6. TO TRADE IN RIDDLES

Elyse blinked at him. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and stayed that way for a few moments, in silence. “A fae-wood?” she whispered, almost too softly for him to hear, as she flinched back from the trees surrounding them. “You ran us that deep into a fae-wood?”

There was little he could say to her. He had, and that was that.

To treat with the fae, to speak with them, that was one thing - and there were plenty who would swear off doing even that. It invited ill fortune, or even tragedy. The tricks and games of the fae could be harmless, or they could be heartless and cruel. They might knock over a milk bucket as a prank, or they might steal a child and never return them. Few enough were willing to deal with that sort of capriciousness, and many never even wanted the attention of the fae upon them because of it.

To walk into the woods of the fae, however, to come into their own home…that was another thing entirely. You could stumble upon such places by accident, deep parts of the forest that the fae had claimed. Often, unless you knew what to look for, you might wander too deep within them without ever knowing. And those who went too deep did not return except at the whims of the fae themselves. Such whims seldom enough turned towards setting people free. Indeed, it was often a good guess that if someone had disappeared into the woods, the fae had taken them. Martimeos watched Elyse stare wide-eyed at the red-leafed, quiet forest surrounding them, knowing she must be having those same thoughts.

But there had been no choice, as far as he could see. They were simply not going to get away from their pursuers otherwise. Within the fae-wood, those you did not keep a close eye on could vanish almost beneath your nose, leaving you isolated and alone in a forest you did not know. Fae-woods were places made for becoming lost. All it might take is for your companions to leave your sight for but a moment, and somehow they may end up far, far away from where you were, in the endless maze of silent trees. He had been able to use that against the demons, and now, for all he knew, they wandered some other part of the fae-wood, lost. And besides…

“Do not worry overmuch,” Martimeos told the witch, getting to his feet. He already felt rejuvenated. In fact, he felt downright lively once more. “I have been through fae-woods before, and come out of them. It is not so dire as the stories might tell you.” A small lie, perhaps. He would much rather be walking on the road, through plain and normal forest. He had known this as a fae-wood the moment he had seen them, bathing in the creek. If he thought them a perfectly safe option, he would have taken his path through them then. “Will you be able to walk soon?”

Elyse looked as if she wanted to ask questions, but she pulled up her dress to reveal her wounded ankle, red and swollen. Her shoes, he noticed, were quite crude, and looked stitched together from pale, stiff hide. “I do not think so, not even with the Art,” she admitted. “Except for very slowly, and hobbled. If I work my healing upon it for a time, it may be better, but even then I would limp and be no good for running.” She looked at him, and the corners of her mouth crooked upward in the hint of a smile. “You could carry me again, I suppose. I’ve never been handled so, before. You are strong, aren’t you?”

There was something about her tone that made him wonder if she was trying to tease him. “Not that strong,” he said, giving her a wink. “Carrying you so was tiring. I do have rope, though. We could tie you to my back if necessary.” The witch’s face fell, and he laughed at her. “Well, we won’t do that yet. Let us stay here a time and see how your healing fares.”

He sent up Flit to fly above the trees, though he could already guess what the redbird would see, and he was right: nothing but endless forest of red-leafed maple in all directions, with nary a sign of the woods they had come from. He did it more to encourage his familiar, than anything - Flit’s pride was deeply wounded from not preventing or spotting the ambush, and he was likely to sulk if not given something to do.

It was barely past midday, but it seemed they’d be stopping here for some time, so he made a little fire, that he might dry his boots and his socks. There was no use in trying to hide from the things in these woods. They knew they were here, and it was only a matter of time before they revealed themselves. He crouched down beside Elyse to watch intently as she worked the healing on her ankle, hoping to learn something of it.

To learn something of the Art from another was not such a straightforward thing. The Art spoke in many voices, so it was said, and one understanding of it may be entirely different from another, even to achieve the same ends. To Martimeos, working with flame felt like working with a great devouring hunger whose appetite must be carefully balanced and controlled. To another, it may feel like speaking directly with the flame itself, or commanding it like a soldier, or something else entirely. There were many ways of knowing the Art, many paths to wisdom and power, though all were winding and with many a dead end. You could be helped, you could even be brought to see the Art the way someone else did, but always you would know it your own way eventually.

