“There’s no such thing as Feylanders. They’re made up.” Adria refused to believe that the genial man that stood before her was anything but human. Her Ma was spouting a steady stream of nonsense about faeries and Feylanders in the back of her head.

“Young lady, I assure you that we are real. Do I not stand before you, living and breathing?” Anders replied softly. The light he had summoned was fading slowly but she could still make out the wry smile on his face. He pulled back the shaggy dark hair that covered his ears, exposing a slightly pointed tip.

“Just because you have pointy ears doesn’t make you a faerie! There was a boy in my village that was born with a cloven lip; that doesn’t make him a rabbit!” Her voice was quavering, exposing how shaken she was. The past few hours seemed like a dream to her.

“Believe me or don’t, but we must start moving again. I don’t want to run into more of these things.” Anders gaze went to the fallen nightoak. “Where there is one, there are usually more.” He gestured for her to climb back onto his pony. He glanced around the dark woods, an arrow knocked in his bow.

Stooping, she picked up her sword and slid it back into the sheath on her belt. She could hear her brother Dorry laughing at her dropping her sword. Dorry always said she’d be useless in a real fight, even though she regularly drubbed him when they fought in the yard with sticks. Thinking of Dorry made tears well up in her eyes, making her vision blurry. It was too much- first her family and now a Feylander. Dorry, of course, would have believed what Anders told her, he believed everything from every tall tale that Father had told, from faeries to nightoaks to the Beast o’ the Woods- a horrible monster that legend told lived in the Cerean Forest.

“If you’re a faerie, why are you here?” She pulled herself astride his pony again, grateful to be off her feet, which were starting to ache. Anders grabbed the mule’s traces and clucked at the pony, heading down the trail again.

“I’d rather you don’t call me a faerie. Feylander or one of the Children is fine, but I’d prefer Anders. Suffice to say, I’m not here to steal babies or grant wishes or anything silly like the stories you’ve no doubt heard. I am on official business for Amanthala, First Daughter of the Children. I’m somewhat of a diplomat.”

Adria remained silent for a few moments, digesting everything that Anders said. Ma was practically screaming in her ear about how evil faeries were. Sometimes she wished she could just tell her Ma to keep quiet, but somehow speaking out loud to a voice in her head crossed a line of sanity that she wasn’t ready to leave behind yet. She settled for just trying to tune her Ma’s voice out, which made her head hurt even worse.

“A diplomat to who? Since the Breaking, there’s no King or Queen. The Free Knights are mostly gone, just a few old men in armor carrying a banner that means next to nothing. There’s the Bandit Lord of Port Gweren, but I should think that would be a dangerous proposition at best.”

“No, not the Bandit Lord. I’m looking for someone; I just don’t know who or where he is yet.”

“You’re looking for someone but you don’t know who? That seems silly. How will you know if you find him?” Her thoughts were growing fuzzy and her eyes were heavy.

“I’ll know, child.” Anders voice seemed to come from far away. The swaying of the pony was relaxing. She was so unbelievably tired.

Anders glanced behind him, smiled to himself that her chin was on her chest and her eyes closed. It was the best thing for her really. The mule looked back at her as well, almost fondly, it seemed to him.

His thoughts turned to the man whom he sought. Amanthala had given him next to nothing to go on. She thought he was probably middle aged. The one distinguishing mark would be his eyes she said. The irises would be bleached white – not the milky white of the born blind, but the bleached white of bone left in the desert sun for years. Yveredosum in the Children’s native tongue - the demon’s mark. Only those whose evil was all consuming carried the Yveredosum. Most cultures cast out those who carried the mark. Most- but not all. He was loath to cross the threshold of the Wei Mountains. The Cabalists of the Shansa Province were known to court the favors of demons, and had little love for outsiders, let alone of the Children. It would be the last place that he looked if he had to find this man.

Thus far he had chased a few rumors with nothing to show for it. There had been a blind man in Cath Cathol, and his eyes had indeed been white, but he was not the one he sought. Instead he had done his best to comfort the blind man, a beggar who sat in the mud asking for alms daily. While he had seemed frail to the eye, Anders could tell the blind man was shockingly healthy and still had many years left in him. He left Cath Cathol with nothing to show for it but another dead end.

He had no leads to chase after that for some time. He had spent some time with the pirates on the coast of the Westlands, for they were a great source of information. The Children didn’t enjoy the open water, though, so the weeks he had spent on various boats were torturous at best. Still the constant swaying of the boat and the ever-present queasiness was preferable to the nights in the various ports of the Westland amongst the worst sort of humanity.

One night in particular haunted him. He had left the Dire Moon, a Corvani pirate vessel that landed with a hold full of good Tyranish wool that they had ‘acquired’ with a minimal of blood loss. Because of this, the crew felt a little more confident than they deserved and they descended on the Westland port of Red River (named so for the color of the tributary that ran into the sea here) like a plague of locusts. They drank and whored and fought with an air of invulnerability.

