It turned out that the Queen of the Fey was fascinated by the idea of Tinder.

“But the other person can’t tell if you swiped left?” she asked.

Josh was sitting on a low couch at right angles to the sofa where the Queen was currently sprawled. She was holding one slender hand palm up in front of her, above which floated the illusion of a smartphone. Josh hadn’t described it to her. This was something she had already known.

“Not that easily,” he said, wrinkling his brow and trying to think how it worked. “If they already swiped right, they just won’t get a match with you, so I suppose they might realise if that doesn’t happen within a week or so.”

“I see.” The Queen pursed her mouth thoughtfully. “So one is free to seek romance without the threat of rejection. Tell me, is your world commensurately full of happy couples?”

“Er…” Josh adopted a comically thoughtful expression.

The last few hours had been surprisingly pleasant and companionable. Josh had even been offered tea, which was served in tiny china bowls, along with milk and some delicate lacy biscuits that tasted of oranges and lemons. He had been initially hesitant to accept fey food and drink, but the Queen had laughed, and informed him that he would suffer no ill effects from it. After all, she could beguile him quite happily without it.

Josh had immediately been distracted by the implications of that.

“There’s mind control magic?” he had asked, feeling a chill down his spine, not at the implied threat, but that it existed at all.

The Queen had shrugged one elegant shoulder. Everything gesture she made was graceful, all more so because it was completely unconscious. There was nothing studied about her. She simply was.

“There are no mental attributes in the character sheets,” Josh had pressed.

“A mage with healing powers might be able to trigger emotions, if they were skilled enough,” she had said. “Otherwise, all mental manipulation is achieved by tried and tested methods—sound, scent, gesture, words.” She had smiled. “And, of course, sex.”

Josh had felt himself flushing, but she had ignored that and continued.

“The most powerful of the arcane arts in that respect is illusion, since it can be used to deceive and mislead so effectively. The most powerful method of manipulation itself, however, is one’s knowledge of the other person’s motivations.”

What were the Queen’s motivations? Josh had wondered how many outlanders she had invited here in order to grill them about Earth. It felt like he was just a long line of many, given how much she already seemed to know. What did she want?

And how many questions would she let him ask? They seemed to be trading questions and answers. He was doing his best to keep count, because he didn’t want to owe any more favours.

“You don’t seem much like a runner to me,” the Queen said, suddenly switching from the subject of Tinder.

Josh blinked at her.

“I run a bit, because it increases my stats,” he said.

The Queen made an impatient gesture.

“Not running,” she said. “Runners. As in Bow Street. Or is this not an official investigation?”

Josh blinked at her some more, completely.

“Bow Street?”

“You said you were sent to Six Spires to investigate the disappearances,” the Queen pointed out.

That had been at their first meeting, near the stone circle, right after Josh had arrived.

“Yeah? But I don’t get the Bow Street reference.”

“A Bow Street Runner. A thief taker. Maybe you call it something else?”

“Like a private investigator?” he asked doubtfully. The term she was using suddenly clicked. “Weren’t Bow Street Runners from the eighteenth century or something?”

Josh had the hazy idea that they had been like the Pinkertons, except more official.

“A very long time ago indeed,” the Queen agreed, with an odd inflection in her voice. “So how did you come to be involved in this, then?”

“My cousin was a journalist and noticed a trend in the game—” Josh began, and then noticed that her brow had creased.

“Journalist? One who writes journals? A diarist?”

“He writes news stories,” Josh explained. “For newspapers?”

“Ah. I understand.”

“So, he got me to play the game and pretend to be lonely and bored, with inattentive parents. You know, like the profile of the missing teenagers?”

She had a curious, introspected look on her face.

“The dissatisfied,” she said. “The ones looking for something.”

“Yeah.”

“But neither you nor your cousin could have imagined the truth behind the disappearances.”

Josh deflated.

“No.”

“Are you hoping merely to report back to your cousin by seeking the power of the Dreamer? Or do you imagine you will be able to return to Earth?”

Josh hesitated, an unexpected lump in his throat. He swallowed.

“Both?” He studied her face, hoping for some sort of clue. Did she think either was feasible?

Now her expression was entirely neutral, and gave him not the slightest inkling of what she was thinking or feeling.