Some crafts, though, were difficult and dire enough that the paths to success with them seemed fewer. Healing was one such as those. For Elyse, as it did for many, healing began with knowing the territory, knowing the body of the one you tried to heal. “I need to touch,” she told him, “Though I have heard of others who do not. But in touching, I can hear the blood sing in the veins, and I can feel the life of the one I try to mend. It is called the red song. A wound is a hole, a break in the red song. Like running your finger along smooth wood and coming across a splinter.”

Before one could heal, she told him, you had to learn to feel the red song of the body, and where you could best feel the blood beneath the skin was easiest. She guided him to remove his glove, and then took his hand and placed it against her slender neck, to feel the pulse there. “Try to feel the wound in my ankle,” she said.

But Martimeos, the moment he laid his hand on her neck, was worried about something else. The skin there was hot, alarmingly so. “Do you have a fever?” he asked, lifting his hand to her forehead, peering at her. She was hot there, too.

Her dark blue eyes widened, for a moment, staring into his, before she batted his hand away. “I don’t have a fever. Don’t you think I would know if I did?” she snapped, brushing unkempt bangs down across her forehead again. “Some folk have hotter blood than others, or did you not know that? Mine just runs a bit hotter than most. Now do you want to learn or not, Martimeos?”

She grabbed him and guided his hand to her neck once more, and this time she held it there. He was skeptical - for certain, some blood may be hotter than others, but this hot? But she showed no other signs of fever, and so he let it go. He did notice, as she held his hand there, that she wore an odd grin, and her arms shook slightly. He closed his eyes and tried to see what she saw, to feel what she felt; the song of the body, as she called it.

He could feel the beat of her heart through her neck, feel her pulse quicken, but was there a song in that rhythm? “If there is a song, I cannot hear it,” he said after a while, opening his eyes.

She let his hand go as he withdrew, but laughed oddly and whispered something beneath her breath - he thought he caught the word ‘harmless’. “It is not something you are likely to find on your first try,” she told him, speaking for him to hear. “Or on your hundredth, for that matter. It took me many times before I could hear it. Though I heard the song in myself, before I had heard it in others. I hear that for most, it is actually easier to hear in others first, but maybe for you it would be easier to try to hear the song in yourself as well.”

It was not just the Art she had to mend herself. From somewhere beneath the layers of her dress she produced a scrip, and within there were small bundles of herbs tied with twine. She plucked out a somewhat wilted shoot with densely-petaled purple flowers. False mimsy, she called it, for the swelling. When she bemoaned that she would have nothing to wrap her ankle with, Martimeos sighed, and opened his satchel. He did have an extra shirt tucked in there, but he had not wanted to cut it up for bandaging. But now he took a knife to it and cut it into long strips for her ankle. Of course, once she saw that he was sacrificing his shirt, she insisted that as long as he was cutting some of it up, he ought to cut more of it so he could have bandages for his wounds as well.

She had other herbs for that, and then water had to be heated to steep them, and by the time they were done - her with her ankle wrapped and bound, and he with bandages along his side and shoulder - the sun had slipped significantly further towards the horizon. And then it had seemed only prudent to eat, as even though they had had a good meal the night before, their flight this morning had stoked their hunger.

Even with one of the rabbits Cecil had caught earlier roasting on a spit over the fire, it seemed that with less to do, now, a pall had settled over their camp. Elyse was silent, chewing her lower lip fretfully. Even Cecil, who had at first wanted to explore the woods and had to be warned away from doing it, seemed nervous. He lay close by his witch’s side and stared out into the red forest, his tail flicking back and forth.

Without a task to distract, the sensation of being watched here was palpable, and only grew worse as the light slowly began to dim. The witch jerked her head to stare at every rustling of the wind through the leaves, every creak of a branch or snap of a twig. Even the crackling from the campfire earned a hard glare. Of course, Martimeos could not blame her. They were being watched, after all. They had been watched for some time.