He had done his best to avoid the main thoroughfare of taverns where the rough sort tended to congregate, believing that would keep him safe. He had found a small inn near the edge of town with the unlikely name of “The Horse’s Arse”. When he walked in, the common room was nearly empty, with only a few men drinking in the corner near the fire and an old man behind the bar, glowering at him.

Ignoring the man’s expression, he took a seat at the bar, leaving the hood on his cloak up, all the better to conceal his distinctive ears. Placing a silver mark on the rough counter, he ordered a ewer of wine.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat as well?” The grizzled old bartender made the mark disappear like a magic trick. Anders stomach still seemed to be rocking with the waves and the thought of food made it clench uncomfortably. He shook his head, afraid to open his mouth for the moment. The bartender grunted and then turned away.

Anders took the opportunity to survey the room a bit more. The men looked like common traders, dressed in merchant garb. They had fallen quiet at his entry, and remained so, alternately looking at him and the mugs of ale in front of them. Something tugged at him, something that didn’t sit right. He couldn’t quite figure what it was though.

The rest of the room was fairly unimpressive. No decorations were on the walls, and the dark wood was coated with the residue of wood smoke. He guessed that they were rarely washed.

The surly old man returned, his expression no more welcoming than before. Plopping down a clay ewer and a single less than clean glass, he leaned against the wall behind the bar, openly staring at Anders.

Doing his best to ignore the uncomfortable stares of both the merchants and the bartender, he poured himself a glass of the red wine. Taking a sip, he nearly spat it back out, it was more vinegar than wine. The bartender grinned at him, exposing a mouthful of brown-black teeth.

“Everything to your liking, sir?” The man’s breath washed over him like a cloud of sour milk, pushing his stomach closer to the breaking point. Anders set the wine glass down, and adjusted his hood. The air was hot in here, and his neck was burning.

“Yes, ‘tis fine, just stronger than I’m used to.” Anders did his best to smile at the wretched man. “So tell me, how long have you owned this fine establishment?”

The wretch guffawed. “This shithole was left to me by my Da’ and I curse him for it every day. It runs my life and is nothing but misery to me. None but the lowest come in here, and then they complain about the ale being watery and the food being inedible.”

He was less than surprised to hear this. The bartender continued to complain at him, a litany of despondence and ungratefulness towards anyone and everyone in Red River. Anders took a few more careful sips of the wine, his stomach finally coming back under control after being off his feet for most of an hour. During that time, the merchants didn’t speak and the bartender rarely stopped his tirade.

Outside the bar on the road, came a loud crash. Anders spun in his chair, hand automatically dropping to the long curved knife he carried on his belt. Neither the bartender nor the men seemed to be surprised in the least by the noise.

“Eh, it’s just the junkman taking in a load of scrap next door. I listen to him make that racket all hours of the night, damn his eyes,” the bartender said, his gaze turning from the door back to Anders. He made a choked off grunt. “Your ears-“

His hood had slipped off when he spun towards the door, and his pointed ears were exposed through his sweat dampened hair. Anders heard two chairs slide back behind him and sighed to himself. The pirates he had been to sea with were used to his unusual appearance, but it was usually best to keep it hidden when around most humans.

He stood up from the stool he was seated on and turned to face the two not-quite-right merchants. As the two got closer, he realized what he had subconsciously noticed and cursed to himself. Each man had their hands on the hilt of well-worn and quite serviceable swords. Not many merchants carried weapons that were so obviously implements of war. If they had been just men of trade, the blades would more likely have been gaudy or at the least polished and new looking.

“Gentlemen, “he said calmly. “No doubt you are curious about my origins.” The men stopped a few feet away, taking a stance that was easy to draw a blade from. Anders reflected their move, making himself as small a target as possible by turning his torso to one side.

The one to his left who sported a short black beard and glittering black eyes, spat on the floor.

“We know what you are. And how much your bones are worth on the black market.” The ground up bones of one of the Children was rumored to have magical restorative properties, and was worth a fairly exorbitant price. Of course the rumor was false but it was no matter to these sort of men nor the ones that would be willing to pay them.

“If you knew what I was, you would know that it is nothing but heartache that follows down this road,” Anders said quietly. The handle of his knife was reassuringly cool. It was too blasted hot in here.

The other man, who looked enough like the first that they could be brothers, was slowly drawing his blade. This was going to go from bad to worse very quickly if Anders wasn’t able to stop it. His mind whirled.

From behind him, the innkeeper was moving around from behind the bar, coming up on his blind side, hoping to remain unnoticed. Anders could think of no way to end this peacefully. These men were not interested in his words.

In a smooth motion, the first man had his sword out and he quickly closed the distance between them. Anders long knife came up in a flash of fey steel, which legend said was made of a fallen star. Before his attacker had time to land a blow, Ander’s weapon cut a deep gash down his bicep and forearm, slicking his arm in blood. The false merchant howled in pain.

