The Ennui Jamboree

Seasons pass. I watch from the high tower window as the heat of summer fades, the fields turn gold, and leaves drift by in shades of brown and grey. Snow coats the land in a suffocating blanket but the stillness does not bring me peace. Years roll by. I lock myself in my castle tower, tending to my own needs, knitting and spinning.

At first people bother me. I tell them to leave me alone. They think I will change my mind. I do not. As the seasons pass it becomes clear that I do not intend to leave. Roland begs, Jennet whispers in my ear. The Fairhaven Girls are growing older. When I next look up, decades have passed. They are bent and grey. The people that I love are dying.

I return to my crafting. A century goes by, then two. Three. All that I have built is crumbling. My tower is all that remains of my heart. Roland lies rotting in an unmarked grave.

Perhaps, finally, I am ready for death.

“Queen Maud?”

The voice jolts me awake.

Of course, I was not asleep. How could I be? I am a lich, I am dead. Liches do not sleep, we are perpetually awake. And yet it was a dream. Or a nightmare…The vestiges of that deep melancholy threaten to overwhelm me. It takes me a while to return to my body. Whatever it was, it was powerful. The taste of bitterness is thick in my mouth.

Not a dream then. A product of my own mind? A daydream? Or a vision sent from some interfering god or goddess? My money is on that last. I clench my fists in anger. If there is one thing I cannot abide it is mad gods cluttering up the place and thinking they know better than everyone else. I know I will have to deal with the Whisperer. Soon. Very soon, or I will have to rot in my tower and let the world collapse around me. Death, one way or another. The scent of fresh mint and a few buttercup petals float past my nose. Yes, yes, message received loud and clear.

I glare at my knitting. I have dropped a stitch.

“Queen Maud?”

Ah yes, someone was talking to me. It is Roland. He looks mildly concerned and carries a sheaf of papers under one arm. But that is his way.

“You would never leave me, would you Roland?” I interrupt, shaking a few petals out of the wool.

My chief minion and dear friend looks at me in confusion. His sheer disbelief soothes the hollow in my chest.

“Of course not, ma’am.”

And yet, I can see the body he wears is fraying. He will need another soon if he is to serve me in undead perpetuity. Of course, I can just keep upgrading his parts as I have been doing. An ear here, a new limb there. He has been through three sets of hands in the last year already, mostly because he works so hard. But as long as his soul is the same does it really matter whose body part he wears? He is a patchwork of stitching and mending, displaying his repairs with pride. And I am proud of him. He has come a long way since he slithered into my village riding on the greasy coattails of the foetid necromancer who murdered me. May he rest in pieces.

“What did you want?” I ask.

“Prince Salazar is expecting you at the grand opening of his theatre,” says Roland. “I thought you might want to get changed?”

I stare at him blankly for a few moments while my brain catches up. Then I leap up, spilling wool and cat from my lap in a mad tumble.

“Thank you, I do!”

Jenkins yowls at me in disgust and stalks off, his tail whipping from side to side. I blow him a kiss before racing to my chambers to prepare.

“I’ll be right there!” I shout to Roland.

In truth I would rather skip the performance but I did promise. And it has been awhile since my subjects have seen me, I have been brooding in my palace since my return from the silver city. I must kill the Whisperer or be destroyed trying. But contemplating the death of the god who made me, of the god who gifts me his power, is a troublesome prospect for many reasons both practical and philosophical. It is particularly taxing since I cannot discuss it with anyone. The Whisperer might not be omnipotent but there is always the chance that he might be listening. I believe his divine ears are bigger than a Fairhaven cesspit and twice as crusty.

Better to keep my plans inside my head until I am ready to make my move. The Green Lady has given me a clue, and a dangerous quest. I must travel through the portal to another world, a world of death and parasites and search for the means to his end there. He must not suspect. That would be catastrophic, not only to me personally but to my fledgling kingdom.

I shimmy into a rather luscious gown. It is imperative that I appear queenly - I am a queen after all.. When I go out in an official capacity I like to make an impression. It's a good excuse anyway, and pretty much the only perk aside from power. This beauty is a jet black satin, darkness layered over darkness but with some cheeky green stitching on the equally caliginous petticoat. It is only visible if I flash my ankles.

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Over all of this splendour I fix a pretty black veil in delicate lace. This affords me some degree of privacy when I am in public, and rather romantically lends me the aire of a grieving widow. The veil is topped off with an onyx crown and a couple of draugr roses. Cute. I am ready to go.

I wander back down to the great hall enjoying the swish of my skirts on the corners. My entourage is ready and waiting. The fact that I have an entourage is too horrible a thought to linger on, even if I am slightly fond of most of them. Such is the price of absolute power, I suppose. I can always kill everyone and have their instant obedience instead but I do enjoy the shenanigans of the living. One never really knows what they will get up to next.

As the living go, they are not so bad.

