13

The Blessed Isles were exactly as near or as far as they deigned to be, existing in a Fey-wild Ocean. They were located up-and-out, not along Midworld’s curve, but straight past it, in a direction that no mortal vessel could go. Seahorse had two glowing blue eyes, though, which saw through the mists and parted the veils, making their voyage possible.

They sailed toward sunrise; the others waking as dawn lit the sky like a painter’s brush. Lerendar sensed the change, when the waters turned deep, wine-like purple, capped with a filagree seafoam of opal and gold. Here, there were merfolk and dragons, and cities built on the shells of great turtles. Here were soaring castles of cloud. In this place, manna washed over and through every visitor, revealing true forms and healing the troubled.

Andorin’s dulcimer had converted itself to a flute carved of silver and wood. He played it now, piping a lilting tune that twined with the music of waves and of wind in the rigging. From below decks came laughter and chiding and orders to “Wash first, you heathens!”

Lerendar turned with a smile to the ship’s mid-hatch, whence rose all the tumult of childish squeals and clattering feet on the ladder-well. His wife-to-be and his child were not the first out, though.

First to rise from below was a lovely, shimmering air-sprite; a vision of cloud-purple hair, stained-glass wings and pale mist. The bard kept playing but nobody else made a sound or a motion, except to look upward as Lady Alfea rose spiraling into the air. Her slim arms were raised, greeting the dawn. Her hair… grown impossibly long… streamed all around and behind her, trailing the sprite like the tail of a comet. Her butterfly wings came alive with images, reflecting her mood and all that she saw as she flew. For garments, Alfea had only rainbow and mist and her own violet hair. She was singing, in a childish-sweet, untutored way.

Zara, Pretty One and Mirielle were next to burst from below, their faces smeared with butter and crumbs, rosy with laughter. They, too, tried to fly, succeeding in very short, sparking hops. Zara’s effort took her straight into her father’s strong arms. He fielded her like a hurtling court-ball, before she went over the rail. Bronn caught Miri, while Pretty One landed on Andorin’s shoulder (to be handed down without interrupting the music).

Beatriz was next out, followed by Katina, holding his brother’s new baby. Last of all, fighting a smile, came Ava, leaving her post at the taffrail to join all the others.

“Papa!” yelled Zara, seizing his head to command his attention. “Papa, I’m learning to fly! Lady Fee said she’d teach us and help us get wings! I’m gonna get wings, Papa!”

Wondering if all children everywhere were always this loud, Lerendar toned down her voice and his hearing.

“I’m sure they’ll be wonderful, Scamp,” he teased, tossing her upward and catching her out of the air again. “But don’t fly too high or they’ll melt like candy-floss.”

The girl’s blue eyes widened. One hand twined in Lerendar’s scarlet cloak, she craned around to look up at Lady Alfea. The air-sprite was dancing with dragons and breezes.

“Lady Fee!” called Zara, using magic to re-boost her voice. “Lady Fee! Not too high, or you’ll melt!”

Lerendar dropped his hearing still lower. Kissed his woman when she came forward, holding a plate of much-needed breakfast.

“Trade you,” he offered, exchanging small Zara for food. Odd fact, but everything tastes better on deck, at sea. Lerendar made very short work of his eggs, toast and bacon, just about conjuring it directly into his stomach. Here in the Fey-realm, he had magic… just as his mother had claimed.

There was food for the prince, rogue and ranger, as well, brought up by the spirits of Seahorse. Ava faerie-cached hers, not willing to eat before Lerendar. Not so the others, who lounged around, scraping their plates and draining their cups. Noisily.

“Did you greet your lord-father properly?" scolded Bea, smoothing Scamp’s curly dark hair from her face.

Zara rolled her eyes. Heaved a disgusted sigh, then turned in her mother’s arms to bow.

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“Good morning, my lord!” she growled, sounding aggrieved. “You look very lordy. I never seen such a lord, never-ever. Of all the lords, there’s my papa. He’s a lord, if anyone didn’t know that, already!”

Lerendar kept a straight face with real difficulty. Miri and Pretty One were flat on the deck, laughing their empty heads off, while Andorin grinned.

“Pray do not mention my own rank,” teased the sea-elf. “I have not all morning to listen while I am extolled by this charming young muse.”

Ava hovered uncertainly at the fringes, ready to defend her lord’s honor if necessary… but fighting a smile of her own. This… was good. Felt like family. It drew the young scout like a campfire’s warmth. Just to her left, Katina fussed with the baby, hiding her smile behind long, copper hair.

Lerendar settled the matter by reaching across to muss Zara’s dark curls. Her summery eyes, pointed ears and bright smile were his. Her black hair, spice-bark skin and sarcastic wit were all Bea.

