…Now that the thirteenth bell had tolled, the other guests were beginning to become restless. Servers flitted through the moonlit courtyard, carrying platters of stuffed silk wings, faeskin, and other delicacies while the wealthier guests lounged on cushions or mingled in murmuring groups. Ronan was still at my side, discretely brushing the honeybriar, when the commotion started at the outer gate. A few of the guests, having become bored of waiting for the inner gates to open, began to argue about the most exotic sights they’d witnessed. When a new guest arrived, the crowd turned on her and pressed her to entertain them with stories from afar. The latecomer, a well nixie of quiet demeanor, was directed to a petal-scented cushion by the thronging crowd. They watched her with eager, painted faces, chanting, “Well nixie, well nixie, spirit of the deep! In your drowned dark world, what is it you peep?”

The pale nixie blushed and tried to rise. “Please, good friends, there’s not much to tell. I only lurk in a simple well.”

“A song then,” they called, “if a story’s not told. You must pay your due or go out in the cold!”

Seeing no way out, the girl was forced to comply. “All right,” she sighed, and she started to sing.

“Cast out your stars

And give up your sun

Throw out your flowers

One by one

“Relinquish your moonlight

And give up your breeze

Discard your songbirds

That flit through the trees

“Hand over your rivers

And streams brightly flowing

Your fish and your lilies

And wind gently blowing

“Free now your breath

Bones, bright eyes, sweet songs

Truth, lies, hate, sorrow

Come quickly along

“Come with me

Below we’ll dwell

In the shadowed land

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Beneath the well.”

With that, the nixie finished her sing. The moon was approaching its zenith, but still the inner gates remained closed and the guests hovered around the seated cushions, surrounding the nixie. “A story, we asked, not some chant from the deep. The sights that you spoke of would put us to sleep. Tell us more!” they demanded.

The girl frowned. “My story’s through. There’s nothing new,” she protested.

The guests, however, would not relent. Masks scowled and painted faces jeered as they demanded more exotic tales. Suddenly, a horned lord cried, “A guest! Another guest has arrived!” The presence of the newcomer drew the attention of the crowd, and the harassed nixie was left to sulk in the corner by herself.

I glanced at Ronan, who was still stroking the honeybriar. Small scratches coated his palm and euphoria filled his eyes. He gave a quick sigh. “They’re restless,” he remarked, glancing at the newcomer. “No matter his song, it won’t sate them for long. The queen must open the gates soon.”

Looking again to the new guest, I saw that he was a painter. He came in whistling, announcing his presence to all who had not already noticed him. The guests encircled him, calling, “Artisan, artisan, here our complaint! Tell us a tale of the places you paint!”

The painter stopped, looking quizzical. “Forgive me, guests, I’m just an artist. In crafting tales I’m not the smartest.”

“You’ll sing or tell or you won’t come along. Anything’s better than that siren’s old song.”

In the corner, the nixie scowled. The painter shrugged. “If it’s a song you ask, I’m up for that task.” He started to sing.

“I’ve gazed on kings and courtyards

Through my paintings you can see.

In spite of all those visions

There’s just one place I feel free.

“The road may be a kind one

And the sky a sapphire blue.

Filled as it be with wonders

There’s but one place I love true.

“No matter when I’m leaving

Or how far away roam

Wherever I may wander

I’ll always love my home.”

With a bow, the painter finished. His song was met with jeers and cries of rage. Looking askance, the painter asked, “Why do you taunt? What more do you want?”

“We asked for sights of far and old, not for praise of one’s household. Can’t you speak of things to seek?” they ordered.

“You’re wanting this sore but I have nothing more,” the painter admitted.

“But here’s a traveler!” called a bird with many beaks. “Why, it’s Mister Green!”

The crowd thronged around the newcomer, abandoning the painter for the novelty. “Mr. Green, Mr. Green, where have you been and what have you seen?” they chorused.

The newly-arrived guest studied the crowd around him. After a moment, he answered, “I’ve traveled far and wandered near. Seen things of beauty and of fear.”

His explanation did little to please the guests. “But Mister Green, what do you mean? Where have you been and what have you seen?”

There was, perhaps, a teasing glint in the newcomer’s eyes, although I was too far away to tell for sure. “Many great things I’ve indeed surmounted, but surely you don’t wish to hear them recounted?”

Still the crowd chorused, “What have you seen, Mister Green, Mister Green?”

The traveler relented, finally telling his tale.

“Downtown in an urban center, structures built by an inventor.

A great hollow hole in a great standing oak, dripping with sap like an egg's yellow yolk.

In a warm and stagnant bog, a cave that’s filled with fumes and fog.

The deepest trench of the deepest abyss, everything orderly yet still amiss.

The broken dreams of a broken world, memories drawn and neatly unfurled.

A pillar of light a thousand yards high, it burns and restores in a single bright sigh.

The dark domains of the kindly raven, a dead and cold and vivid haven.

Beyond the veils of time and space, a far away and dreaded place.

Lovely, dread, incomprehensible things, enough to make minds compress like springs.”

Subdued, the crowd stood in rapt silence. Even I did not notice that the inner gates had opened until the consort called out her welcome. Ronan and I followed the other guests, and by the time I reached the interior of the shimmering palace, the celebration was well underway…