The Faeries' Harp

31: A Perennial Threat

“Begging your pardon, My Lord, but I thought the Terror of Blackened Name was the stuff of legends, not reality,” the Duke of Wisteria protests weakly in response to the High Mage’s declaration.

“So we have hoped it would remain, but alas, it seems our hopes are not to be realized as of yet,” the Faerie Queen replies with an overwhelming sense of sadness and disappointment. “It was ages ago, when my grandparents ruled the Fae Realm and I was not yet a twinkle in my mother’s eye, that the Terror of Blackened Name was last defeated by valiant fae warriors.”

“The Arvai Fae Chronicles report that this foul creature that blighted our realm was gravely injured but not killed. It swore to return again, to succeed in destroying the Fae Realm, and so the warriors bound it with powerful spells in a cavern in the most desolate reaches of Drooghnarii,” Magister Diarmaid adds, poring over the scroll from which he read the prophecy earlier.

“Is that…where we were? What we saw?” Saoirse questions. Her mind is still reeling from their ordeal, and Rhys’s dark, frustrated eyes haven’t looked away from her since she regained consciousness, adding to her unease.

“We saw it emerge from the cavern. Evidently the warriors’ theory that it would eventually die from its wounds in that cavern did not prove accurate.” Magister Diarmaid’s mouth tightens in a grimace of displeasure at the foolhardiness of these past champions. “Our only consolation is that Drooghnarii is quite far from here, and there are other spell-barriers in its way.”

“Still, that will not buy us enough time to train these two properly,” the Faerie Queen points out, her voice betraying her worry.

“Nothing in the prophecy suggests that they must act alone. I suggest we enlist some of your Flower Guard to help train them and fight with them.”

“We shall request volunteers at the changing of the guard, at twilight. I am sure some of them will be willing. But there must be more we can do now.”

“If I may be so bold,” Saoirse interjects, “would someone be so kind as to tell us more of this foe we are meant to face?”

Magister Diarmaid looks compassionately on his young ward and her friend. “Of course. What is it you would most want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me would be more than I know now,” Rhys snaps. He is internally panicking and barely able to restrain himself from fleeing the room. It was one thing to find out that he is fae, but hearing that he is part of some foretold solution to a great threat, when he does not understand and cannot control his magic, is almost more than he can bear.

Saoirse touches his arm lightly, and almost immediately much of the panic leaves him. She seems to have already accepted their fate, and Rhys is filled with a mixture of envy and wonder as he observes the steely determination on her face.

“The being we must defeat—by which I mean utterly destroy—is evil incarnate, as I am certain you have already sensed, Saoirse,” Magister Diarmaid begins, overlooking Rhys’s rudeness to him.

“Yes. I did not understand what it said to us, but nonetheless its speech terrified me,” Saoirse replies.

“An exact translation is not important. It speaks the Infernal Tongue, which I think we must forego teaching you until this crisis has been averted. Suffice to say it intends to eradicate all fae creatures from existence, and make the Fae Realm a bastion of evil and misery.”

“Please tell us of the battle that was, before our foe was imprisoned.”

“I wish I could. Little of that has been recorded. These chronicles say simply that it was a large force that defeated this Terror, working together. As it is a creature of darkness, I suspect that it will be most strongly affected by magic based in light, but I cannot guarantee this.”

“It has come against our people before, has it not, in ages past?” the Faerie Queen inquires. “A perennial foe.”

“Aye, but those records are fewer and less reliable than those from the battle during your grandparents’ reign. They could perhaps tell us more, but—”

“All they ever want to talk about, when I go to see them in the garden, is when I intend to take a consort.”

“In the garden?” Saoirse asks meekly.

“They have chosen, as many of us do eventually, to live as flowers for a few decades or centuries,” the Queen explains. “No one wants the burden of ruling forever, or so they have told me. My parents abdicated in my favor a century ago and have been travelling throughout the realm since.”

Rhys nods; he remembers something about this from Duchess Muirgel’s ramblings at breakfast. Evidently a great many of his distant relatives have planted themselves as wisteria vines around his parents’ property. Saoirse, meanwhile, wonders how life as a flower could possibly be more appealing than travelling the fae realm…or doing literally anything else.

“I will continue to look through what writings we have for further clues,” Magister Diarmaid offers. “Meanwhile, we must do everything we can to maximize our defenses.”

“I shall prepare an address to the realm,” the Queen decides. “We cannot have mass panic, but they ought to be aware of what threat may come against them. And they are perhaps our greatest asset—our earliest warning system, our infantry, our spies.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“Duke Aonghus, Magister Diarmaid, you must do everything you can to take care of your wards. A good diet and good rest are essential in this time of training. Saoirse, Rhys, you will go with Magister Diarmaid to the changing of the Flower Guard at the Crystal Gate at sunset, to seek volunteers to fight with you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they all answer severally.

“Very good. Now, leave me. There is much to do, and not a moment should be wasted.”