When he woke, Idris found himself in the Fairy Court. That in itself was baffling; that he woke on his feet was stranger still.

Feet.

He glanced at his right leg. A gold, glittering foot made of light held him up.

“I am dead,” he whispered, testing the fae-made foot on the leaf bed. “Welcome back, foot. I missed you.”

Content, somehow, he looked up. He wanted to know if his uncle was there, waiting for him, or the Queen’s father. The court, however, was strangely empty. The Fairy Queen sat on a giant mushroom to his right, sewing something.

“Your Majesty,” Idris said, bowing.

“Eremont,” she said lightly, continuing to sew.

“I… I know not why I am here,” he said, taking a careful step forwards. “I was in –“

“Braemar?” She smiled. “You are still in Braemar.”

“I…” Idris blinked, frowned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what was happening, elsewhere. There were hands, faint and ghostly, on the back of his head. A shoulder was tucked beneath his armpit. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“How is my craftsmanship?” said the Fairy Queen, raising the object in her hand. “A fair likeness?”

Idris’s frown deepened. It was a doll, with red hair – his hair.

“I did what you asked,” he said. “I destroyed the dagger –“

“That was not our agreement,” she said.

“It was not?”

He wracked his brains, trying to recall. The Fairy Queen tapped her fingers on the doll’s mouth, danced it slightly.

“You agreed,” she said, “to destroy the Spirit Glass. Not the dagger. The Spirit Glass.”

All of the Spirit Glass, Idris realised in an instant.

“The pauldrons,” he said, and she nodded.

“And the breastplate.”

“But that is impossible,” said Idris, oddly hurt by the deception. “The pauldrons are… are bricked up, in the palace vault, and I know not where the breastplate is.”

“That is unfortunate, my dear.”

With a golden pair of scissors, the Fairy Queen snipped off the right foot of the poppet.

Idris lurched as the stability of two feet was snatched from him. He hit the ground hard on his knee, just managed to stop himself smashing his face into the earth.

“I think this is my best work yet,” the Fairy Queen said, admiring the poppet Idris, footless, tiny in her hand. “You are not trying to renege on our deal, are you, Eremont Dead-Talker?”

Catching his breath, tearful and embarrassed, Idris shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

“Good.”

“Well, then. Do not forget. All the Spirit Glass.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Off with you, then.”

The air was cold and wet, all at once, and there was pain everywhere, and he gasped in a breath that felt worse than he expected.

“Easy,” said Cressida’s voice, somewhere beside him. “He is awake –“

“He is hardly with us,” said Riette, by his right ear.

Idris could not see. His head lolled against his wishes. He burbled and something came out of his mouth, splattered down his chin.

“I will ride ahead,” said Kurellan’s voice, “alert the healers – what is that?”

“I think it’s… I dunno,” said Willard shakily. “It ain’t blood. I hope it ain’t blood.”

“The carriage is ready,” said Lila, her voice high and thick. “Gentle with him, Master Willard –“

Grey pushed in again. Idris tried to fight it; he grabbed with his left hand, pulled up the shoulder of Willard’s shirt in frustration, tried to get enough breath to speak and only tasted the vile, salty taste of whatever had issued from his lips.

“He’s convulsing again,” said Willard urgently, “hold him still –“

And everything was gone.

*

The scent of the fae jasmine, just outside of the window, was the first sensation Idris could hold onto. He knew, fuzzily, that he had been awake before, several times. This time, though, the scent lingered, and he understood that it was night, and the window was open how he liked it to be, and he was in his own bed, at home in the palace.

He buried his temple into the downy pillow, let the silk rub against his cheek, and he bent his left leg as if to start moving himself out of bed.

“Hush, now,” said a quiet voice, and there was a hand on his brow. “The fever has passed, I think.” A stool scraped on the floor. “Good evening, Sir Idris. I do hope this isn’t another seizure. That would finally break my nerve. Although you would enjoy that, I would not.”

“Seizure?” he tried to say, but his lips were dry and swollen and his throat felt so tight that he could not form sound.

The hand touched his cheek, his collarbone. “You do feel cool.” Then, “Willard? I think Sir Idris’s fever broke.”

“Aye? Sure it ain’t another fit?”

“He is quite still. He actually seems alert.”

“Then you can tuck him in nice and tight, so he can sleep.”

“I don’t want him to tear the sheets again.” It was quiet. “Don’t you think he looks present?”

“I do. Master Dead-Talker?” said Willard.

Idris could not respond, however much he wanted to, and his eyelids hurt, but he raised his hand far enough to touch his own scabbed lips and then his throat.

“I think he’s thirsty,” said Willard, with a hint of triumph. “Ey, welcome back, Idris. You’ve been a-wandering in the between for a little while. Gave us a right scare, you did.”

