Feyland: The First Adventure

Scene Thirteen

Jennet drew in a breath of the night-deep air, chill with the faint memory of shuttered flowers. Above, the sky was pricked with stars, and the thin sliver of a crescent moon tangled in the dark branches of the oaks. She’d never been here before, and her heart sped with the lure of the new. The path wound between tall, night-shadowed trees, their branches gilded with silver light.

Her mage staff shed its usual blue glow, tingeing the shadows azure. Some night creature called, then went still. The wind shifted and for a moment she thought she heard music, flute and drum, borne on the air.

No question this was one of the most immersive levels of Feyland. She hadn’t felt the sensory input this keenly since her first adventures in-game. A smile sparked through her, moving up from her feet until it found her face, and stayed.

The path led her smoothly on—no briars or brambles to snare her feet, no sudden enemies leaping from the shadows. Ahead, she glimpsed flickers of violet flame. Music threaded between the trees, the flute and drum now joined by a fiddle in a tune that made her want to dance.

This was it. Something important lay ahead. The final challenge of Feyland.

Her smile faded. If it was, what happened when she defeated the last boss and finished the game?

Of course she’d roll a new character and experience it all over again, but nothing ever compared to that first time through.

Motes of light glimmered ahead, beckoning. Jennet set aside her bittersweet thoughts and went forward. Whatever happened, she was here now. She was ready.

The trees opened to form a clearing. In the center a garish purple bonfire burned, disjointed figures capering about it. Beneath the canopy of trees on one side, long tables were set, spread with delicacies. Candles in huge silver candelabra illuminated gem-crusted goblets and sharp-edged knives. Creatures from dream and nightmare feasted there, many of whom she recognized from the pages of Thomas’s book: sprites and banshees, goblins and phoukas.

Silken-winged creatures with sharp teeth swooped and darted above the crowd, and laughter chimed like bells. A trio of musicians played just beyond the tables, the music frothing and spinning beneath the sky. The moon had won free of the trees and now hung, a radiant scythe harvesting the dark.

Jennet took a step into the clearing, away from the shelter of the trees. Silence crashed down, like a door suddenly slamming. The fey folk turned toward her, their eyes avid.

Fear clogged Jennet’s throat. There was no way she could fight them all. But they made no move to unsheathe weapons or attack. From the nearby shadows, a spindly figure approached. Jennet lifted her staff, spells at her fingertips.

“Fair Jennet,” the creature creaked in a voice like long-dry wood. “Welcome to the Dark Court. Our queen awaits you.”

“Is it… safe?” The question caught in her throat.

The figure laughed. “The court is never safe. But the Dark Queen has given you leave to pass.”

His words broke the spell of silence binding the company. The musicians struck up again, and the fey folk turned back to their feasting, though Jennet could still see their feral glances and sly smiles turned her way.

“Come.” The creature gestured with oddly-jointed limbs, then led her around the bonfire.

At the far end of the clearing sat a throne of night-black vines And upon that throne…

The Faerie Queen.

Her black hair framed a pale face as hard and exquisite as ice. Her gown, made of tattered midnight, stirred in an unfelt breeze. Her eyes were deep pools of starlight and shadow, fathomless, promising everything—and nothing.