The letter that Armand had sent Evans, requesting his assistance with a friend who had also been cursed, gave them just enough to go on. His friend's name was Tombert de L'Isle; in three days' time, they were to be found at a week-long festival that was about a four days' ride away; and they were, if Armand's words were to be believed – and the tone of grudging admiration that tinged the letter was all the evidence there needed be – an incredibly famed musician.

Their road took them past the borders of a region that Percy was immediately charmed by. Not all would call it idyllic: it had nothing of the gentleness of rolling hills, and its rock-strewn dirt was far drier and dustier than the fertile earth that flushed with crops around Percy's town each summer. The jagged mountains he had noticed earlier in their travels grew higher, and their cliffsides more abrupt; the landscape was ripped and torn, from ragged crags to deep carved valleys. And there were countless rivers and streams carving everywhere at the earth too, cascading in thin trickling waterfalls guarded by ferns and moss of a young green. Everywhere was the scent of warmed pinewood, boxwood and lavender.

It was not a bucolic paradise, striving to please and charm its visitors, as was Percy's home, with quaint little villages where the well was placed just so, and the ivy grew just right, and the flowers lived tidy and well-behaved lives in fenced-in gardens. Here the flowers grew where they pleased, begged no permission, and made no apologies. There were forests for those who wished to get lost, caves for the shaded lonesome, and wide-open fields where settlements could grow; and for that reason alone, it was welcoming.

Every time they camped, between dusk and night, and dawn and morning, Valeria sat and watched, her sword on her lap, for the sorceress to appear to Myrtle; but she never did. It did not seem to surprise her, and Percy heard her, early one morning, muttering something about fae only showing themselves when their presence would rattle others. Myrtle kept knitting her scarf of a horrid yellow, and enlisted Evans to hold up the yarn, trusting that his unending patience would make him the perfect man for the task. And Percy watched them all in awe, wandering at how he had come to ride with them.

A day before they reached the destination Armand had pointed them to in his letter, they left their camp terribly early, hoping to escape the ear-piercing chatter of gossiping toads in a nearby pond. Dawn waned and warmed into day as they travelled, and though Myrtle kept looking over her shoulder, no sorceress appeared.

Riding his mare in a lazy trot, Percy glanced idly to a field on his left, and saw something shift in its stillness. He focused his stare on the tall grass by the road. It rippled everywhere, like golden fur on a stretching cat.

"There's something on that field" he said, squinting.

Valeria was closest to him, but she ignored him. It was slightly more insulting than being told it was probably just a restless gerbil.

"I know you never take me seriously when I say this, but it could be bandits" he insisted, tipping his nose upwards. "And one day, it will be, and I'll be able to say 'I told you so', which you'll hate. They do frequent roads too, you know, it's not just sorceress and fae. There's not exclusively mythical creatures about."

He could sense Valeria's growing annoyance, and it fed him well, for they had breakfasted in a hurry, and hunger still gnawed at his stomach. Evans trotted up to his side.

"What did you see exactly?"

Percy turned again to the field, and widened his eyes.

"Well, alright, so maybe it's not bandits. Yet. But there is something."

Out from the grass sprouted a dozen heads. Small heads, far too small to belong to human adults, but far too shaped and fashioned by years to belong to children. They wore brown berets, and some sported facial hair so supraphysically superb that the merest twitch of whiskers threatened the very fabric of reality. Because their bodies were hidden by the grass, their heads gave the impression of acorns gently bobbing on a stream. They all had their backs turned to the road, and their attention fixed on the field facing them. They seemed to be lying in wait for something.

The four of them stared at the heads for a long, silent moment.

"Have any of you ever been in these parts?" Myrtle asked at last.

No one answered her.

"Well – maybe that's a normal sight around here?" she suggested.

"Whoever they are and whatever they're doing, we could just – " Evans began.

One of the acorns turned in their direction, and a small pair of eyes sharpened into a glint upon spotting them. A word and a second later, and a row of loaded crossbows was pointed at them. Small crossbows, certainly, made to the size of their wielders; but, in Percy's frightened mind, no good had ever come of underestimating small sharp objects. The size of a blade alone never did blunt it.

"We mean you no harm" he blurted out, his hands springing up above his head.

The dozen heads shushed him. He gaped at them, outraged. He counted being shushed among one of the gravest insults that could be dealt to man. He was unsure whether being shushed while held at crossbow-point worsened the insult, or lessened it.

"Course you don't mean us no harm, we're the ones with the crossbows" one of them muttered, keeping his voice low.

