“WELL, ISN’T THIS JUST hours of fun?” Yaarah snorted irritably, shaking leaves out of his fur. He was quite convinced a spider had just made its new home inside his left ear.
“It seems we Felidragons have made ourselves a stench in the nostrils of the Forestal Dragons,” said Sabline, emerging from the same leaf pile with an annoyed shiver. “I despise hiding. I’d rather fight this enemy!”
“They are not the enemy,” Ashueli insisted.
The Sabrefang glared at her. “Tell that to the one who tried to bite your head off – you’re an Elf, by my wings!”
“Apparently, it’s all about the despicable company I keep.”
The pair of warriors shared a glare.
“Nasty, trespassing beast,” the royal sneered.
“Wicked runaway royal,” Sabline sneered right back.
“Smelly, caterwauling pest.”
“Must be missing the golden bathtub there, o Princess of Pong.”
Their pair of grim chuckles mingled with a sound that conversely brought slight smiles to many faces nearby.
Varzune said, “They’ll be back. Can we ask our Pixies to work on hiding us better? It appears these Forestal Dragons are annoyingly adept at smelling out Chameleon-style camouflage.”
Chenixipi said, “Garobixi and I have been working on a few novel routines. Thankfully, this forest is full of Pixie dust –”
“It is, mrrr-prrrt?” Yaarah spat in surprise.
“Indeed, but a totally different sort to which we are accustomed,” she clarified.
“There’s something you don’t know, Yaarah?” Varzune put in. “Oh, never mind me, ha ha clonk. Weak joke.”
Xiximay gripped his arm. “We could all do with a bit of laughter after days spent being hunted by these Forestal Dragons. Sneaky brutes – with respect to our own Dragons. They know this forest like the backs of their paws.”
“Rotten meat,” Garobixi gasped.
“What? Are you insulting my breath?” Sabline growled, taking umbrage quicker than a Felidragon could flick a talon out of its sheath.
“Eh, no? Not – well, it did give me the dustiest idea –”
“Garobixi!” Chenixipi gasped.
“Her – her magnificent fangs, to be precise,” he spluttered, turning a fetching shade of greenish pink. “Oh dear. Quite the dust-up inside my brain. I only meant, Sabline, that since your fangs make me feel like a piece of meat … oh no!” He fanned his face haplessly, gasping for breath. “Dust of my ancestors, I am quite overcome.”
Varzune said lightly, “Well, do get to the meat of the idea, would you?”
“Let’s hold a meeting,” Yaarah purred.
“I’ll suck out the marrow of this matter, mrrr-gnarr!” Sabline gurgled ominously. What? A jest from the Sabrefang? Middlesun must surely be wobbling all over Centresky. “Now, what’s this about rotten meat? Forestal Dragons being scent hunters, correct? Ashueli noted that their eyesight is particularly poor. So, you’re proposing, let me guess, to stuff one up their collective, ferociously ugly snouts?”
Garobixi drew himself and his flotilla of pixels up. “Exactly my point. Scent bombs.”
“Mrrr-hrrrt, you’re a nasty little Pixie, aren’t you?” she approved.
His chest swelled. “I say!”
Before his straining silver shirt gave up a rather unequal battle, or his hairstyle quite managed to produce its fifth new style in as many seconds, Yaarah put in quickly, “Plus, with all due respect to your feelings, we do not consume intelligent creatures, especially not dusty ones. Fantastic idea, Garobixi. Is this a result of the scent-modifier-augmentation routine we discussed earlier?”
“Indeed, indeed,” he murmured, his hairstyle popping into a swirling fig-green cone six feet tall. “I merely built upon your novel approach, Scholar Yaarah.”
“Dusterrific!”
Chenixipi eyed her beloved with fond amusement. “You scholars. Don’t pop your dust everywhere, alright?”
Their pixels swung them into position for a celebratory smooch.
Varzune rubbed his hands together with glee. “Personally, I think this idea stinks to high Centresky! As you said, Sabline, if we are such a stench in their nostrils, we should ensure that we truly excel at the art and spread the joy of our presence far and wide.”
Wiser words than perhaps he knew.
Making the most of the quiet late afternoon, the group worked with Garobixi on preparing gourds of extra-special scent treats for the Forestal Dragons. So potent was the Pixie’s mixture, one had to handle the gourds with leaves to protect hands and paws from its caustic effects, never mind the stench, which was truly eye-watering. Each carrying two gourds, the Chameleons buzzed off in all directions to start laying their pong-o-flage, a new version of standard camouflage. One did not want the eager, aggressive Dragons to be able to track them by following a particular trail of stench either, so four overlapping false trails would be laid.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
All equally malodourous.
Yaarah padded over to Zzuriel. “Any change?”
Diffident headshake. “No, Scholar Yaarah. However, it’s proving tricky to keep the temperature constant. I’m glad Xiximay is here.”
“Hmmm-frrr. What about the magical output?”
“Definitely present. She’s – uh, absorbing a great deal more magic than I could imagine would be required merely for temperature control, Yaarah.” The white Fae dropped her gaze. “I appreciate that’s sensitive information … to all of us. I am certain of this conclusion, however. If Harzune were here, we could touch anytime we wished without the slightest danger.”
“Or kiss?”
She giggled self-consciously. “Are we as bad as those Pixies?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” he chuckled, laying a paw upon her back. So cold. Poor Allory. “Too much distraction of my own, mrrr-frrr, I must confess. We should get ready to fly.”
“Aye. I am – for the first time, Yaarah, I am glad for my coldness.”
He met her dark gaze unflinchingly. “Friend Fae, so are we. We’ll have you dancing up snow flurries again, never you fear.”
Dipping her gaze, Zzuriel sighed.
