“You don’t have the spirit gum in your bag by any chance, do you?” I called from the bathroom. This was precisely why I always kept all of my Renaissance faire accessories together—no spirit gum, no elf ears. No elf ears . . . and I’d miss out on the part of the faire that made me feel most, well, like me.

Surely there are some who don’t understand this, but from that first faire four years ago, when I was fitted for the moon elf ears by the very kind gay man near the champagne booth at the faire’s entrance, it felt weird not to wear them, almost as though my normal ears and their rounded tips were the true costume.

“No, I don’t think—actually—” My husband appeared at the hotel bathroom door, a tiny nail polish bottle of latex glue in hand.

My shoulders dropped as I sighed. “Thank you.” I’d already pinned my hair back and had only to paint on the glue, wave the ears in the air for the count of three, and—perfect. I grinned at my reflection in the mirror. Elven self, ready for the faire.

Charles smiled at me as he shrugged on his chain mail. “If my lady is ready?”

“That she is.”

I’d been looking forward to this year’s faire even more than most. It had been a rough year—a rough couple of years, in fact, but something about our personas for the faire, spending the day outside, and yes, a spot of day-drinking perhaps—it helped.

I latched onto Charles’s elbow as we strode through the parking lot, tugging at the edges of my woven shawl while he told me about the world he was designing for our new D&D characters. Illios, a world of ash and shadow, what had once been a plane of light, marked by a conflict between humans—Hume, they were called, and elves, Lifkin in this world, who had once been granted the favor of Ilona, titan of light. The Lifkin had fallen from their position of grace and were now ruled over by the Hume and their religious leaders, the Order of Light.

“I’m assuming you’d like to play an elf, though I should tell you that magic is quite rare in this world.” A crowd of people waited outside the faire gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of a long-dead king and performers before we all made our way inside for a day or merriment and make-believe.

“A ranger, perhaps, yes,” I said, tossing my scarf over my shoulder. She would be young, coming of age among her people, with thick, dark hair shot through with streaks of blue. Coppery eyes that glowed against the shadows of her world. “Draeza, I think. Draeza sai’Lune.”

“She sounds enchanting.” I could already see Draeza coming into being as we talked, as Charles told me the story of Illios and the fall of the floating elven cities four-to-five hundred years in the past, how the Hume had stepped into a position of power in that time, lording over the Lifkin. Draeza would need to lay low as she went into new cities lest she risk abuse from strangers who thought the king had been overly merciful in sparing the Lifkin at all. It was a cold world, rather like the chill of our festival day as clouds rolled in overhead, a gray blanket stretched over our morning.

The drums picked up from behind the false wall, tugging my thoughts from our upcoming game together. It had been months since we’d had time to play—work was absorbing more of our time than we would have wished, something else that seemed more and more true for others and ourselves. A problem it sounded like Draeza would have readily understood as well.

King Henry VIII emerged onto the platform, and I imagined how much more fun it would have been for us to have been in an alternate reality where it was Anne who beheaded her husband—I hope to write a novel along those lines one day about a young woman named Charlotte, the witchy heir of Anne’s power in a magical Appalachia—but there would be time for such things later.

Charles tugged me forward, our tickets pulled up on his phone.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“And a fine, fair welcome to our elven brethren,” the Lord Mayor called from above me as we stepped up to the ticket scanner.

I curtsied, bowing my head to the mayor and king. The mayor grinned, catching my eye. “Enjoy your day, lass,” he said with a wink, just as the clouds thickened overhead.

I turned my attention back to the ticket person who sported long elven ears as well, her brilliantly purple hair arranged over her shoulders. “Welcome home, miss,” she said, gesturing for me to follow after Charles.

“I’ll grab a map and meet you right over there.” I pointed to the far side of the entryway and Charles nodded, leading the way inside.

I tugged my cloak once more—blasted thing caught in the wind—and stepped through the entry of the faire—

Straight into another world.

The music of the faire had fallen away, faded, as though from a dream. Was it an ancient, Lifkin memory I had? The sort of music Aveela, the spirit-speaker, tended to hum as she hobbled about the village? The northern clime after our removal did no favors to her joints, I knew well enough.

Perception, +4. Luck, 10. 14 total.

I nearly caught a male voice on the breeze. “You catch sight of the small herd of ibex you’ve been following for three days now”—but that was strange as well. Why would a man—a Hume no less by the accent, narrate my thoughts?

“Bring back something good, Drae,” Mirdal had asked me before I left. Being a year older, I had my proving quest to perform first. He’d attempt his next autumn before the harvest moon. He and my aunt and uncle would grow worried if I didn’t return soon.

You scan the sparse mountainside above the treeline, quickly spying your prey.

I shook my head and picked my way down the narrow mountain pass. There was every possibility this was a fallen isla from the Old Ones, but the ibex traversed it as naturally as they did the true mountains. One of the babies would make a fine addition to our herd. I’d prove myself to my people, contribute toward our greater good, and become one with my clan. Draeza Lif-sai’Lune of the Second Circle Clan. It did have a nice ring to it.

A sharp, cold wind whipped between the mountain crags, catching at stray strands of hair. I tucked the blue-black locks back over the long point of my ear.

True, sai’Lune wasn’t the name I’d been born to inherit, but my parents had seen to it that I couldn’t carry on their name and live. They hadn’t. Their rebellion left Aunt and Uncle to raise me and Iredella. After the Baron’s soldiers took her and surrendered her to the Order, there was only me. I still have nightmares about that day—best not to think on it alone in the wilderness. Perhaps I could prove myself for both our sakes and, in this small way, redeem our family for all the death our parents had caused.

A patch of green caught my eye at the base of the slope the ibex traversed. But that couldn’t be, not this high up.

It was the green of the fields I dreamt of from before our removal to the north—dreams that ended in screams and blood but, at the beginning, carried so much light. I squatted down and pressed my hand into the shale of the mountainside. The rock bit into my palm, real as anything.

The ibex bleated to one another, making their way in a merry line to the patch of green. I quickened my pace, not wanting to lose them to the verdant bowl, however impossible it was.

Squinting did little to change the picture before me—it was not hazy at such a high altitude, and the sun had been obscured since the Fall, at least here in the north. But there they were—impossibly tall trees stretched out of the green bowl. The ibex began to hop down the branches, disappearing into the depths of the cavern the trees stretched out of.

I had never seen trees like these before, five different types, if my eyes weren’t deceiving me. The tallest of the set bore leaves with rounded edges, five or six bumps per side, ending in a rounded tip as though they’d been formed by the eddies of the river. Another’s leaves made simple, decisive points, and a third bore delicate, pointed fronds rather like fingers. Something about them hummed in memory—ash, oak, and thorn. Maple for another, but the name made little sense. How could they survive in such a climate—our trees bore needles year-round, their squat height allowing them to survive in the harsh north of Braieland. Their sap made our sugars and their logs provided the material of our huts.

I slung my bow over my shoulder as the last of the ibex disappeared below the green bowl that surrounded the trees. Perhaps the structure would have made sense were I one of the Old Ones—their islas bore strange cavities along the sides, cave-like structures and warrens. It was likely in one of these the ibex had made their home. From here, it looked as though they had crawled into the mouth of a cauldron filled with trees.

If I was successful in my quest, I would ask Aveela about the names I’d remembered and what they meant. How I would carry the ibex out of the tree-filled cauldron, I knew not, but I carried 50 feet of hempen rope within my pack, and I’d also brought calming herbs to feed to one of the baby ibex in case such an opportunity presented itself. I would find a way.