Trix & the Faerie Queen Page 4

  Judging by the periodic whoops and hollers from the backs of the other deer, Lizinia and Trebald were enjoying themselves as much as Trix. He’d been worried that the brownie’s nervous nature would slow their pace, but it seemed that Trebald’s dislike of heights did not extend to excessive speed. They sped past bushes and clearings and meadows filled with wildflowers that brought back his memory of the Faerie Queen again. They ran so fast that the trees became a blur, their jewel-toned leaves reminding Trix of the maelstrom, the colored sky, the rainbow lightning, and the dragon. Part of him wished he’d seen the dragon.

  They did not find the Spirit Sister on the first day. They paused several times so that Trebald could give the area a thorough sniffing, but the brownie had yet to sense anything beyond a hint of water. A dry forest was a foreign thing to the son of a woodcutter. The Enchanted Wood where Trix had grown up was rife with randomly scattered Fairy Wells. As strange and sometimes threatening as their contents could be, he would never again take them for granted.

  They spent the night in a small clearing abundant with mossy earth and mushrooms, but thankfully no fairy rings. Trix dreamt about the Faerie Queen anyway.

  In the morning, they awoke to find their clothes and hair and skin and fur completely damp with dew.

  “She was here,” said the brownie. He had burrowed in the crook of Trix’s arm for warmth. Lizinia made a great perch, but when she slept her metallic skin became as cool as the night. “Yes, yes. She was here.”

  “I agree with Sir Trebald,” said the Stag. “This dew carries with it a hint of the old magics.”

  “The clouds came down from the sky and slept beside us,” the fawn said in wonder.

  “And we slept right through it,” Trix said grumpily.

  “I wonder why she didn’t wake us,” said Lizinia.

  “Perhaps she meant only to make our measure,” said the doe.

  This thought did nothing to help Trix’s disappointment. Had the Spirit Sister found him wanting already? A cowardly act for a goddess, if she was a goddess. Trix should at least have had the chance to prove his worthiness to her face to face!

  “Daddy, I’m tired,” said the fawn. “And thirsty.”

  Trebald sniffed the air. “I sense no streams nearby.”

  “We can collect the dew while it’s available,” offered Lizinia.

  Any other day, Trix would have felt compassion for the fawn, but he didn’t want to delay any longer than they had to. The closer they got to Faerie, the more his soul would be at peace. “Do you think this dew is safe to drink, your majesty?” he asked the Stag. “You did mention magic.”

  “It is safe,” said the Stag. “As long as you all remain by my side.”

  And so they spent precious time collecting dew from the largest leaves and blades of grass they could find. Lizinia refrained from drinking. Trix, too, did his best to quench his thirst only minimally, saving what water they had for their mounts and the brownie who was their guide. The noble gesture made for a good excuse—he did not relish the thought of drinking magical water, however powerful the Great Stag might be.

  They set off again, ever and ever westward. They stopped as often as they had the previous day, for the fawn and the doe to rest, and there were fewer exclamations of joy from companions. The Stag never winded bearing Lizinia’s golden form, but she appreciated the ability to dismount and stretch her legs. Her armor, it seems, did not preclude her from sore muscles and stiff joints. Trebald nosed about every time, as was his duty, and every time he found next to nothing.

  That night, when they stopped to make camp, Lizinia and Trix collected firewood together.

  “Gather all you can,” said Trix. “I mean to stay up all night. If the Spirit Sister comes again, I will not miss her.”

  “I will join you,” said Lizinia. “We can each help to keep the other awake.”

  “That will help,” said Trix. “Thank you.”

  “I, too, am happy to stand watch,” said the Stag.

  “Rest with your family,” said Trix. “You will need to bear us further tomorrow.”

  The Stag did not argue. He bowed his great head slightly, the strong muscles of his neck bearing the weight of those massive antlers with incredible ease. He moved a short distance from the fire and knelt down beside his wife and child. But Trix had the feeling the Stag would still keep a watchful eye, and he was glad of it.