Martimeos had first noticed them some time ago, when first he had started the campfire. Faces, peeking out from behind a tree, or sometimes even from within the branches. Sometimes from places where it did not make much sense for a face to be. A wicked smile and staring eyes glancing out from within a knothole within the trunk of a tree that, upon examination, would not have had room enough for a squirrel. Only ever glimpsed from the corner of the eye, and always gone in the time it took you to blink. Elyse had not seen them; the witch did not know how to look, and he had not thought to tell her of them. What would it have done, besides make her miserable? And it would not be long, now, anyway.

Just as he thought that, Flit gave a shrill cry. Martimeos looked down at the campfire, and there was a little man sitting across from it, leering at him. “Hello, Lob,” he said, quietly.

Elyse gasped, and Cecil rose, his back arching, letting out a low, rumbling caterwaul as he flexed his claws. The goblin sneered, and then there was a blade in his hands where there had not been one before, though it could not be said where it had come from. Long, and cruel and curved, notched and worn and pitted, and nearly as tall as Lob himself was. Martimeos was sure that despite the ruined appearance of the weapon that it would do a fine job of skinning a cat. “Hold, hold,” he said, raising a hand to ward off Cecil. Elyse grabbed her familiar, stroking him to calm him, though she remained staring at Lob with eyes nearly as wide as her cat’s. “We can talk to him.”

“Mayhap Lob does not feel like talking, wizard,” the little man growled. Up close he was even uglier than he had appeared across the creek. His skin was so twisted and wizened that he looked almost like a snarl of gnarled roots. His beady, bloodshot eyes squinted suspiciously, and he had not put his blade away. “Lob told you to be a-staying on your side of the creek, and you agreed, and yet here you are. Mayhap Lob feels like a-bleeding you dry.”

“You know this creature, Martimeos?” Elyse was staring at him, now, and there was a hint of reproach in her voice.

He nodded, keeping one eye on Lob. “I met him not long before we first talked, by the creek, yesterday-”

“Lob’s creek,” the little old man snapped. He pulled his scarlet cloak about him and waggled his blade menacingly. “Yon wizard promised Lob that he’d stay on his bank. Lob did not even reproach him for letting his wench fill her skins with my water-”

“Wench?” Elyse snapped. That, at least, had seemed to rob some of the fear from her. Lob simply ignored her, though.

“-and despite all of Lob’s graciousness, despite the wizard’s worthless promise, he comes a-tramping and a-fouling up my wood.” The goblin gnashed his teeth and spat, and Martimeos could see, from this distance, that beneath his snowy beard, his yellowed, crooked teeth came to fine points.

Martimeos inclined his head, spreading his hands before him apologetically. “You are right, of course,” he said, stiffening a bit when he heard Elyse muttering from behind him. “I will explain myself, but for now, could I offer you some rabbit?”

The goblin snarled and grumbled beneath his breath, but he did eye the meat greedily as Martimeos took the rabbit off the spit and began cutting a steaming leg free. Soon enough, as he had hoped, the little fae had put up his blade, leaning it against a rock, and was chewing greedily, grease dripping down his beard. Martimeos had taken up a seat, cross-legged, next to Elyse. Some of the tension seemed to have gone out of the witch, and some of the fear too, now that Lob had appeared. Indeed, she stared at the little man with something that seemed like fascination. “A beginning,” the goblin said airily, waving the leg around. “A beginning of your apology to Lob.”

“It really was not our intent to trespass, only that there was the most dire need,” Martimeos told him, doing his best to keep his tone diffident. No need to conjure more trouble for themselves than they had already had to deal with. “We found ourselves pursued by demons, and with no way to escape but to come to the fae-wood.”

“Yes, demons,” Lob grumbled. “You both stink of them.” When Elyse frowned and made a small noise of disapproval, the goblin gave her an unpleasant grin. “You, especially, reek,” he told her with spiteful glee.