"You are indeed. And you have us within perfect range. It would be an easy shot for skilled marksmen such as you" Evans remarked casually, as though he were complimenting the technique of an esteemed rival over billiards.

He had raised his hands too, but he held them up with such ease that it sapped any sign of fear out of it, making it look like a simple gesture of politeness. It enraged Percy.

The acorns nodded their little hats in agreement. They lowered their weapons one inch. Evans' words had comfortably sat them in a sense of superiority, and there was no cushier place in the world.

"Well then, are you here to join the ranks?" another asked.

"Once again, sir, you have us at an advantage" said Evans. "What ranks do you mean?"

"The believers in the jewel-smith, of course" replied the tiny man, holding up a small jeweller's glass that hung from a chain around his neck.

"Always fascinating to meet different cultures" Valeria murmured next to Percy. She sounded so deadpan that he truly could not tell whether or not she was joking.

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Evans did not flinch once at the oddness of the man's reply.

"And are you all believers in the jewel-smith, sirs?"

"Aye, that we are. We're waiting for them now."

"Waiting for them?"

"For the jewels. And we'll need to be quick, quicker than those filthy heathens on the other side. They're believes in the jewel-thief, daft sods."

Percy squinted at the far end of the field. He had not spotted them before, but there they were, another dozen small heads under small berets, biding their time.

"Would it inconvenience you if we watched a while as you go about your task?" Evans asked.

They deliberated for a moment. Percy turned to him with a quizzical look.

"Never any harm in admitting you're curious" Evans smiled.

"Very well" came the little folks' verdict. "Gives us great pleasure to have someone show interest in our craft, sir knight. Keep your distance, if ye be so kind; it is a delicate matter, and it takes very little to disturb it."

"Ye might care to sit down" added another, in that rolling, lilting accent that Percy had never heard before, as though their words' sailed about in a sea of their own. "It will be a while still before it gets here."

They sat down by the side of the road, where they had a good view of the field. It had no doubt once bore crops, but it now had greener, luscious dwellers, ferns and ivy and patches of moss. Percy and Myrtle shared some bread: he nibbled at it, while she ground it to perfectly round crumbs which she then used to build ant-sized pyramids. Valeria respected waiting as its own task, and devoted herself to it, entirely free of a pastime. Evans held the field in rapt attention.

The surrounding mountains draped the field in a cool shade, but, slowly, the rising sun poured morning over the valley. Percy saw the jewel-smith believers start to fidget in anticipation. The grass around them gave a restless rustle. When the young sunlight grew nearer to them, a murmur of awe melted into the warming air. They craned their necks and hoisted themselves on their tiptoes, eager to get a clearer view of the field. Percy could not understand what was exciting their devotion.

"Of course, the jewels" Evans breathed in a smile.

"What jewels?" Percy asked with growing frustration.

"We have to wait for them" Evans said. "They are not always there; not to our eyes, at least."

"Jewels that are not always there? Is this some sort of fae trick?"

"Everything is, if you're inclined to believe so."

"And if I'm not inclined?" Percy frowned.

"Then I suppose it's just dew" Evans smiled.

"... Dew?"

The field before them lit into dizzying sparks. Each blade of grass, each patch of nothing-but-weeds, was dressed and decked by the morning sun in glittering diamonds. It was not a new sight to Percy: they had fields where he came from, and dew, and sunlight; they had it all, safe for strange dwellers who would think to call it jewels.

"The jewel-smith!" cried in adoration the group that stood closest to them, their hands and eyes turned to the heavens in reverence and adoration.

The sun spilled its diamonds over the field, polishing each dew drop into the precious gleam Percy had often seen before in expensive rooms, upon expensive necks and wrists. For a few wondrous minutes, the entire field sparkled like a crowded ballroom. Percy fell prey to wonder at once, though he knew it was nothing but dew.

The glimmer started to fade and lose its light, like a ring sinking into a full well. The dew on the grass dried, and the little men's awed murmurs dried with it.

A tide of outraged clamour rose from the opposite group.

"Jewel-thief!" they shouted, their fingers pointing upwards.

The little men closest to Percy booed and banged their shields.

"What is happening?" he asked, looking from one group to the other.

"Those dippy fanatics think the sun steals the jewels" one of the men explained, with the patience of converts turned preachers. "They do not realize the sun is in fact the jewel-smith, and that without it, there would be no jewels. Curse those fools!"

