It was some time after Willard and the fae nobleman departed when the question of what to do with Idris resurfaced. The court squabbled for what felt like hours. Idris, tired of standing and with the mushroom’s heady elation wearing off, sat back down in the circle and waited in silence. He was starting to feel hungry and thirsty, and he wondered how long Lila had been waiting for them.

Eventually, the court fell quiet. The stag was back. He looked right at Idris, bent his knee and waited.

“I am… free?” said Idris. The stag inclined his head again.

“He wants you to follow,” said the nymph.

“If I leave the circle –“

“You have the King and Queen’s protection, as long as you follow The Silent Lord wherever they wish you to go.”

The Silent Lord blinked, flicked his ear.

“I cannot go fast, my lord,” Idris said to the stag, feeling rather stupid, but the stag waited until he was back on his crutches and steady.

The idea of leaving the fairy circle went against everything he had ever been taught. One step from the circle was essentially the same as accepting your fate. People rarely returned from such ventures and when they did, they were forever altered. He poked a crutch over the line of mushrooms. When nothing happened, he followed the momentum and crossed into the fae realm.

Nothing changed. Carefully, he picked his way towards The Silent Lord, who turned and started slowly leading Idris through the trees. All through the canopy were signs of fae – colourful tents and lights, flying creatures, impossible flowers.

“My lord,” Idris said to the stag, “might I ask – do you have blue flowers?”

The Silent Lord glanced at him, and he was sure that the animal was laughing.

When they stopped, it was before a glorious nest, as if a giant eagle had built a home three feet off the ground. It was wrapped with fae jasmine and yellow pea flowers, and a variety of pixie fae flitted here and there with deep foxglove cups and platters. Inside the nest, glorious in summer-light, was Willard.

“Hello, Master Dead-Talker,” he said, smiling. Something seemed vastly different in him, something that was difficult to describe – maybe it was the aftereffects of the mushroom, but Willard looked otherworldly.

“Hello, Willard. Thank you, my lord,” Idris said to the stag, who bowed again and went to wait in the trees. “You look comfy,” he said to the hedge witch.

“Aye. This… well,” Willard said, blushing, “it’s a story and a half. You coming up?”

“I will try.”

“Oh, um… wait there.” He jumped down, boosted Idris into the nest and then clambered up again. The nest was lined with downy feathers and silken flower petals; fae glitters of light puffed up from it when Idris sat. Willard followed and settled beside him, and he sighed and looked into the canopy. “Remember when we first met?” he said quietly. “You asked me if I was fae and I laughed at you. Seems you were half-right.”

“The nobleman?”

“Aye. Says he’s my dad.”

“Oh.”

“’S’what I said.” He picked a leaf from the nest. “I didn’t believe him but he told me stuff only me ma knew. Could still be a fae trick, but… but I dunno, Idris, it makes things make sense. Don’t it?”

Idris nodded. Willard should not have been able to hear fae arias, yet he could. His herbs should not have worked, yet they did. The ‘bright dreams’ he described could only be fae.

“Says he’s a prince, too,” Willard added, semi-casually.

“A fae prince?” said Idris, smiling. The hedge witch laughed, now.

“He says so.”

“Then I should be calling you ‘my lord.’”

“King and Circle, Idris, don’t be doing that.”

The nest and the glade were peaceful, warm. Idris watched the fireflies flit above them. Below, there was a noise, and there was the nobleman. He made a gesture towards the nest and a set of twig-made steps pulled itself from the nest’s structure and rewove so he could climb, and once he reached the feathers, he smiled amicably at Idris.

“They released you,” he said. “I am glad. The Silent Lord was most adamant that you joined us. Idris, is it?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Oh please,” said the nobleman, glancing at Willard. “None of that. My family calls me Joy-Of-Autumn, but you may call me Joa. My kin here says you have a difficult situation in your mortal realm and I am inclined to assist you.” Joa sat, crossed his legs and placed his hands casually on his knees. Vines climbed from the cuffs of his smart jacket like ancient lace, as if they were attached to his skin. “A magical item, Kin Willard says.”

Willard handed over the bag. Joa raised an eyebrow, reached inside and pulled out the shard. Strangely, in the fae realm, Idris heard nothing coming from it except a deep humming, like a hive of bees. The prince held out his palm and the shard lifted and span, glowing its green hue. A puff of a ghostly face burst from the side and died.

