behind him, one by one. “I’ve been chasing this strange sparkling entity all over the Suylas Deepwoods for about a week or so and I ache all over – look, Dragoness, how are you even in the Deepwoods? I believe that Felidragons are not welcome in the sylvan halls right now?”

She purred, “Are you planning to chase me off, little Fae?”

“Me? No, not me.”

“Oh. That might have been … fun.”

With a smile of nauseating flawlessness, he parried, “Indeed, another time perhaps?”

“For our part, we’ve been dodging the Forestal Dragons for a week or so,” Ash put in, sounding shaken. More than shaken. “So, this … mysterious sparkle you referred to. Where would it be right now?”

The silver Faerie glanced about as if expecting to find an esoteric magical phenomenon dangling off the nearest sunbeam. “She’s very elusive.”

“I’m sure she is,” Varzune hinted heavily.

Such entertainment having companions of this calibre. The catch in the Elven Princess’ voice? That possessive note in Varzune’s prompt? The low hiss of Sabline’s overheated breath upon the interloper’s quivering neck? A scholar could pen the most delicious, hilarious memoirs on the basis of this journey.

To everyone’s surprise, however, the strange Fae merely patted his shoulder pouch and said, “If this is so important to you, well, she might come if I play her melody – but I will need you all to be very quiet, alright? She’s an awfully timid creature.”

“You’re a harpist?” Ash asked.

He nodded suavely. “And a traveller, amongst other things. A Fae in search of his destiny.”

One who had not yet offered his name. This scholar was not fooled. That pure silver colouration was vanishingly rare in a Faerie; he recalled reading about such a Fae subtribe years before, but the reference eluded his befuddled brain just now, because the whiskers-sense of fate had just roared to the fore. However, it was only a matter of time before his mind made the requisite connections.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Then, o Harpist … he flexed his talons extravagantly, drawing a murmur of approbation from his sable muse.

Unpacking the beautiful instrument, the new Faerie sat down upon the knoll of a tree root and tuned it briefly. Despite that he knew little about Faerie musical instruments, Yaarah recognised the superiority of the harp at once. The Fae crafting was outstanding. The enchanted metal looked unearthly, a silver that kept swirling toward unidentifiable mystical colours. It stood about eleven inches tall, a large instrument given that the fellow appeared to lug it about the Deepwoods upon his back whilst chasing mythical bunches of sparkles which could not possibly have anything to do with their Allory … he shook his muzzle sharply. No. Fate did not work like this!

Save that he wished it with every ember of his draconic life.

Settling to his labour, the musician’s fingers rippled with compelling elegance as he crafted a gorgeous phrase of music.

Everyone yelled, roared and hissed at him!

Yaarah found himself on his paws, looming over the fellow who had fallen over backward, clutching the exquisite instrument to his chest. Enraged! He was not sure why he was so spitting mad, but he was.

Sabline ground out, “Where did you learn that melody, mrrr-GNARRR?”

“I … I composed it?” he quavered.

“YOU WHAAARR-RRRTT?” Yaarah thundered in his face.

“Frankly, I don’t … understand? I’m – I compose music? And play it.”

“That exact music?” he snarled.

“I’d swear – uh, by my ancestors’ sap, if that … helps?”

Scooting backward a few inches, the flummoxed silver Faerie fetched up against Sabline’s paw. A most uncomfortable resting place. Yaarah gave him a very nice smile. Full of white fangs. It certainly held his attention.

Meantime, Sabline purred lightly, “Is it a famous piece, perhaps? One even we should know?”

“No, as I said, it’s my own work – so brand new it’s never been committed to scroll or leaf, I’ll have you know. How – what?” He brushed his long, straight silver hair back awkwardly. “Look, lady, could you please not breathe down a fellow’s neck quite so ardently? It’s awfully hot and I can’t really think down here.”

“He knows the exact feeling, murrr-hurrr-HARRGH!” Sabline laughed.

Despite his fury, Yaarah felt his muzzle curve into a draconic smile at her potent flirtation. “He does indeed, prrr-frrrt – ahem! So, you say it’s your own new composition, do you? Perchance it continues like this?”

He hummed several of the following bars, his voice all gravelly with annoyance, concern and hope, but the impact on the Fae was more than clear. Bamboozled. Jaw attempting to catch gnats. A Felidragon’s whiskers prickled with helpless presentiment – in fact, if they prickled any harder he feared he might lose a few, a terrible tragedy for any Felidragon. Allory had spoken about her fantasy harpist, the one who had helped her to escape the shadows in her boneyard. This fellow? This walking ornamental chunk of silver had somehow played for her in her dreams? No. Gnarr. He would not allow it. Not for one second. Yet this was the tune which had brightened the sparkle in his Sparkles’ eyes. Every single time. She had been humming it constantly, even in her sleep.

Fine. He loathed destiny with a passion.

With a towering excess of grumpiness, he snarled, “Something very strange is going on here, friend Faerie.”