Percy stared at the two warring factions at the field stretching between them. After letting their shouts loose, they grew weary of words and found them lacking, and turned to stones instead. They scavenged for rocks and pebbles and threw them at the sun, flinging their arms with such zeal that they sometimes smacked the noses of their brothers-in-arms. The shouts and stones brought irate growls from the believers in the jewel-smith, who drew forth their daggers and pitchforks and sharpened sticks, and held onto them like hungry hounds ready to be unleashed.

Percy dragged a hand through his face. He had a great regard for his time. He would not allow it to be wasted any more than he would allow a cart full of victuals to be dumped into a river. And he still deemed that the title of chosen one, whether or not it befell him or another, deserved the respect of expediency. Those little men, with their little squabbles and their even littler berets, were not in the least swift. They would waste his time, and Evans' time, and all their time if he let them.

He strode over to the centre of the field, ignoring his companions' protests, and stood between the two grunting and jeering groups. They swung their weapons and pitchforks wildly, but subsided a little when Percy stood in the no-man's land, his arms extended.

His appearance was enough to confuse the warring men into stillness, if not intimidate them into a peace. He opened his mouth, intending to say but a few simple words; yet, upon seeing so many waiting on his whim, his words put on weight. He would never let it be said that he had wasted an opportunity to give a speech.

"Cease this, good sirs!" he pleaded. "You have no reason to fight! I understand your quarrel. You," he turned to the group they had spoken to, his hands raised high, which gave him every air of a noble and dignified scarecrow, "you call the sun the jewel-smith, for it reveals the jewels in this field; and you" he turned to the other group, his hands smacking against a bumblebee that flew away disgruntled, "you accuse it of being a jewel-thief, for making the jewels vanish after shining its warmth on them. But there is nothing to fight over. It is merely dew, not jewels! An easy mistake to make, I concede."

He thought he could hear Myrtle grunt and Valeria plant her hand on her forehead. He had good hearing, but he had an even better sense for mockery.

The two groups of little men squeezed him very tight between their unrelenting stares.

"You dare say 'tis but dew?" one of them spoke at last, squinting.

"But it shines" countered one from the opposite group.

"Ah – yes, but that's a simple example of an erroneous statement" Percy countered.

He was perhaps, a part of him suggested, looking a little too pleased with the opportunity to correct them and point out their stupidity, but it was too late to rein himself in. Few things gained more traction than an ego rediscovering long-missed comforts.

"It's a simple syllogism, you see" he went on. "You might think, 'all jewels shine; all dew shines; therefore, dew is a jewel'. Or – well, alright, that's not a very correct one, but that's the general idea. You should think instead, 'every jewel shines, but not all that shines is a jewel'. Or – yes, I think."

His left hand fluttered about instinctively as the vengeful bumblebee raced back at him with a rather menacing sense of purpose. He shooed it away, and then realized he did not know what to do with his hands, as he never did, and chose to let one drop while the other stayed up, which rather threw his gravitas off-balance. He could see the two groups grow agitated. The wind was picking back up, too.

"A 'syllogism', you say?" one of the men who had spoken squinted harder, which had at first seemed impossible. "And what would that be, pray? Sounds like sorcery to me."

"... Sorcery?" Percy nearly choked on the word. "No, none of that, it's just an example of a fallacy."

A restless murmur stirred through the little men.

"Oh, a fallacy, ain't that right?" one of them cooed with a mocking grin.

"Aye, if a syllogism don't sound like sorcery, a fallacy definitely does" another on the opposite group agreed.

"He don't believe in the jewel-smith or the jewel-thief, and he don't even believe in jewels either, and he comes here tellin' us about fallalery?" grunted one of them, baring sharp teeth and a blunted dagger.

"Ain't nothin' I hate more than fallalery" concurred another on the other side, adjusting his beret with a ferocity that hinted at unresolved trauma with headwear.

The two factions started closing in on Percy with raised weapons, their bladed teeth smiling a sharp glint under the sunlight.

"Now wait a moment – "

He felt a hand yank him back. Valeria had grabbed the collar of his tunic and was now pulling him away and dragging him through the weeds.

"Now, Percy, you're going to walk first, and then you're going to run when I say, alright?" she muttered. "And after that, you can keep running for a good pair of minutes, which is how long I'll need to recover from my urge to shake you very hard."

He nodded, all of him contrite meekness, and followed her to where the others stood by the road. He heard the rustle of dozens of scurrying feet hurrying through the grass behind him. He walked a tad faster.

"Unbelievers! Heathens!"

They ran.