“Even the most powerful of us—the elder beings, that is—have never been able to re—” she stopped, as if her throat had closed up, and coughed. “Excuse me. Has never been able to reach Earth.” She paused, and added, “No-one did, until Tylas broke through the veil. But I have always believed that was intended.”

“Intended by who?”

The Queen blithely disregarded this question.

“You might consider this,” she said, “Why have none of the Elders sought the power of the Dreamer?”

Josh opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Can I ask why you haven’t?” he said, at last.

“You may,” she said, perfectly straight-faced. He drew in a breath to ask more directly, and then saw the twinkle in her eye. After a moment, her expression grew more serious and she said, “Because the power of the Dreamer heralds the end of the world.”

She left those words, and their import, hanging in the air. Meanwhile, a million questions tumbled through Josh’s head, like multiple lines of collapsing dominoes. Where did he even start?

At that point, a servant quietly opened the door, and when the Queen looked over, bowed and said, “Your Highness, it is nearly sunset.”

The Queen nodded and stood. Josh hastily got to his feet, aware that it was a point of Six Spires noble etiquette not to remain seated in the presence of a lady whilst she was standing. He glanced over at the setting sun, and his heart sank. Rob’s duel would now take place.

He became aware that the Queen was waiting for something, and belatedly offered her his arm, which she took.

“You’re not looking forward to this,” she said.

How could she tell? Probably because she was an elder being with oceans of experience in reading people. And also possessed, he thought, of oddly specific knowledge pertaining to eighteenth century England. How did she know about Bow Street Runners? Josh barely knew about them, and they were something from his own country, albeit from nearly three hundred years ago. She couldn’t have heard about them from another outlander, could she? She’d mentioned the litany of things she knew—mostly women’s rights and modern technology. She’d been asking her outlander guests about modern culture and modern things.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Which implied…

Just as he had the thought, they arrived in the great hall, which was thronged with fairy courtiers, all lined against the walls and whispering and giggling in ways that echoed from the distant ceiling, making it seem as if there were twice as many of them.

As soon as the Queen appeared at the top of the steps, they all sank down into deep bows or curtseys. The Queen sailed down the stairs as if floating on air, while Josh did his best not to stumble and trip over his own feet. She subtly guided him to a dais, upon which sat throne out of a medieval fairy tale, and beside it a stool. It was a comfortable stool, as these things went, with a wide seat and a red velvet cushion. The Queen sank onto the throne and gestured Josh towards the stool.

He sat, somewhat nervously, aware that he was getting curious glances from the assembled courtiers, some of which were not friendly.

There were side doors in the hall, one to the left and one to the right. The set on the right opened now, and a herald called out, “All welcome, the Champion of our dearest and most beloved Queen, the faithful Lady Charral of the Harvest!”

Immediately everyone broke out into cheers as Charral, the armoured knight who had threatened to kill Josh when he had first arrived, paced out into the centre of the hall. There was no drama or flourishing that you would expect of the fey. She looked human-shaped, instead of slender and spiky, the only sign of her eldritch nature being a faint red glow around her. She went down on one knee to the Queen, who said, “Rise, my Champion.”

The herald then turned to the opposite set of doors just as they opened.

“And here, the challenger, Sir Rob the Foul-Tongued, Hedge Knight and Cockerel’s Bane!”

Rob strode out, dressed in his battered plate armour.

The courtiers tittered. No-one cheered, so Josh stood up and clapped enthusiastically.

“Go, Rob!” he yelled.

Not that Rob seemed to hear any of it. He was focused only on Charral.

Josh became aware of the courtiers’ titters gradually dying down, in a circle spreading out from the dais. He looked at the Queen, but she didn’t appear to be doing anything. It was like watching frost creep outwards in a time-lapse video, except without any actual tangible ice. Was it disapproval of the courtiers’ mockery?

It was therefore into the middle of a hushed, anxious sort of silence that the herald cleared his throat.

“Who will stand as seconds to Lady Charral and her challenger?”

Charral’s second was one of the thickset fey with abnormally long arms, a bald head surrounded by tufts of grey hair and a mouth in an upturned moon shape. There didn’t seem to be anyone acting as second for Rob, so Josh hesitantly volunteered.

