Arlanuk strode forward through a parting in the crowd. He was a hunter, an earth faery, tall, broad-shouldered, and wood-armored, with vast antlers atop his head. He ruled one of the many fae territories and, under the terms of the deal with the government, had come to the human realm to help stop Ula Kana.
Ula Kana lay unconscious in his arms. She looked smaller than before. The fae did shift often in size and form, and her conquerors’ magic may have shrunk her; but besides that, the tendrils of lava that had served as her legs had disappeared, cooled to ashy gray shreds. At least six iron blades and arrows pierced her torso—Arlanuk avoided touching them as he carried her. She would have wrenched them out in fury if awake, but fae magic held her in slumber.
“Our half of the deal is fulfilled,” Arlanuk told the king and queen. “It is time to fulfill yours, or we release her.”
“It was admirably done, friend.” The queen’s voice quivered. “Might we have until sundown?”
Arlanuk’s eyes, like those of a mountain cat, grew sterner, the vertical pupils widening to dark.
“We shall do it now,” Larkin said. “I am ready.”
While it sickened him to hear his own voice speak against his wishes, worse still was that a small part of him did agree. If they had accomplished the seemingly impossible and stopped Ula Kana, perhaps someone should consent to the other half of the agreement. He did not want it to be himself. But who would he choose in his place? He could not condemn even Rosamund to a sleep likely to last years, possibly forever; and besides, the fae insisted upon it being one of the royals. Larkin had wished for, argued for, a different solution altogether, to revert lands to the fae as they had requested, but everyone else had been too consumed with greed and had not listened.
His body continued acting at Rosamund’s command. He took his mother’s arm, accepted his father’s kiss upon his forehead, and turned to face the palace. A portion of the north tower had collapsed, but it appeared the rest did still stand after all. He glanced back to ensure his younger sister was coming. She began to follow, but paused when Arlanuk addressed her.
“A fine shot, young mortal.” He nodded to the arrow sunk in the middle of Ula Kana’s chest.
She lifted her chin. “Thank you, friend. It would have been in vain had it not been for the valiant actions of your folk.”
He and she shared a curious gaze before she turned and followed Larkin.
Arlanuk stayed in the plaza with the rest of the fae, witches, soldiers, and government officials, guarding the sleeping Ula Kana. At the high arched door of the palace, Larkin paused to look back at them. He lifted his hand in grave farewell.
Everyone, fae and human alike, knelt and bowed their heads. It moved him—a sign of harmony again at last.
He entered the palace with his family. They handed their weapons and armor to attendants, who bowed to Larkin and murmured prayers. Out in the plaza, someone began playing a melancholy tune on a wood flute, one of the songs composed by the earliest human settlers, almost a century ago, to honor the mysterious island. Voices joined in, people picking up the tune. Larkin could still hear the singing even as he and his family walked down the stone hallway to the prepared courtyard.
Only the eight of them entered the bower: the priest and priestess of the Temple of Eidolonia, Larkin and his parents and sisters, and Rosamund Highvalley. Four armed guards stood outside the door. It was a quiet space in the heart of the palace, with flowering vines growing up the walls, and colored mosaic floors creating a picture of turquoise ocean waves and snow-topped mountains. It had been open to the sky until the day before, when a roof had been hastily constructed, strengthened with Rosamund’s magic, and fitted with a glass seven-sided window to let in the light.
In the center of the space stood another new feature: a stone bier four feet high, draped with the country’s flag in silk, its reds and blues brilliant.
The priest fastened a baldric around Larkin, bearing an iron sword, its scabbard glittering with jewels. The priestess removed Larkin’s cloak and replaced it with a lighter cape embroidered with the royal coat-of-arms, its hem cut into fluttering tatters in the traditional style. Then priest and priestess each took one of Larkin’s hands and began chanting to the Lord, Lady, Spirit, and the four elements to grant peace to the suffering island, and to heap blessings upon the prince in his noble self-sacrifice.
Larkin’s parents were weeping. His sisters, teary-eyed, embraced them.
Larkin looked at Rosamund, who was looking back at him, eyes lifted while her chin was lowered in prayer.
The prayer ended and his hands were freed.
Rosamund stepped up to the royal family. “Remember,” she said. “This shall not be forever.”
“It cannot be,” insisted the king.
“We’ll find another way to confine Ula Kana,” the crown princess said. “Negotiating with the fae—there has to be a solution.”
“This is the solution,” said Larkin, against his will. “This will bring peace, to me as well as to everyone. Perhaps I shall meet Boris again, in the world of dreams.”
Emotion strained their faces further, and he hated Rosamund with a new depth of passion. How dare she presume to put words in Larkin’s mouth regarding Boris?
Rosamund bowed. “Such things have been said to be possible in dreams, Your Highness. We will endeavor to make your sleep as sweet as it can be.”
He would gladly have killed her.
His family embraced him, murmuring how much they admired him. He wanted to rage at them to stop being idiots and recognize what was happening.
Yet all he could do was obey. He lay upon the flag-draped bier on his back, in his ceremonial finery. His family wiped away tears. The priest and priestess chanted prayers.
Rosamund placed her hands on the sides of his head.
He locked gazes with her. Fury blazed within his heart.
“You are saving the island, friend,” she said. “All will honor you through the ages. And I shall not give up in trying to free you.”
So said she who had imprisoned him in the first place and who did not allow his tongue to answer.
Then her magic swept in, a wave of lightheadedness that turned to a floating sensation, and his consciousness gave way to dreams.
SEVINEE, EIDOLONIA-2020
Merrick Highvalley adjusted the wig on his head and shook the long red hair down his back, making Sal and Elemi laugh. “Wait—here.” He turned to the age-spotted mirror beside the window, took a deep breath to gather his magic from the air, and morphed his face: groomed eyebrows, a shapelier mouth, the famous beauty mark beside it. He turned to Sal and Elemi and struck what he vaguely assumed was an eighteenth-century courtly pose, arms spread and one foot forward. “Prince Larkin in the flesh?”
“Yes!” Lying on the floor, his ten-year-old niece, Elemi, snapped photos of him on her phone. “Except you still need a costume. He wouldn’t wear that.”
“You don’t think?” Merrick glanced at his jeans and lavender button-down shirt.
“Also the hair is much too red,” his friend Sal said. “His is russet, not tomato.”
“I can’t remember.” Merrick rubbed some of the fake hair between his fingers. “It’s been years since I’ve done the tourist thing and been to Larkin’s Bower.”