“That,” he declared, “was a thorough ‘my lording’. I feel braced to embark on a day full of lordish activity, now.”

His daughter scrunched up her face at him.

“One ‘my lord’ a day, every morning! That’s the rules, Papa!” she replied fiercely. “No more. Not till tomorrow!”

“I am chastened,” he laughed, bowing his head in mock sorrow. “On the other hand, Prince Andorin and Lord Elmaris over here could certainly do with a greeting.”

“Uggghhh!” groused Zara, tipping her head backward onto her mother’s shoulder. “How many are there??!”

“No concern at all, little maid,” soothed Andorin. He’d tucked his flute away. Now, taking Zara’s small, grubby hand, he kissed it, adding, “Foreign royalty require no special greeting beyond a swift curtsy, and… as for this shady fellow….”

Jerking his head at the rogue, black eyes dancing, Andorin said,

“He came backward out of his mum, and he’s been confused, ever since. Doesn’t know he’s a kidnapped prince.” (Stage whispered that part behind his hand, but loudly enough to be heard by all.) “You’ll help the scoundrel to hide from his enemies by calling him ‘Rugwart the Foul’, and by pouring all of his worship onto your father, instead. Trust me… he needs it.”

Bea’s expression was indescribable, as were Katina and Ava’s. No three females had ever fought so hard not to laugh. Elmaris, on the other hand, looked ready to throttle Andorin. There might have been words, but then Lady Alfea dropped back to the deck; radiant, laughing and achingly beautiful. In a cloud of glittering fey-lights, she descended to join them. Her stained-glass wings fluttered a bit, casting pictures of Seahorse seen from above, along with a string of mist-shrouded islands.

“I had forgotten,” she gasped, as the wings disappeared and her clothing returned, “how very wonderful it is to fly.”

Taking Bean from Katina with a word of warm thanks, the lovely air-sprite kissed her bairn’s forehead.

“Next time, Little Bean, I’ll take you up with me. And so, every day, until we are back with your Da.”

Simple promise and love, but nobody laughed or doubted her. Turning sapphire eyes onto Lerendar, Alfea next said,

“There are islands ahead. Not lumbering turtles or spouting whales. Real lands, draped all in gold light.”

Lerendar nodded.

“The Blessed Isles, Milady,” he explained. “We should be there soon, if our quest be judged worthy. There are temples and shops and an oracle-spring on Epona, which is first and greatest of all the dawn-lands. There, we will surely hear news of Valerian.”

Alfea’s face changed subtly at the sound of her young husband’s name. Pretty One had crept up, and now thrust a small goblin paw into Lady Alfea’s hand.

“He is in peril and torn many ways,” whispered the air-sprite, squeezing Pretty One’s hand. “We must hurry, but… I sense that our way is not a direct one. Not yet.” She glanced upward once, continuing, “I traded much to return here, back to one worth all that I cast aside. All that, and more.”

Maybe because of her words, clouds appeared on the eastern horizon. Sea birds and shining dragons wheeled through the air, as a mountainous, forested island appeared. Wreathed in mist and capped with gold spires, it seemed to hang between sea and sky; not quite of either: Blessed Epona of the nine peaks.

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Elsewhere and not quite meanwhile, High Lord Arvendahl decided to hedge his bets. Perhaps his stratagem with the gate had succeeded. Perhaps that demon-spawn devil-pup traitor had found a way through, bringing with him the exile.

‘Always best to be certain the deed is done right,’ he thought.

His Lordship sat in his opulent cabin aboard Vancora, gazing at bobbing spell globes and rustling charts. At his gesture and thought, one of those silvery globes drifted nearer, crossing his polished wood chart table.

There was an organization whose discreet services he’d employed in the past. Called ‘The Red Hand’, their motto was: No escape, no mercy, no hope. More: they never failed to deliver. Five of the heads that decorated his palace walls had arrived in a black box, lid printed on top with a spread, blood-red hand.

They were a den of assassins based in Karellon, and their fees were quite steep. 12,000 gold pieces, a divine artefact, or five souls. Typically, Arvendahl paid in bright coin, without question. For a target this vital, though… to stanch a wound so painful and raw… he was willing to meet and double their usual price.

Into the spell globe His Lordship spoke, first tracing a sigil and then saying,

“I would converse with Losirr the Feral, Master Assassin. For him, and as many hunters as he would engage, I have work.”

The globe swirled and rose, its light reflected in Arvendahl’s gem-blue eyes. A shadowy figure formed in the orb, and a voice murmured,

“Losirr speaks. How may I serve my lord’s pleasure? Who dies this day, and how badly?”