“I know this weapon,” Joa said softly. “It is very old.” He flicked his fingers like brushing away a cobweb, and the shard blossomed into a full dagger, slightly crooked at the end, with a black hilt and a set of runes inscribed just below. “We call this material Spirit Glass. It is forbidden to make, now. But once, we made items of Spirit Glass to aid our attempts to repel the mortal realm. I have not seen or touched it for centuries and it is worrisome to see it now.”

“How does it work?” said Idris.

“This particular weapon eats the souls of man. Releases them when commanded.” Joa frowned, span the weapon. “It must be filled with necromantic energy. It must kill. This dagger has killed many. It requires immense strength of will to use and a considerable bargain with the fae. Whoever is wielding this had to deal with our kin in order to do so.”

“That is why the weaver magic keeps it out,” said Idris to Willard. “It is not true necromancy, it is fae. Weaver magic protects mostly from fae.”

“You said there are other objects like this,” said Willard to his father. Joa nodded.

“There was a set.” Joa swirled his fingers in a circle and there, in his other hand, was a set of armour. “A helm, pauldrons and breastplate. A staff. This dagger.”

“What happened to it?”

“Lost. The helm was destroyed centuries ago, shattered and disintegrated. We took control of the staff so it could not harm anyone else. The pauldrons and the breastplate, I could not say.”

“It controls the spirits of things long dead,” Idris clarified, and Joa smiled and nodded.

“Of mortal men, but yes.”

“A dead foot?”

The prince laughed, now. “I do not see why not.”

“How do we stop it?” said Willard.

Joa diffused his illusions and held out the shard for the hedge witch.

“Feel it vibrate. Touch it.”

Willard pressed a finger to the shard’s surface and raised his eyebrows. “It… tingles.”

“The vibration, used against the full Spirit Dagger, with the fortitude of self that it requires to control it?” said Joa. “It should shatter them both. Spirit Glass destroys Spirit Glass.”

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“Theoretically,” said Idris quietly, “could I control it?”

The prince thought. Willard watched him carefully.

“Theoretically,” said Joy-Of-Autumn, “yes.” He took the shard, stood, threw it and caught it. “How would you like to wield it?”

“On the head of a cane. But it would need to be wrapped in a sapping crystal and I do not see how –“

“Child, you are in the realm of the fae,” Joa said, smiling. “Most things are possible. The sound in the shard is painful to you?”

“Very.”

“It will be fixed. Can you wait?”

“We can.”

“And…” He looked at Idris’s stump. “Let me send someone to make that more comfortable. Anything for friends of my kin. You may stroll the realm at your leisure, but accept no gifts, gentlemen. Eat nothing, drink only water. I will send The Silent Lord for you when the cane is complete.”

“What are you doing?” said Willard, once the nobleman was gone. “That Spirit Glass is right knotty stuff to mess with, Idris.”

“Well, if it can stop our assailant taking control of my dead foot again, I will risk it,” said Idris. He could not say he was not worried about what he had so casually asked for – fae weapons were not something he was knowledgeable about – but at the very least, having the shard contained in a cane might protect it from those who would wish to do harm with it.

“I dunno, Idris, I feel funny,” said Willard.

“That might be the mushroom.”

“The mushroom wore off hours ago. I just…” He sighed, picked a feather out of the nest. “A lot’s happened.”

“It has.”

Willard flopped back, so Idris followed, and they lay with pollen in their noses, gazing up at the golden sky through the canopy. It was gloriously beautiful; it did not surprise Idris at all that people who accidentally stepped into circles wanted to stay. He did not feel hungry, here, only thirsty. Even the pain from the torment he had put his body through the last few days had gone. There was a remarkably clarity of mind that he felt, as if all of his problems were unravelled by the absurdity of the place. There was light, and there were flowers, and all of that was good and true.

“He might be lying to me,” said Willard at last. “He might be lying to us. Can’t never really trust fae.”

“He seemed sincere to me.” Idris frowned. “Why would he lie about being your father?”

“I don’t know. Same reason nobody ever told me, I s’pose.”

Idris tilted his head so he could see Willard, lying on his back, his curls fanned out beneath his head and his hands on his chest.

“Maybe nobody knew what to say,” said Idris quietly. “Maybe it was difficult, for your mother. Joa said he loved her, when we first arrived.”