  4

  The Spirit Sister

  “I feel terrible,” Lizinia said as she built the fire and lit the kindling. She’d made a bed out of her pack for Trebald, who had curled up inside it and fallen asleep immediately.

  “Long days riding will do that, but your body will get used to it eventually.”

  Lizinia rubbed her legs—the sound of metal sliding against metal was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. “I’m not sure I could ever get used to this. But that’s not what I meant. I feel terrible that we’re troubling this family to carry us so far out of their way.”

  Trix shrugged. “They offered.”

  “I know,” said Lizinia. “It’s just…when I lived with my mother and sister, before the cats, nothing was done without the expectation of reciprocation. Every gesture of kindness came with a condition. The greater the gesture, the greater the repayment.”

  “You realize, that’s not kindness.”

  “I know that now, yes.”

  “And after living with the cats for so long, you must know that animals do things very differently than humans.”

  Lizinia nodded and poked the fire with her foot. “I do. But there were still expectations. I had duties in the colony, and Papa Gatto oversaw the performance of those duties.”

  That wretched cat still oversaw all Lizinia’s actions, even from beyond death. “The Stag is a legend in the Wood. Every animal is a friend. Every forest is his home. The offer he made to us was rare and special. I can assure you, he would not still be with us if he suddenly changed his mind, or had to deal with more pressing matters.”

  “Like a dragon,” said Lizinia.

  “Like a dragon,” Trix agreed.

  “Your sister Saturday sounds like she was a bit of a dragon herself.”

  “I believe she could give the beast a run for its money.”

  Lizinia’s slight grin made Trix feel triumphant. It had been a long time since he’d talked the night through with Sunday, but the casual banter tripped off his tongue as if they’d done it only last week. Out of nowhere, he suddenly missed his beloved little sister most painfully. In many ways, Trix felt as if Lizinia had always been a part of his life, but in reality, it had only been a few short weeks…maybe even a full month now. The benefit to the newness of their friendship meant that they still had a plethora of personal stories to share.

  Astute Lizinia read his body language all too well. “What is it?”

  “You remind me of my sister,” he said, not wanting to go into detail for fear he might lose his composure in this sudden grip of grief.

  “The one that woke the dragon?” asked Lizinia. “Not that it matters—I’m sure that all of your sisters are far more pleasant than mine, so I take the comparison as a compliment.”

  “The one who became a queen,” he said.

  “Even better.” There was a snort in the silence, and Lizinia whipped her head around, listening into the trees. “What was that?”

  Trix waited until he heard the noise again. And again. “I do believe Trebald is snoring.”

  The golden girl put a hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter.

  Thanks to Lizinia’s powers of conversation, the night turned out to feel far shorter than Trix had anticipated. Before he knew it, the heavens were already beginning to lighten in the east. They’d talked the fire to embers several times, watched the stars disappear and reappear behind rows of clouds that trekked across the sky. There had been no sign of the Spirit Woman or her legendary island. Perhaps tomorrow, thought Trix. He and Lizinia were listlessly comparing their worst winters eve
r when he began to feel drowsy. A few minutes won’t matter now, thought Trix. Sleep will put me in a better mood later, and my friends will thank me for it. He closed his eyes once, twice, three times, letting himself relax to the cadence of Lizinia’s golden voice.

  PAIN.

  “Ow!” he cried and put his finger to his lips. The brownie had bit him.

  “She’s here,” whispered Trebald.

  The clearing that had only a moment ago been filled with firelight and Lizinia’s stories was now shrouded in a cloak of darkness and silence. Even the embers of the fire were black and cold. Trix tiptoed over to Lizinia’s sleeping form and shook her shoulder to wake her. His hand slipped across her skin—everything was covered in a damp sheen of dew.

  Trix put a finger to his lips when her eyes opened. Lizinia nodded, lifting Trebald to his spot on her shoulder. Behind them, in the darkness, the deer family continued on in their peaceful slumber. Before them, between their campsite and the ever-growing light in the east, was a mountain of cloud.

  “What should we do?” asked Lizinia.