The witch took a sharp breath. That last must have pricked her anger. Martimeos spoke over her before she could spend it on giving Lob a tongue-lashing. “This is Elyse, who also flees from the demons, and has offered me her aid. A witch,” he added, meaningfully.

Lob grumbled, his mouth full of rabbit-meat. “Lob knows that,” he said once he had swallowed. “Lob knows a witch and her familiar when he sees them.” Still, the goblin seemed a little subdued. He could only be so brave in front of two who both knew the Art. Truth be told, Martimeos had been almost glad to see the little man. Lob was certainly not the only fae in these woods, and there could be many who would have been much worse to death with. He wasn’t certain why the goblin had been the one sent to treat with them, but he thought it may have actually been because he had been the first to speak to them, and that he already had issue because of the broken promise. The way fae thought of things, that may have given Lob the right. In a way, that broken promise might have been a boon.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Of course, the way fae thought of things, they might have simply done it because they thought it funny to see Lob natter away at a witch and a wizard both. And the broken promise was not that much a boon. It would have been far better to pass unmolested. That was never a guarantee in a fae-wood, in fact it was unlikely, but he had been left in peace in such before.

Lob finished picking the last of the meat the rabbit-leg, and he gnawed at the bone now with his fine, sharp teeth. Martimeos offered him another, and the goblin leapt at it greedily, throwing the bone into the fire. “I would not have broken my promise except for the demons,” he said, as Lob settled back, noisily working on his new meat. “For that, you have my deepest apology. We simply seek a path by which we may avoid them.”

Lob shot him a dark look, those beady little eyes too crafty by far. Still, the goblin’s demeanor seemed to be calming the more meat he was fed. “Dragging demons into my woods with you. Fool things have not learned their lesson.”

“Have these demons wandered into your woods before?” Elyse asked suddenly. She had dragged Cecil into her lap, and the familiar was purring deeply, but still kept his eyes pinned to Lob and his claws free.

“That they have, pretty one.” The goblin licked grease from his fingers, before wiping them on his beard. “Other demons who live here, they are smart enough not to come into Lob’s wood. These though, they have not been here long. They came before into his woods, a-stalking and a-hunting.” He laid a crooked finger alongside his overlarge nose and winked at her. “But Lob has friends, you know. Lob’s friends taught them the price of trespass, oh yes. They did not come again. Not until they chased you in, hmm. Foolish things.” He laughed now, and his gaze switched back to Martimeos. “But a clever boy to lose them so. Hmm. Well, we will see just how clever it was, won’t we.”

Martimeos felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the mention of Lob’s ‘friends’. “We were wounded in the chase. All we seek is permission to rest, and then we will leave.”

“Oh you will, wizard? Do you promise?” Lob tutted as he tore the last of the meat from his second rabbit leg and threw the bone into the fire with a shower of sparks. “Hmm. Lob does not know that he can trust you in this. If you are a-wanting to sleep here, then you will pay your price ahead of time.”

A price from the fae would not be in coin. “Name it, then.”

Lob stood, slapping his hands against a full belly, and belched. He picked up his blade, grounding its point, and leaned back against it, an elbow propped on the hilt. “Lob understands your predicament,” he said, his voice full of mock sympathy. “So even though he has every right to skin you alive, he is willing to barter. Lob is a collector of riddles, you see. If you can give Lob a new riddle, one that he does not know the answer to, he would be glad to give you permission to rest here safely, for a night.”

“That does not seem such a bad trade,” Elyse said hopefully.

Lob treated her to a bland grin. “Did Lob mention,” he said idly, “That if you are not a-thinking of one proper and quick, then his friends will have to be a-giving you the same lesson we are a-giving to demons. Three tries each, and then off with your heads.”

The branches above them shook violently, showering them with a rain of blood-red leaves. Laughter, as if from a dozen mouths, rang out through the forest, sounding as if it were coming from directly above them, though they could see nothing there. Flit cried out in alarm, and flew down to perch, offended, on Martimeos’ shoulder. He put on a brave front, but Martimeos could tell from the trembling that his familiar was frightened by whatever had sat next to him, apparently invisible, in the branches.