“Told me the same.” Willard sniffed, let out a long breath. “I asked him why he didn’t do nothing to help me after she died, and he didn’t know what to say. He said he were watching me all these years but he never… never came when I burned her or nothing.”

“My father has not spoken to me for twelve years,” Idris said.

It was quiet. The birds chirped. Somewhere, someone was singing a fae song.

“Your ma?” said Willard, and Idris shook her head.

“Her neither. They will not respond to my letters. I stopped sending them, truth be told.”

“All ‘cause you’re a dead-talker?”

“I think so. Perhaps… perhaps they are both dead. Maybe they are not receiving my letters. Maybe, once I killed my foot, they realised I am not their son. It could be any number of things. I try not to speculate.” Idris reached across, squeezed Willard’s shoulder. “Maybe your father is trying to right his wrongs, now.”

They waited for so long that Idris fell asleep. When he woke, there was a small, skinny figure with his hands weaving spells furiously, his little antlers bobbing as he worked; Willard stared in fascination. It took a few moments for Idris to realise that the weaver was doing something to his right leg, and he jumped, startling the tiny man away from his task – he scuttled off the nest and back out into the trees.

Idris lifted his leg, and was astonished to see a twig-woven cylinder, attached to his stump.

“Think that’s what Joa meant about a-making you more comfy,” said Willard, laughing. Idris waggled it, but it did not fall off. He tapped it twice on the nest floor and felt nothing. “What’s it like?”

“Sturdy.”

“Want to take it for a walk?”

“I feel like I should be more upset that someone attached a twig-foot to me while I was asleep,” said Idris, struggling up. “But I am in the realm of the fae and all of my inhibitions seem… loosened?”

“I feel right bright, here,” said Willard. “Like… floaty?”

“I wonder where Joa is.”

“Let’s go find him.”

Idris did not know how long he had been sleeping for and yet the sky beyond the trees was still bright and spring-yellow; there was, now, a floral breeze that managed only to make him sneeze. The twig foot he had been given, while it had little movement capabilities with its flat, round end, was not bad at all. It did not poke into his stump or shift about. Willard told him not to look too closely at it, and when Idris inquired why, the hedge witch just grinned and said, “And don’t ask, neither.”

The two men wandered the fae forest for some time, observing the behaviours of the people. Everywhere there was song and laughter. Occasionally, they almost upturned tiny carts or shop stalls underfoot or on trunks, or they bumped into an invisible being and had to bow low to beg their pardon. Besides that, they were largely ignored. Idris wondered if Joa had warned his kin away from interacting with the two mortals too closely. He wished he had a journal with him so he could draw some of the interactions he saw, make notes about the sizes and shapes of the new flora and fauna he admired.

“When do your antlers grow in?” Idris whispered to Willard, who tutted and shoved him in the ribs.

Eventually, The Silent Lord reappeared. Willard stopped in his tracks and bowed, and Idris copied; the giant stag inclined his head and turned, and they followed obediently.

The stag led them down a sheep track, with steep steps cut into the stone. The track spiralled down, past the forest floor, deep into the warm earth. Worms and centipedes slithered past Idris’s ear as they walked. When they reached flat ground once more, the stag used his antlers to push a curtain of weeping willow away, and the men walked through.

Beyond the curtain was what could only be the Fairy King’s throne room. Two enormous oak trees burst from the centre of a clearing, straight up and out of sight, their branches and leaves creating a glowing green ceiling that seemed made of stained glass. In the trunks of the oaks were two carved seats, adorned with cascades of white and lilac flowers. The carpet was thick moss, jewelled with yellow-and-orange wildflowers. Pixies, fauns and nymphs stood in clusters, eyes cast to The Silent Lord and the visitors. Joa stood facing the thrones, having a heated exchange with the two beings sitting in them.

“I think we upset the court,” Idris whispered to Willard.

“Aye.”

“What now?”

“Do not take another step forward, Dead-Talker,” warned a forbidding voice.

Idris stopped. The two fae in the thrones were looking his way, now.

He dropped to one knee as he felt that he should, lowered his head, and did not move. His heart pounded. For the first time, he wished he had some water to wet his gummy mouth.

“You are not welcome in our home,” the voice said again.

“Mother,” said Joa firmly.

“I will not lie to him,” the Fairy Queen said.