“Do you think he can open his eyes?” said Lila’s voice, over the tantalising sound of water spilling into a cup.

“They’re still swollen. Our dagger-wielding friend hit ‘im good and proper in the nose.” Idris tapped his throat again. “So impatient, you are.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

It was a process of inches. Willard helped to prop Idris up, through the pain and stiffness, and Idris managed to open his eyes just enough to hold his own drink and take tentative sips. He could not speak, still, and he had questions he wanted to ask; luckily, Lila had already procured a copy of the healer’s almanac, which had a list of questions and statements that aria-burned magicians could simply point to.

He learned quickly how bad his condition had been even days before. He had been in bed for a total of nine days. For a week, he had a fever so bad that he was vividly hallucinating and there had been sporadic episodes of seizures since they found him in the sewer way. The seizures had resulted in three sets of torn sheets and a bitten tongue. The knee to the face and the blow to the back of the head were likely the culprit for those. Occasionally, he did wake, but without any lucidity, and could not even lift his own head. This was the first time he had been able to ask for water and sit unaided.

“There’s… other stuff, too,” said Willard, patting Idris’s hand. “But that’s prolly enough for now. Rest up, hmm? There’s plenty of time for everything else.”

Idris tapped his lips.

“Burnt your mouth up good,” said Willard. “Throat, too. All along the edge of your fingers where you held that shard, all purple and peeling. Oh, and aye, you let him stab you, you big lump. Clever, eh?”

“No more,” said Lila, her voice hushed and exhausted, and she nudged Willard’s elbow. “He is tired.”

“Aye.” Willard sighed, but he smiled his big, gap-toothed smile. “Well, it’s right good to see you back with us, Idris. Her Majesty will be happy. But you sleep.”

Willard departed; Lila helped to ease Idris back to his pillow, and she pulled the sheets around him.

“I’ll sit right here, sir,” she whispered, dousing the candle. “Whatever you need.”

When he next woke, it was morning, and Idris began to understand just how damaged his body was. He could barely move anything by himself and everything felt raw and hot, even his eyes. Besides the injuries to his nose, hand and shoulder, there had been shards of the Spirit Glass that cut into him like tiny needles in his jaw and cheek that Lila had to check up on. There were the burns he had given himself all up his throat and windpipe that made drinking anything except water terrible. Idris knew there was more still, but Lila kept tight-lipped while she prepared him for visitors.

“Are you sure you’re well enough?” she said. “This is a lot. The Queen can wait, you know.”

He smiled as much as he was able and shook his head gently. Lila nodded, twisted her lips and smoothed his bedsheets.

“She will be glad to see you,” she said.

He patted the sheets and, with Lila’s attention, tilted his head towards the door to her quarters. She looked horrified by the suggestion.

“I cannot leave you here like this,” she said. “Besides, Willard and I have been taking shifts, so I have slept, and eaten, and bathed, and still managed my duties, thank you.”

There was a knock on the door, and Lila hurried out to allow Cressida in. Unsurprisingly, she did not come with a train of attendants like she was supposed to, and the first thing she did was sit in Lila’s vacated seat and press her brow to Idris’s.

“Thank all that is good that you are well,” the Queen whispered. “You do love to worry me senseless. It is rather rude, considering.”

Idris managed a half-laugh, which instantly turned into a cough. Cressida let go and passed him a handkerchief.

“Before we do anything else,” she said, scooting the stool closer, “I want to tell you what happened, if you think you can hear it.”

Idris nodded.

While he was fighting in the sewers, the fae army had beaten back whatever dissidents were left in Braemar, with the assistance of the local guard and the royal soldiers. Kurellan had prisoners within minutes of the surrender, all of which were in the dungeons. By all accounts, Kurellan was thrilled that he had live suspects to interrogate.

“They gave up our court spy quite readily,” said Cressida, “and we took Bartold into custody this morning.”

Bartold, it seemed, had been allowing the dissidents into the palace grounds with a password that only the guards should have known, and harbouring the assassins in the larger towns with relative ease. The gambit he took in allowing Kurellan and Idris to leave the palace looked like it was paying off when the news came from Harran Pass about Idris’s incarceration, and all he had to do to succeed was wait. He was not expecting Idris to come out unscathed and that is where the plan had fallen flat.

“Our not-necromancer is also in the dungeons, alive,” the Queen said. “I would not say ‘well’. Holding onto the dagger while you destroyed it has…” She hesitated. “You did make rather light work of his hands,” she said gently. Idris frowned. “The, um… first little bit of necromancy you ever learned?”

Idris stared.

“You necrotised both of his hands,” she said.

Idris sat stunned, trying to control his breathing. He did that to another being?

“It looks largely accidental,” said Cressida, and, realising that was not helping, finished, “and I actually think using the Spirit Glass dagger was what did most of the damage, otherwise wouldn’t you have hurt your own hands, too? He will not die from his injuries. The two blows you did to his legs were impressive.”