The goblin cackled, hefting his blade, and danced a little caper, full of vim and vigor. “Go on then, and give your best! Lob thinks he’ll see your blood on this day.”

Martimeos reached out with the Art, to touch the campfire’s hunger, and it roared upward as he fed it. Lob jumped back, cowering, hissing, beady eyes burning with the flame. He had hoped that reminding the goblin that he was dealing with the Art might have cowed him, but all too soon the little man’s crafty, wicked smile returned, as the branches above shook and invisible voices tittered. “If the two of you don’t want to make a trade, go ahead!” he screeched. “My friends - Lob’s friends will skin you alive! I’ll make new shoes from your hide!”

It was no good for them, if the fae had such confidence. He thought Lob would have likely fled if he did not think his threats had weight to back them up. “Simply stoking the fire,” he said, and tugged his red scarf tighter around his neck as Lob snarled at him.“A chill comes on, or can’t you feel it?”

He reached for his satchel, to retrieve his pipe. As he lit it, Elyse leaned over to whisper in his ear, keeping one wary eye on Lob. “What shall we do, wizard? Should we run?”

Martimeos drew long on his pipe, and breathed out a ring of smoke that whirled and grew, thinner and dimmer, as it floated upwards, until it caught the heat rising from the campfire and was torn to tatters. “I think,” he said quietly to her, “We ought to come up with a good riddle, or we’re likely to be killed.”

The witch stared at him for a long moment with a mute expression, the shadows cast from the campfire dancing on her face. Then she turned to Lob and said, “I have one for you. I know of two brothers who never leave each other’s side. Only one will ever show himself, and the other speaks for them both. What are their names?”

“Thunder and lightning,” the goblin replied dryly, creeping back towards the flames of the campfire, the moment she had stopped speaking. He gave her an unpleasantly sharp frown.“Lob is a-hoping you have better than that.”

Elyse sat back, clutching Cecil, her hands kneading at his fur in worry. Martimeos could not help but feel badly for her. He realized with a bolt of guilt that very likely, her traveling with him had actually been a poor choice on her part. She had not done badly for herself, at least by her telling, staying off the road and keeping herself hidden in the dense woods with glamor, though it was slow going. Now, merely a day after she had joined with him, she had been attacked, wounded, and now bartered for her life with a fae. He almost chuckled aloud when remembering his notion that he would help see her safely out of the forest. Likely she would have been safer had she never seen him.

Or, he knew very well, the vulture-men might have found her, smelled her out, and then very likely she would have been dead as dust. Still, he could not help but feel some responsibility for her. It had been he who had carried her into the fae-wood, and he who had told her that they could be traveled. He blew rich, thick smoke from his nostrils and gestured at Lob with his pipe. “Chew on this one, then, goblin. A thousand armies might trample me, yet still I remain unbowed. I am a ribbon that no blade can cut. Tell me what I am.”

Lob paused for a moment, his beady eyes squinting and staring off into the distance, as he muttered to himself, stroking his dirtied beard. The leaves around them rustled, and he did not know whether it was the wind, or Lob’s friends. “A road, a road!” the little man cried out suddenly, flashing a crooked, triumphant grin. “That’s one each from you now,” he went on, wagging a finger at them, and all at once it seemed that the high-hanging branches of the maples now crowded in around them, creaking, closing in. “Two more from each of you now, quick-quick.”

Martimeos had been about to argue the point with him - it was not fair that they had to come up with a riddle as quickly as possible, while Lob could ponder their answers for as long as he wanted, and a fae might be persuaded on the issue of fairness - but before he could say anything, Elyse had opened her mouth to tell another riddle. “There is a thing that nothing is, and yet it has a name. It's sometimes tall and sometimes short, joins our talks, joins our sport, and plays at every game.”

“A shadow,” the goblin replied with a snort. “Everyone knows that one. Is this all you know?” He shook his head, giving her a pitying smile. “Not a very good showing! Such a shame too. You are a pretty one. Lob will be sad to see you go. Perhaps he’ll make a bag from your pretty face, to remember you by.”