They are looking remarkably well dressed and are disgustingly loud. Rachel is magnificent having changed her formal robes of fire-mage red, to a close fitting gown of her favourite crimson hue. Lily is wearing a fine lace shawl, her soft cheeks flush with excitement as she talks loudly to Greeter and Dunwiddy. The self-styled king of the beggars, Dunwiddy smells and looks like the inside of a brandy barrel, but a particularly fine one. Greeter of New Arrivals, the Keeper of Gold, Secrets, and Books, and Maker of Pleasing Sandwiches always looks smart, even for a goblin. Today she is wearing an interesting little hat with dark green feathers, dyed to complement the mossy hue of her skin and tortoise-shell pince-nez. She is deep in avid conversation with Hrula. This last is a sharp-eyed faery maiden with pebbled skin and white hair down to her knees. The fairy is the only one who has not dressed up for the occasion. Like me, she favours the feel of her bare feet on the ground, even the sticky and oft times dirty cobblestones of Fairhaven. To be fair she is always fetchingly attired in a short gown made from willow fronds and bindweed that never seems to go off. Today is no exception.

The fairy and goblin additions to my council initially caused some degree of tension, echoing that of the city outside. But now things are bumping along nicely enough. My citizens quickly discovered the huge benefits of goblin made arms and armaments, and the delights of fairy goods and services. The fae are happy with trade opportunities, being covetous creatures despite their airy appearances. I am happy with the tax. One can buy a lot of ribbons with the taxes I gather.

I cough to get their attention.

We adjourn to a black carriage that has been procured especially for the occasion. There is an air of excitement hanging about even the normally dour Greeter. I eye her with some suspicion as we trundle through the streets, feeling somehow betrayed by her merriment. What exactly have I let myself in for?

It is a short trip to the exiled Prince Salazar’s new theatre. An interesting octagonal structure, it rises from the remains of a destroyed site. I eye it with some interest. It is quite unlike the other buildings. Three or four storey’s high the walls are whitewashed and criss-crossed with dark timber beams. The roof is thatched. It might be the largest building in Fairhaven, barring Castle Rock, and possibly the adventurer’s guild.

The sun is setting as we alight from our carriage throwing the scene into golden light. Many smoking torches hang from gleaming sconces and there is the nip of autumn in the air. A large crowd is gathered outside, and from the sound of things another waits within, complete with various instruments and quite possibly a circus.

The curly haired exile greets my party at the vestibule with bombastic enthusiasm. I had hoped work would make an honest man of him and suppress some of the noise level. I could not have been more wrong.

“Your majesty!” he booms, sweeping a graceful bow, so low his nose almost brushes the cobbles. “You came!” As if he didn’t invite me. He is drenched in fragrance and his voice could rattle the rafters of every building from Fairhaven to Downing and back again.

“Yes, yes,” I say. “Can we go inside? I would like to get this over with.”

A crowd of excited peasants in their Sun Day best are lining the way sides, held back by a velvet rope and beefy men who would look more at home at a tavern after midnight. Or on a moonlit road waylaying travellers.

My head is beginning to ache from all the noise.

“Delighted!” he yells. “My enchantment! My star! My inspiration! Your majesty! You honour us with your presence! Your aura darkens the room, your beautify is a as terrible as a-”

“I WOULD LIKE TO GO INSIDE,” I say.

He knows better than to bait a lich, and stops performing long enough to lead us inside.

This is barely an improvement, the place is seething. Thankfully for everyone’s mortality I am led to a spaciously appointed balcony.

“The Royal Box, your majesty!”

I am plied with cushions, and my party with sweets and drinks. It is tolerable, I suppose.

Below, the citizens of Fairhaven are squeezed together in a noisy, happy throng of bodies so crammed together it makes my fingers twitch. Salazar disappears in a flourish of scent and excitement.

Settling my bony posterior onto the cushioned seat, I try not to hunch my shoulders. My council are clearly enjoying themselves. I can endure this, for their sake. For appearances. Bah.

A comforting weight arrives on my lap as Jenkins appears from thin air. I pat him and mutter dark thoughts about obnoxious foreign noblemen into his fluffy ears. The rumble of his purr soothes me and I get out my knitting.

Perhaps this isn’t so bad.

I do have a fine view of the stage. In a pit to one side an orchestra is warming up, and the sound of the woodwinds drifts over the excited crowd.

“When does it start?” I ask loudly. “Whatever this is?”

“Any minute now,” says Rachel, from next to me. The fire mage has procured a large bag of what appears to be toffees and is stuffing her face with all evidence of great enjoyment. Her eyes are wide and bright and fixed on the platform below.

“And what is it called?” I demand, grumpily. “This play thing?”

I really should have asked before. What if is a dull piece about farming? Or…politics?

Dunwiddy hands me a parchment. On it is drawn a picture of a skeleton woman with long flowing white hair and a completely un-anatomically possible bosom. She is posing dramatically with a huge axe, and her skeletal foot rests on a mound of bodies. Across the top of the flyer in bold print is written:

‘The Undead Witch!’

A Musical In Five Acts

You Will Laugh, You Will Cry!

Brought to you by The Quellac Island Players

“Wait!” I said. “Is that supposed to be me?”