The black figure was a man called Dravid. He claimed to be one of Lord Orrost’s bastard children and had been a general in Orrost’s army until Orrost had cast him out. It made sense, then, why Idris had thought he was recognisable – he looked rather a lot like his father. Bartold had said if Dravid could manage to breech the palace with the Spirit Glass dagger, taking the city for his father would be easy and the war would be won. For Bartold’s part, all it took to bribe him was the promise of safe harbour across the border and a large stack of gold. There was no telling where Dravid had found the Spirit Glass, but he had not spoken much about the dagger nor the instructions on how to wield it.

“That part ended rather tidily, if I do say so myself,” said Cressida. “The royal meeting is still scheduled to happen, although without the planned festival and balls and everything else. It seems in poor taste, when Orrost will have to decide the fate of his son when he gets here and we will need to negotiate a new treaty. It was rather a waste of city funds and I do not know what I will do with the giant cake, but here we are.”

She paused here, and a darkness shrouded her eyes for a moment.

“In your case,” she said softly, “there are… disclosures I should make. When Lila found you in the sewers… Firstly, she had to get word to me that you had succeeded, and that I should not flood the sewers, which I was loath to do in the first place, truthfully. The very idea set me on edge. I was debating it when Lady DeTrentaville ran screaming at me that you were injured but the dagger was gone. Lila thought, at first, that the Nexus had burned you up. But that hedge witch is rather remarkable and he assured us that you would be well as long as we got you back to the palace healers, except…”

She sighed, closed her eyes.

“Two things,” she said. “The first is that you kept… issuing some awful liquid from your mouth. The healers think it is residual aria energy that your body rejected but they are studying hard to find out what it was. Every time you had a seizure, there was more of it. So, I think no necromancy for you for a while. You have done enough. And…”

Cressida gripped his hand, pursed her lips.

“I will just say it,” she murmured. “Idris… we had to take more of your leg.”

There was a moment where that seemed like a rather sensible sentence. Then, quietly, the dread set in. Again? Carving him up like cattle? How had he not noticed the loss? He wanted to fling back the sheets and stare at what they had done to him but he found that he could not move. Cressida kept tight hold of his fingers and a strong gaze on his.

“Whatever happened down there, it drew necrosis from your stump. Pulled the energy right through you, into your blood. You were fitting so badly when we got you to the healers that they thought the necrosis was the cause, and they… they strapped you down to a table and took another two inches. It stopped the blood rot and saved your life.”

Idris remembered the grey veins in his wrist, the acidic burning in his right leg. No wonder. Maybe if he had given up the Nexus properly…

“I gave consent,” said Cressida. “If you must be angry, please do be angry. I will accept it.”

Faintly, he shook his head, placed a hand on his right knee. The Queen took a deep breath, patted the back of his bandaged left hand.

“The weavers are working on some wonderful new, shiny prosthetics,” she said, attempting to be optimistic with her voice violently shaking. “No more of these terrible straps and garters. New advancements. I think you will like them, when they are done. You will hardly notice.”

Idris did nothing, now. He sat incredibly still and forced the room to stop spinning.

“Rissy, I am sorry,” said Cressida, through quiet tears. “It happened so fast –“

He put his right hand back over hers and squeezed as hard as he could, shaking his head again.

“I will read to you every day,” she said, “like I used to, remember? Every day until you can walk again, I promise. I will bring you anything you want. Cake and wine and flowers. It was so terrible, and you screamed so much –“

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and waited until his best friend stopped crying. What were two more inches? Nothing was going to bring his foot back, anyway. He could live with two more inches. He still had his knee. But…

But the prospect of the Spirit Glass, of the energy required to destroy it, eating up his leg… it did not bode well for the remaining two pieces.

“I found the book,” Cressida said eventually. “That old tatty book I used to carry up here every day. Remember?”

Idris nodded; she pulled it from inside her robe and smiled.

“I thought I had lost it years ago. It was just in with my father’s belongings. Look how well-thumbed it is.” The peach cover was familiar, as were the neatly embossed letters upon it – Tales of the Knights of the Four Kingdoms. “Idris… could I read to you? Like I did before? It would calm me so.”

He nodded.

She climbed beside him on the bed and allowed him to put his head on her shoulder, and she curled up with the book and began to read out loud. It was so awfully familiar, and yet there were so many things wrong with the memory. Uncle Haylan was not in the other room. The stories of the knights seemed stilted and strained, even though Cressida’s voice was strong and her reading fluid and practiced. And they were not children, or strangers, anymore. They both knew too much, and feared it all.

Idris thought of the poppet, dancing in the Fairy Queen’s hand, with the freshly cut leg dangling awkwardly to the right.