  “Climb it,” said Trix.

  Slowly, together, they made their way toward the summit. The cloud mountain was as solid as any real mountain, able to hold Trix and Lizinia’s combined weight with ease. There were cloud-rocks, cloud-trees, and cloud-paths that wound up and up and up. It all smelled like lightning and petrichor. The difficulty was not the incline—though it was steep enough—but that water covered everything. The mist that enveloped them made everything slippery. Water droplets beaded up and ran down Lizinia’s gold. By the time they reached the top, even Trebald had been spattered with his fair share of cloud-mud.

  Finally, when there was no more up to go, they found themselves standing before a great structure.

  “I expected a palace,” said Lizinia. “This looks more like the mouth of a cave.”

  “I see a light coming from somewhere inside,” said Trix, “but I wouldn’t know how to get there. Caves are often filled with pits and falls and dead ends.

  “Lucky that one of us was born in a cave then, yes?” said Trebald. “Let me down. I will lead the way. Yes, yes. I will take us to the light.”

  Slowly, the three of them made their way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the massive cloud-cave. The walls shifted from cloud to ice to a mist that shone with its own inner light, so they were never wrapped in total darkness. They lost sight of Trebald a time or two, but the brownie sensed when they were falling behind. He would turn back to them, his blind eyes flashing yellow in the mist-light, before resuming his steady pace onward.

  Once Trix began to shiver, he couldn’t stop. He was jealous of Lizinia’s imperviousness to the weather…and careful not to touch her golden hair or skin or clothes as the ice crystals spread across them. Not that she noticed. He tried to focus on anything else to warm himself—the Great Stag’s request, the Faerie Queen’s mission, the interrupted journey to the King of Eagles—but the cold seeped into him, bone deep, and did not let go.

  The winding tunnel led them into a large room. Had he not just climbed a cloud-mountain and spelunked through a cave of mist, Trix would have thought he’d just stepped through the door of a hunting lodge. The mist beneath their feet mimicked planks of wood, complete with natural grain and whorls. There was an enormous fireplace that ran the length of a far wall that looked to be made of old stone. The flames inside flickered with colorful sparks, but it smelled like any other wood fire might, and the heat emanating from it was tremendously powerful…and welcome. Trebald scurried over to it immediately. Trix and Lizinia did the same, ridding themselves of the chill of the cloud-mist. Lizinia began to drip as the webs of ice crystals upon her melted.

  “I would know the names of those who share my fire.”

  Trix turned to see the woman whose stern, gravelly voice had broken the silence. She stood beside a giant table surrounded by four thrones. This table, too, was made of solid, mistborn wood. The woman had long, black hair, a face weathered by too much sun, and a pale dress made completely of animal skin. The table hadn’t been there when they’d crossed the room, nor had the woman, but they were there now.

  “I am Trix Woodcutter.” He purposefully omitted the names of his companions. Trix had learned from Papa that one only gave the most basic information when speaking to gods. It helped that he was still so racked with shudders that it made speaking a challenge.

  “You have come to ask for my brother’s bow.” Every syllable was slow and precise, as if this tongue—or speaking in general—was not her common language.

  “I have.” Not that he could have nocked an arrow, or even held a bow, with ice-cramped fingers.

  “Sit.” The Sister gestured to the four thrones before her. “All of you.”

  The thrones were works of art. The one farthest from the fireplace, the tallest one, was made of fur and bone. A set of antlers large enough to rival those of the Great Stag rose up from the back. Across the table, closest to the fireplace, was a throne of sand and glass. It was all one piece, wound about itself in a deceptively delicate design. Each whorl was laced with silver and gold and tiny granules that sparkled like diamonds. To the right of the bone chair sat a lush throne of differently flowering vines that all sprang from the same cherry and purple wood. There was a sinuous figure carved at the top of the back, behind a few fat, white buds. Trix squinted in the firelight, and then smiled.

  “Can you make it out?” Lizinia whispered to him.

  “It’s the lingworm,” he answered.