“He is my guest.”

“Then you chose a poor guest.”

“He wishes to destroy the Spirit Glass,” Joa insisted. “Is that not a common goal?”

“That is what he tells you,” said the Fairy Queen. “You cannot trust mortal men.”

“Let me give you my word,” Idris said loudly.

He did not know why it burst from him the way it did, but as soon as the sentence left him, he knew it was a terrible idea. He should not be inviting deals with the fae.

“Idris,” said Willard urgently.

“I will give you my word,” said Idris again. “Tell me your terms.”

It was silent. He felt it in his bones, where the vibration of his aria was supposed to be.

“Rise, Dead-Talker,” said the Fairy Queen.

Idris stood, placed his hands behind his back. Joa’s cheeks were thin and his eyes were narrowed, but he gestured for Idris to join him.

“Tell us your name, so we might know you better,” said the Fairy Queen.

From this distance, still, her features were indistinguishable. Idris thought her eyes were white, or maybe silver, and perhaps her hair was red like his or blonde, but it kept changing as he gazed upon her. The Fairy King, beside her, looked carved from diamond, with rings of coal where his eyes should be.

“My name is Sir Idris of Gleesdale.”

“That is not a name,” said the Fairy Queen.

“It is the name I have left.” Idris swallowed. “They once called me Idris Yanis Eremont. But that name was taken from me.”

“Eremont.” The Fairy Queen fell quiet. “I know the blood of your kin but I do not know yours.”

“Eremont blood runs through my veins.”

“Prove it.”

“I…” Idris sighed, embarrassed. “I cannot.”

Joa cleared his throat. “Hand,” he said.

Idris held out his hand. Joa took his wrist, and faster than Idris could complain, he used a small dagger to slice not only the sleeve of Idris’s shirt but also the skin underneath. A pixie darted beneath the stream of blood and caught some in a bowl. The Fairy Queen held out a delicate hand for the sample; the pixie placed it in her palm.

“It is Eremont blood,” she said softly. “Interesting.” The Fairy King turned his dark eyes upon Joa, who still held Idris’s arm. “Idris Eremont, what are you willing to give us?” the Fairy Queen said.

“I do not have much to give,” he said. “I do not know much about what the fae value.”

“You will take the Spirit Glass,” the Fairy Queen said, “and destroy the Spirit Glass. Repeat.”

“I will take the Spirit Glass,” said Idris. Even as he said it, something in the words felt sacred. They burned, like when he sang his aria; they pulled at his heart somehow. “And destroy the Spirit Glass.”

“You will not wield the Spirit Glass for evil or wealth.”

“I will not wield the Spirit Glass for evil or wealth.”

“You give permission for the Fairy Court to hold a poppet of your blood, bone, skin and hair.”

Idris breathed shallower, but he said it. “I give permission for the Fairy Court to hold a poppet of my blood, bone, skin and hair.”

“If you break our terms,” said the Fairy Queen, “we keep the poppet, which means we keep you.”

“If I break our terms, the Fairy Court keeps the poppet, which means you keep me.”

“If you hold true, we destroy the poppet, and your contract is fulfilled.”

“If I hold true, the Fairy Court destroys the poppet, and my contract is fulfilled.”

The words tasted like ash and left a heaviness on Idris’s shoulders, but the Fairy Queen appeared to smile and recline in her chair.

“Bone, skin, hair,” she ordered.

The same pixie that had taken the bowl of blood returned for a lock of Idris’s hair. Joa cut from the ponytail.

“This will hurt,” said the prince.

The twigs around Idris’s stump suddenly contracted. Idris gasped, reached down. He was certain he felt something burrowing beneath the skin, scraping at the inside of his leg. He could hardly even cry out; he retched, grabbed for Joa’s shoulder. The fae prince held him up while the twigs excavated bone from the inside of Idris’s skin, stripped a chunk of skin from the stump. He saw the branches wriggling, pervasive, beneath his shin, alien inside him.

And then, all at once, it was done. Breathless, dots sparking in front of his eyes, Idris watched the pixie take the artefacts and place them in the Fairy Queen’s waiting hand.

“Joy-Of-Autumn, my love,” she said, “fetch Idris Eremont his cane, won’t you?”

Joa took a deep breath, said, “Of course, Mother,” and extricated himself from Idris’s grip.