“You can say that again,” the fellow agreed hastily, perhaps reading the basis for his snap-and-snarl routine correctly. “I’ve been chasing this thing – I mean, the whole forest bows to her, as if she’s royalty! I’ve never seen anything like it. You wouldn’t happen to know … would you?”

“Play, little Faerie! We shall see.”

“I’m completely baffled.”

“That makes two of us,” Ash said sourly, clearly having reached the same conclusion Yaarah had.

The Faerie’s eyes flicked around the circle of intent faces. He said, “By my sap, you’re a peculiar crew – are you carrying a frozen corpse on your back? I – holy sap of my ancestors! It’s her!”

“Mrrwll!” Yaarah yowled, and clamped his jaw shut. “Sorry.”

All the companions gasped as one.

“I mean, it’s very close – and I – phew. Are you necromancers?” the silver Faerie gasped, paling to a shade of white-silver that still remained annoyingly attractive. “Am I about to be … uh, sacrificed in some … perverse ritual?”

Sabline took advantage of the ensuing silence to politely suggest that he might just become a sacrifice if he did not start playing right away. Nothing necromantic. Just instant meat kebabs.

Yaarah put in, “As I said, something very strange. Summon what you have been chasing. We’ll explain – we’ll try to explain, not that we understand in the slightest. Our companion –” his paw indicated the Scintillant Fae “– was recently struck down nigh unto death, we believe, but before then, she had been humming this very melody you just began to play for us. I demand that you muster your most compelling enchantments, Harpist, before I lose my patience and carve your pretty neck off your shoulders!”

Visibly taken aback, the Harpist said, “Very well. It’s nothing stranger than I’ve been through this last week, trust me – but if I show you, could I please keep my neck? I’ll beg if that might sway your opinion?”

He offered a winning smile.

“I’ll think about it, grrr-frrrt,” Yaarah snarled loftily. So many points to win with his Dragoness! Sabline winked one fiery eye at him, very slowly, assuring him that while he might not be the most dangerous beast in this part of the Suylas Deepwoods, he was certainly doing a good job trying.

Not half bad.

No thanks to the heated encouragement all around him, the Harpist shortly managed to get his shaking fingers back under some semblance of control. Soon, the melody flowed from his instrument as if spun of pure Faesilk. Truly a talented musician, the Felidragon had to admit begrudgingly. Not just the pretty face. Also, he acted a great deal less full of himself than he had always felt the handsomest creatures did.

“The sapphire colouration and size – you can only be Scintillant Fae?” the Harpist inquired meantime, addressing the Fae gathered to his left. When the four pupae-siblings nodded as one, he exclaimed, “How amazing! Truly amazing. I never imagined, in my lifetime … oh. Oh look, here she comes!”

Yaarah could not suppress the strangled yelp that emerged from his throat.

The trees swayed as if an unseen wind passed through, before bowing like willows stooping over a stream, stately and majestic. His whiskers tickled with a swelling awareness of ariavanae in the air, as if all the magic for leagues about had suddenly decided that this was the place to congregate and have a spot of fun at reality’s expense. A place where the Harpist played upon beams of unadulterated light, his instrument extended and augmented by some arcane means; a place where he and his companions could only marvel as a tiny flotilla of sapphire sparkles twirled three times back there amongst the trees, before swishing toward them with a joyous sound like a tinkling of tiny carillons.

Even the grass blades gave homage!

Light coalesced around the entity as if to swathe it in robes of prismatic splendour, brightening every face, every leaf, even the day itself. Pausing before the Harpist, it seemed to inhale deeply of the life-giving concentration of magic, before its form budded limbs and wings and the semblance of a much-treasured face, in form like the aura of a person’s soul.

Joy exploded into flame that licked the insides of his chest with such sweet agony, he feared the sensation must consume even a Dragon’s body.

Yaarah croaked, “Sparkles!”

Allory – this unmistakable, phantastic manifestation of the Scintillant Fae, if his faltering mind could describe her so – swung toward him as if arrested by his cry. All bashful and self-conscious now, she curtsied toward him as if inquiring if he approved of her new guise. The tiny apparition raised her hands as if to acknowledge an audience of thousands – and pulled up in clear consternation as her insubstantial lips moved and absolutely no sound emerged!

The moment was so quintessentially Allory Fae, Yaarah could not produce a word either. Not even a mewl.

Cuteness distilled into sparkly form.

He held out his paws.

She flung herself upon his neck, buzzing, trembling and shimmering for gladness. Their companions cried out in untrammelled glee; the Suylas Deepwoods erupted! As the ancient, hoary forest giants shook in jubilant celebration and started a most undignified shimmy and shake, they disgorged dozens of tall, dark Elves who tumbled to the ground with the most stupefied exclamations, shaking their helmeted heads in consternation.

Busy morning!

Raising their weapons, they quickly surrounded the group gathered on the sward.

The tallest of their company, a giant of an Elf who towered over Princess Ashueli by a head, if not more, boomed from beneath his fearsome helm, “Trespassers! You are under arrest.”

Unfortunately, everyone ignored him.

Yaarah suppressed a wicked snigger. Bad luck. Not half sparkly enough.