A second’s first responsibility was, apparently, to attempt a reconciliation between the principals of the duel. That technicality dispensed with—neither combatant bothered even to respond to the question—the swords were brought forth, borne on red satin pillows by servants. The duty of the seconds was to inspect them and ensure they were both identical. Josh had been expecting rapiers, but these were longswords, with plain hilts, and blades that were perfectly smooth and sharp and gleaming.

Josh summoned every scrap of magical sense he had, but there was no magic on the blades, and both looked the same to him.

The swords were offered to Charral and Rob. Charral merely took hers without comment, but Rob gave a few experimental swings, testing the weight, and it seemed to meet his approval, for he nodded sharply.

The herald stood between them.

“What will satisfy the honour of the combatants?”

“Final death,” Rob said, loudly and firmly.

Josh swung round to stare at him in consternation, but the herald acted as if this was perfectly normal, and looked at Charral inquiringly, who simply grunted agreement.

Rob’s face was hard and determined.

Josh found his fellow second tugging his arm and pulling him back towards the edge of the hall. If Rob killed Charral she would die, but if Charral killed Rob he would just resurrect in a week or two. So that was … not fair on Charral, but at least Rob would survive. But Rob had said 'final' death. Did that mean it was to a real death, with no resurrection option?

Charral looked at the Queen. Josh couldn’t see her expression below the helm, but the Queen raised her hand, as if in permission, and the red glow intensified, then vanished as if popped by a bubble.

Josh couldn’t help a quick intake of breath.

Charral was a player.

[Charral

Paladin of the Fey

Level 40

Player rank: 33

Gladiator rank: 302

Kills: 45 | Deaths 16

Karma: -900]

Not just a player, but a paladin, no less.

Rob’s stats hadn’t changed substantially, although his level had increased from 37 to 38, and his gladiator rank had dropped from 12 to 16. His gladiator rank was higher than Charral’s, and so was his kill score, but he was still two levels lower. The change in his stats suggested that during his time in the fey realm, he had encountered a great deal of monsters that gave him experience, but few other players.

The herald held up a handkerchief, and let it drop.

The two combatants stood perfectly still, staring at each other, Charral in a high guard, while Rob settled into a lower stance. The seconds tipped by, and nothing happened. Josh’s nerves felt like they were slowly being wound around a bobbin and tightened, inch by implacable inch.

The start of the fight was so sudden he almost missed it, a quick scuffle and a scrape of blades, and then Rob and Charral were backing away from each other and circling. Charral struck again, just as suddenly, and Josh blinked, because there were fading after images following her. Rob parried and disengaged with frantic haste. Charral was casting illusions, Josh realised, to disguise her sword play.

Rob narrowed his eyes, and muttered something that caused the courtiers nearest to him shuffle and whisper in response, by which Josh assumed it was some kind of magical skill. Whatever it was, it seemed to allow him to see through Charral’s deceptions.

Undeterred, Charral used one trick after another. She made the floor as slippery as ice beneath Rob’s feet. She cast small dust devils at his eyes. She enveloped herself in a globe of pure darkness, and then created a flash of light so bright that even Josh was blinded. For her last trick, she summoned two transparent dragons, who surrounded Rob and struck him with ghostly fangs. Whatever they did, they seemed to sap energy from him, making him stumble. He had no counter to that, but merely clutched his blade forged on grimly.

By that point, it was clear that Rob was on the defensive. He now backed away from Charral constantly, focusing on parrying rather than pressing the attack, and there was sweat dripping from his temple. When he evaded a strike, it seemed as if he did so by a closer margin every time.

Charral kept up the pace relentlessly. Her discipline was good. She didn’t allow overconfidence to betray her into extending too far, but kept up the attacks along with the icy floor slicks and the dust devils, choosing whichever one would offer her the greatest advantage at any particular moment. The globe of darkness and the flash of light didn’t make a re-appearance, by which Josh assumed they were expensive to cast, but she didn’t seem to need them.

She saw an opening and went for it, almost quicker than the eye could follow. Josh found himself on his feet, his voice hoarse as if he had shouted in alarm. But Rob had parried, and then his blade passed on, unchecked. He didn’t seem as if he was close enough to finish the thrust but he threw himself forward, one hand on the ground, his sword arm extended upwards as far as it would go. His blade blazed brightly—presumably illuminated by a skill of his own—and his sword plunged into Charral’s chest, straight through the plate of her armour.