  The last throne was the least ostentatious. Solid wood like the table and floor, it was polished to a sheen and whittled full of intricate designs, figures, and runes. Trix ran his hand lovingly along the smooth back. For a moment, he could smell the bark and the grass, hear the wind in the leaves and Mama calling him home.

  “Elder Wood,” said Trix. “I would know it anywhere.”

  The Spirit Sister nodded slowly, and gestured for him to take his seat.

  Trix slid himself into the Elder Wood throne. Lizinia likewise perched in the throne of glass, looking for all the world as if she’d been destined to sit there all her life. Trebald climbed up the vines of the living chair and sniffed about before chomping heartily on the colorful foliage. Trix tried to remain as stoic as the Spirit Sister as he watched and prayed they would not be thrown out on their collective ears for eating the furniture.

  “What is this place?” Trix asked.

  “The Hall of the Four Winds,” said the Spirit Sister. “My brother is the Spirit known as the East Wind. You currently sit atop his throne.”

  Trix felt his eyes pop. This wasn’t the home of just any old god, this was the Hall of the Four Winds! Elementals, reportedly the most ancient gods of record! He could not wait to tell Papa this story! Urgency surged beneath his skin once more.

  Trix examined each chair with new eyes. The bone chair was undoubtedly for the North Wind, which made Lizinia’s glass throne the seat of the South Wind. The exotic flowers and thorny vines must belong to the West. “I hope my choice is a good sign,” said Trix.

  The Spirit Sister gave no indication one way or the other. “Once a guest chooses a chair, he or she is drawn to it every time and will sit nowhere else.”

  The Hall of the Four Winds had frequent visitors? Perhaps it was easier to reach on subsequent visits. Did that mean he would be welcome here again? No doubt the Spirit Sister expected Trix to return her brother’s bow when he was done with it…

  Trix felt something poking into his back. He reached around to a split in the wood and pulled out an enormous black feather. “And this belongs to…?” Trix prompted. Couldn’t be one of the Winds. Invisible spirits had no need for wings.

  “Death,” said the Sister matter-of-factly. “We always save the opposite chair for his wife, but Fate has yet to visit.”

  “No wings?” asked Lizinia.

  “Exactly,” replied the Sister.

  Trix resisted the urge to leap straight out of
his chair. Death had sat here? Death always sat here? How recent was his last visit? How long had that feather been lodged in that chair? Was Trix losing years of his life just by touching it? Trix instantly released the feather and it floated to the tabletop. The Spirit Sister picked it up and tied it into her hair, where it disappeared among her raven tresses.

  “I will give you my brother’s bow,” the Sister said to Trix, “if you can tell me what it is made of.”

  Trix suddenly felt sick. A riddle. He hated riddles. He could rarely hold his concentration long enough to solve them. Almost every time he’d entered into a battle of wits with a magical animal in the Enchanted Wood, he’d bungled it royally and paid the price. The last time, he’d brayed like a donkey for a week.

  He tried to think out the problem logically. This bow would have power in the land of Faerie, deep in the Enchanted Wood. The bow belonged to the East Wind. And the throne of the East Wind was made of…

  “Elder Wood,” Trix guessed confidently. “His bow is made of Elder Wood.”

  The Sister neither smiled nor frowned. “That is not the right answer.”

  “What!?” Trix couldn’t stop the word from exiting his mouth. It had to be the right answer! Didn’t the Sister know Trix was the luckiest boy in the world? Didn’t she know he was on a quest of vital importance? When the shock of it wore off, Trix squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands into fists. He was tired and hungry and frozen. He wanted to run about the room, screaming his frustration. They’d all come so far, only for him to fail. He had failed the Faerie Queen.

  Save us, Trix Woodcutter. Save us all.

  He felt Lizinia’s hand slide over his, the metal of it now warm and smooth. “May I try?” she asked the Spirit Sister.

  Trix wasn’t sure he could handle failing the Faerie Queen twice. “Are you good at riddles?” he asked his companion.

  Lizinia shot him a sideways glance. “I worked for cats.”