Elyse’s expression grew so dark that it seemed as if the sun itself dimmed, but at least she seemed to be angry, rather than afraid. Martimeos, for his part, puffed silently at his pipe, thinking not of riddles, but of what they might be able to do if they failed this contest. He could spread the campfire to the forest, hoist Elyse and run, and that might save them. For all of a dozen paces. He sighed.“A careless fool gives it away, and an honest man can steal it. It can burn, and can be torn to pieces by the kind and cruel alike, and yet it will remain exactly as it was, locked in a chest with no key.”

This time, a worried look passed over Lob’s gnarled face, and he grew very quiet and still, looking at the ground, his lips moving as he thought to himself. The leaves surrounding them were perfectly still, as well, as if waiting, straining to hear the answer. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

“Well then, do you have it?” Elyse asked him, and there was a hidden razor in her voice that made Martimeos worry that she might not intend to let the goblin leave alive, even if they did win the contest. “I know what it is. It’s simple, isn’t it?”

“A moment, a moment,” Lob snapped at her, biting at his thumb.

“You’ve had more time than is fair-” Martimeos started, but as soon as he did, the little man’s eyes lit up.

“A heart!” the fae crowed, and this time, there was no mistaking it. The leaves and branches surrounding them really did crowd in closer, branches weaving in amongst each other, until it seemed as if they were surrounded by a wall woven of black wood and brilliant red leaves. Cecil gave a low, moaning growl, his eyes growing wide, though the cat remained in Elyse’s arms. Flit, perched on Martimeos’ shoulder, cursed and fluttered his wings as the sky was closed off. It almost felt as if they were sealed within a room where the walls were autumn itself, the light dimmed as the sun was hidden. And all amongst the leaves voices laughed, and giggled, and tittered at them, and now Martimeos thought he could see those faces again, hidden among them, with unpleasant, sharp smiles.

“One more,” Lob told them, the eagerness clear in his voice now. “One more from each of you, and then you’re done. Then Lob’s friends do their work.” In the lessened light, he looked more monstrous than he did before, less a little man than a little creature. He turned towards Elyse, and gave her a mocking bow. “We may as well hear yours now, witchling, and Lob will eat his own ears if he can’t solve it in less than three breaths.”

Elyse did not even pause to think, and her voice dripped venom as she spoke. “I have touched everything you have ever eaten or drank,” she said, staring intently at the goblin, her dark blue eyes glittering sharply. “You will spend your life trying to be rid of me, but in the end I will swallow you whole.”

Lob opened his mouth, as if he confidently knew the answer, but then stopped. He shut his mouth, frowned, then flicked his eyes to Elyse, set his blade aside and sat down to think. A small smile twitched upwards at the edge of the witch’s lips, but otherwise she merely continued to give him that dark, poisonous stare.

Martimeos thought on the riddle himself, a moment. He had the impression that Elyse might have made it up on the spot, and the fae might cry foul if she had chosen an answer they could never guess or otherwise riddled poorly. “Oho,” he said with a chuckle after a while, “I think I know it. I like this one.” The witch smiled, pleased with the praise, though she never removed her eyes from the fae.

“Will you be silent!” Lob snarled at him. “I am trying to think!” The goblin looked back into the fire, beating his forehead with his fists. “Idiot, stupid foolish loud wizard!”

Long moments passed with nothing but the sound of the fire and Lob’s frustrated mutterings beneath his breath. “I think that’s been longer than three breaths,” Elyse said after a time.

“Shut up!” Lob shouted. “Cheating, cheating it is, to distract me so!”

Whispers passed through the leaves that had closed in on them. No mocking laughter this time, only a babbling susurrus of speech, just out of the range of hearing. Lob’s eyes glanced around, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Whatever he heard, it seemed he had not liked. “I think,” Martimeos said, seizing on the moment, “Your time is up-”

“A bear!” Lob cried out. “It is a bear, who drinks from the same pond you do! A rotten riddle, I say! It does not count!”