Beside Josh, the Queen stood and said a word that Josh couldn’t hear.

There was a ringing, a strange not-sound, and a ripple that seemed to pass outwards from the duelling circle, making the hall shake. Josh staggered and nearly fell over the stool behind him. When the sound died away, Charral was frozen in place, still mid-combat, with Rob’s sword through her chest. Rob let go of his sword, which remained in place, and got warily to his feet, swinging around to face the Queen.

She was already gliding towards the centre of the hall. Josh hurried after her.

Once she arrived beside Charral’s frozen form, she came to a stop. Josh peeked at her face, and saw that her expression was cool and remote.

“You may claim your prize,” she said to Rob.

For the first time, Rob looked uncertain. Then he pressed his lips together, and swallowed.

“I need a ... I need a knife,” he said. The Queen didn’t respond to this, so Rob looked at Josh expectantly.

“What?” Josh said, and then understanding dawned. That was what Rob had meant by final death. “You want to … you want to take her player core? Why?”

“Because that’s what she does!” Rob cried. He nodded his head at Charral. “She fights anyone from Earth she comes across, and when she wins, she cuts them open and they die and don’t come back. She’s a fookin’ serial killer.”

Josh was still trying to process the idea that Rob was planning to cut Charral open.

“Uh … hang on a moment…” he said.

“I’ve waited long enough.” Rob’s face was dark with anger.

The Queen spoke.

“You do not need a knife,” she said, her voice low and calm. “Simply place your hand on her chest, and call it to you. It will come.”

Rob jerked his head towards the Queen. He started to speak, then paused. He took a couple of deep breaths, and Josh could see that he was relieved at not having to cut into a woman’s chest, even one he considered to be an evil serial killer, but determined not to admit it.

“That fey magic?” he asked.

“Only ask questions of the fey if you want to owe them for the answer,” Josh reminded him. Rob blinked.

“Right,” he said. “Yeah.”

Rob stretched his hand towards Charral, and Josh thought, I’m about to watch a woman being murdered. He didn’t know what to do. Was there anything that would persuade Rob not to follow through? Charral had agreed to the duel, and to a final death. If Charral truly was a horrible serial killer, as Rob claimed, did that make it right? Wasn’t there an alternative, like, for example, the Queen ordering her not to kill any more outlanders, or imprisoning her instead?

Rob’s hand was already on her chest.

“Rob,” Josh began, but was interrupted when Rob recoiled with an oath. His face, previously flushed from the duel, was now sheet white, and he was breathing heavily. He stared at his hand in horror.

“What the fook…” he said, “What the fook? That’s fooking sick.”

He turned to the Queen.

“Is this some fooking fairy trick?”

The courtiers recoiled with a series of shocked gasps, running around the hall like a Mexican wave.

The Queen merely shook her head.

“There is no trick. You demanded her life, and won it. It belongs to you. Why do you baulk at claiming what is rightfully yours?”

Rob stared at her.

“That’s her?” he asked. “That kid … that’s Charral?”

The Queen inclined her head.

“I want her to fooking die!” Rob said. “I don’t want to live her fooking life in a fooking vision! I don’t care what the fook happened to her. It’s no fooking excuse for what she did!”

Oh, Josh thought. He darted a glance at the Queen. That was clever. Josh had no idea what kind of traumatic events would produce someone like Charral, but presumably it wasn’t pleasant.

“Every single core that Charral took,” the Queen said slowly, her words dropping weightily into the hall like stones into a pond. “Every single core she took, she claimed in this way. She lived the sins of the ones she killed. Do you, having won hers, now refuse your prize?”

“I could just cut the fooking thing out instead.”

The Queen tilted her head.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, in a mildly inquiring tone of voice. “You are claiming not just her core, but her life. Do you fear that seeing her past will stay your hand? Are you so merciful towards your enemies? I assure you she committed every crime of which you accuse her.”

Rob stared at her.

“Jesus fooking Christ,” he said and turned away, pacing up and down.

The Queen waited patiently. After several moments, Rob seemed to come to a decision.

“Alright,” he snarled. “I’ll do it your fooking way. Happy now?”

He visibly girded himself, and then placed his hand on Charral’s chest once more.