His brother, if that’s what he truly was, launched an attack of his own- a vicious chop towards Ander’s face, that he barely got his blade up to defend in time. The man was a decent hand with his sword, but no real match for Anders. They traded blows for a few seconds before Anders’ fey blade found his unprotected stomach, and spilled his guts onto the filthy floor of the inn.

The first swordsman cried out and dropped his sword, falling to his knees before his companion, pulling him close with his good arm. The gutted man looked utterly surprised and senseless, his mouth agape with a low moan.

Anders drew a quick breath and then spun to hunt for the ill-intentioned innkeeper. The lout was frozen with fear, a nasty looking cleaver hanging uselessly from nerveless fingers. This was a bad place to be, Anders thought to himself. He needed to get out of here immediately.

“Get out of my inn, you faerie bastard!” the innkeeper managed in a loud whisper. High spots of red colored his cheeks, making the rest of his face seem bleached out by comparison Anders looked out into the streets which appeared to be empty.

“Sorry for the trouble,” he said quietly as he sheathed his knife and slipped out of the front door. Looking both ways down the shadowy road, he prepared to find his way out of the city. No one appeared to notice him, and no alarm had been raised yet, so he picked a direction that seemed to lead away from the docks he had arrived at, and walked quickly that way.

As he turned his thoughts back to the path through the Fardeep Woods and the young woman on his pony behind him, he longed for the solitude and peace of the expansive woods of his people. These humans were too quicksilver for his tastes.

The sun would be up soon and perhaps they could find a safe spot to rest. Adria might have some lingering effect from hitting her head and she needed some good sleep, not dozing on the back of a pony. He was glad she didn’t realize how close the beast had come to getting her. The nightoak moved more quickly than he had expected, and its bark-like skin was tough. Luckily, his arrows had found their mark just in time.

He wondered again what she was doing in these woods alone. She appeared to be no older than his youngest sister Evera who was barely out of her adolescence, but Adria had a hard edge to her eyes. Like she had lived through something that had taken away some of her innocence. A young girl in the Fardeep Woods with a sword strapped to her belt- there was definitely a story there that he had not heard.

Anders turned to consider her as he walked. Her clothes spoke of a poor family, he could see the patches and tears on nearly everything she wore. The repairs were done with neat, careful competence. Probably done by her mother, maybe herself. She had exhausted circles under her eyes. The sword she carried looked serviceable but old. Maybe her father’s? There were a few things strapped to the mule’s back, but all had the same well-worn and used look.

Turning his attention back to the path ahead, he noticed that the woods were lightening around him. Dawn was nearly upon them. Through the trees ahead in the distance, he could barely see open sky. Relief flooded through him. Although he didn’t show it, he was bone-tired as well. Before he met the girl, he had been moving for three days straight. The incident at Red River had made him shy away from settlements, and it was difficult to relax his guard with no companion to watch his back while he slept. Usually he traveled with one of his five brothers. But he had been sent alone on this fool’s errand. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not refusing what was asked of him.

“We’re still in the woods?” Adria had awakened and was blinking her eyes blearily.

“We’ll be out soon. Dawn is breaking,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a mule kicked me.” She pointedly looked at the mule he was leading, who was looking back at her. It seemed to smile.

“Does he have a name?” Anders asked. The beast was well trained, and obviously knew Adria.

“My brother could tell you. I never cared to learn it, if it did,” she shrugged. She seemed put off by the question. Once again, he wondered what her tale was. He decided it was better to let it go for now.

“Are you hungry? There’s some fruit in the bag by your right foot. It’s not much, but it will hold you over until we can cook those rabbits.”

She nodded gratefully and reached into the bag, pulling out a large red apple. She had never seen an apple of this type before. The skin was mottled with gold and green patches and it was beautiful. She was almost loath to eat it but her stomach growled at her. She couldn’t remember the last fresh thing she had eaten. She took a huge bite of the aromatic fruit. It crunched between her teeth and flooded her mouth with a sweet wonderful taste. Chewing slowly, her eyes closed and she sighed. In her head, Ma was screaming about being lured in by the enchantments of magic fruit.

“It’s so good. What kind of apple is this? I’ve never seen one that color before.”

“It comes from the orchards of the Children. I’ve had it in my bags for weeks,” Anders replied. At her look, he explained with a grin. “Our fruit keeps for months. Part of the “faerie magic”.”

She looked briefly frightened that her Ma had been right, but then recognized his sardonic grin.

“It’s not nice to fool with people,” she said. Adria wasn’t quite sure what to make of this man yet. She felt like she should trust him but a Feylander? Surely, he was mad. No one had seen a Feylander in a hundred years according to all the tales.

“Just trying to brighten your eyes, Adria. It’s been a long night.” Truer words had never been spoken, she thought to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember the last bright day she’d had.

Next Chapter: Chapter 6