“That is not the answer,” Elyse told the gnarled little man, and she seemed very darkly pleased with herself, like a snake that has wrapped itself around a fine meal. “Martimeos, would you like to tell him?”

He was somewhat surprised that the witch was giving him the honor, but he did not pause. “Well, I was not sure what answer you have in mind, but a fine one I thought of was ‘dirt’.”

The witch gave him a beaming smile - as if all the wrath and anger she clearly had for Lob had not existed at all - and said “That was my answer too.”

All at once, the enclosing branches drew back; the whispering and the laughter disappeared, and the light of the day shone down on them once more unblocked, though it was by now drawing down towards evening. Whispers and echoing laughter, as if from a very long distance, blew through the leaves as if on a breeze, though this time it did not seem as if the laughter was directed at them. Lob winced beneath it, and it sound very mocking, very cruel.

And then they were gone, silent, and the wood was simply the wood once more; the trees were simply the trees, and they were left alone with a sulking Lob. Or at least, Martimeos thought so - he supposed that Lob’s friends could still be watching.

“A fine riddle,” the goblin admitted half-heartedly, pulling the hood of his crimson cloak up so that most of his face was hidden in it. He hefted his blade over his shoulder, kicking at the dirt. “Lob supposes that you earned it, yes. He gives you permission to rest here, hmm.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that was all you owed us, was it?” Elyse’s voice was a mockery of lightheartedness. The moment her attention shifted back to the fae, it was like her dark mood re-emerged. The prim smile she gave the little man could have suited a snake. “I think I heard you say that you would…what was it? Eat your own ears if you could not solve my riddle in three breaths?”

Lob gaped at her, mortified. He whirled at the sound of Martimeos standing and baring steel, drawing his sword halfway from its sheath. “Don’t worry,” the wizard told him, taking a step forward. “We aren’t cruel. We won’t make you cut your ears off yourself.”

With a strangled yell, the little man leapt straight up; if he ever landed on the ground, they could not see where. Just like that, he was gone.

Elyse let out a shaky, unsteady laugh, and clasped her hands to her chest. “I feel like my heart will leap out my throat,” she breathed, and then laughed again. “The fae. The fae!”

“A little one, a goblin,” Martimeos replied, removing his pipe from his mouth. Several times during that riddling, he had very nearly bitten through the stem. “But yes, the fae.”

The witch gave that shaky laugh again, and finally released Cecil. Where she had clutched her familiar, his fur was worried into tangled knots; he looked at his mistress reproachfully. “I have never dealt with fae before, but so often have I read of them,” she murmured. “I have heard they can be cruel and tricksome, but…” she trailed off, looking off into the distance. She shook her head, as if clearing her thoughts, and let that lie. “I do wonder if Lob would have actually eaten his ears. I think I would have liked to have seen that.”

“He will be back,” Martimeos said dryly. Lob could very well try to eat his own ears - he had seen stranger things from the fae - but he doubted the witch would really have liked to see it happen. “He will remember that boast, or his friends will remember it for him, and he will come to beg off it. You did very well, for one so new to the fae. Are you sure you had not dealt with them before?”

“I think I would have remembered if I had,” she replied, with just a hint of scorn. “How often have you dealt with them, wizard? You scarcely seemed worried at all.” The scorn faded, and the witch gave him a curious look. “Already, you bring me interesting places.”

What did she mean by that? “I was worried enough,” he told her, “And I’ve dealt with them enough. I am just glad that it was the likes of Lob that we had to deal with; it could have been much worse.” He saw the questions rising in her eyes, and he hurried over them. “Still, we have earned ourselves a night’s rest here, which I think should be all that we dare take. Regardless of how your ankle is, we must move in the morning.”

Elyse agreed with him on that, and in the last light of the day, they practiced glamor together. It turned out that while she may be more taught in the craft, there were some things he knew about it that she did not. A fae-wood was a good place to practice such magics. Here, it came more naturally to conceal and lie.