Yaarah padded off with a heavy sigh of his own. The Chameleons, Sabline, Xiximay and Ashueli would return soon. They needed to put this region behind them and travel far and fast, all night if needed. Too much time wasted dodging these blasted Dragons.
* * * *
Stubbornness. Character flaw or strength?
Whatever one thought, Hansanori had clearly inherited a sizeable portion of superior-quality stubbornness from every branch of his family tree. His fingers hurt. His back ached. A rough burr had developed at the edge of his voice by the time evening began to seep subtly amongst leaf and branch. True, the course of his day had introduced wonder upon wonder. Marvellous apparitions not seen in these Deepwoods in decades. Green Spites dancing beneath him. A posse of pure white Wisps had drifted by his head not an hour ago, frolicking and chuckling at his playing. Ethereal creatures had appeared and disappeared, most too rare even to be named despite what he had considered to be a first-rate working knowledge of Faerie lore, but the five white Unicorns had been incredible, rearing to salute his efforts with ringing whinnies that almost triggered another backside landing upon moss incident. Just now, over a dozen azure-silver Naiads amused themselves in the brook, somersaulting joyously down a seven-foot waterfall into the pool below.
The Naiad girlfae giggled and batted their eyelashes at him. Hansanori waved and then focussed on his playing. Pretty as they were, Naiads had a reputation for being extremely fickle and not always being understanding of the fact that other creatures needed to breathe underwater. Their play could turn deadly.
Nothing of their delight ignited the Astral Harp, however.
His thoughts snuck back to the night he had composed this melody, the night when an irresistible conviction had come upon him at a strange hour, when he had imagined his composition might rescue or support a person in desperate need. Of course, that part was pure fantasy. Music had never done such a thing – yet as he recalled the sense of gripping, immediate need, his fingers suddenly prickled with new energy and invigorated the magic at last.
He glanced about as he strummed on, acutely aware of the slightest mishap that might spoil the mood. There! There it came, the mysterious flotilla of gleaming blue particles, drifting upriver between the tufted reeds, reticent and lovely, sweet and ever so fragile. The Naiads drew back with gasps of awe. The reeds dipped toward her. The waters rose in the form of – he caught his breath – a triplet of elemental Naiads, creatures of unspeakable rarity, their translucent bodies comprised of a combination of water and pure magic. They inclined their heads as the motes passed by, while the gleaming phenomenon paused to acknowledge them with a grave, definite dipping motion.
Hansanori’s heart burbled uncertainly up in the back of his throat. Something wonderful, whimsical and utterly fantastic was unfolding before his eyes. He had no idea what it was.
Only, that he must spin the very sunlight for her robes.
As his aching fingers, toes and wingtips played upon the harp’s magical strings, an otherworldly melody of enchantment wove its way into the fabric of the sacred grove. Each glissade, each trill and chord and phrase caused the evening to shimmer with beauty and the Deepwoods to respond in ways he could neither describe nor quantify. The Harpist found himself weeping for the paean of loss he must frame, for the poignant fragility of existence, for the adoration that enthralled his heart. At last, beauty unfurled within, spreading to his playing with contagious joy.
He had so many questions.
Not one had an answer, yet it did not matter.
Not even when the heavens opened and a beam of sunlight irradiated the motes, casting the rest of the glade into gloom save for the places where her incomparable light spangled with prismatic colours. The Sprites sank to their knees. Daisy-yellow Butterfly Fairies laughed amongst the topmost boughs, sounding like a choir of dozens of tiny bells pealing in joyous chorus. A hundredfold in number, the Wisps drifted back again, dancing above and around every bough and branch until it seemed to him that the Deepwoods fairly rang in exultation for the abundance of magic crammed into this space. The magical motes swirled about in delighted dance, so brilliant that he could barely gaze upon the phenomenon.
He must not shade his eyes. Not when her melody must be played.
Half a dozen pure white Unicorns pranced back through the trees thirty or so feet off, pausing to curve and lower their exquisite muzzles in humble obeisance to the miniature beauty before moving on.
Evening fell, yet the reflected radiance did not diminish in the slightest. Effortlessly, the sparkling entity summoned the very life of Middlesun to itself. He had never seen glory to compare. It swayed and pirouetted in time to his music. Tears wet his simple clothing. Never had he played like this, not even in his most unbridled imagination. Every leaf in sight danced along. Frissons of magic most fey played up and down his spine. This was music that made the very roots of the Deepwoods remember what they had once been, causing them to tingle and twitch with newness of life.
Now, ever so delicately, the motes spun up to him and gave an enticing little shiver – honouring him? He shivered reflexively in response. His hands crafted a flourish in a pentatonic scale to celebrate her presence.
Out of that sparkling phenomenon, the ethereal girlfae formed before him a second time, her outline more definite than before. She had a standard Fae wing structure of two wing clusters of four wings apiece, he noticed at once, a slender body – achingly petite – and soulful eyes that captured his imagination and his dreams in an instant. Yet all about her was otherworldly, a being spun of the most insubstantial threads of magic.
Extraordinary!
Hansanori bade the music to perform a deep reverence, counterpoint to the love that consumed his heart. How could he act so maudlin? So helplessly, everlastingly besotted? How could he feel otherwise?
She gestured, infinitely graceful.
His silver eyes searched the apparition. Her hand, leg and most especially the centre of her chest displayed dark indentations, as if she had been horrifically wounded. The hand swirled again, casting sparkling motes of enchantment before his eyes, yet her gaze pleaded with him.
Did she even know what she wished for? What she needed?
He must respond.
Without slowing the rippling motion of his fingers, he whispered, “Show me. Whatever you need is yours for the asking. Take me there.”
She darted away!