The Faeries' Harp

29: Seeking Answers

“The Queen will see you now,” a page informs Rhys and the Duke of Wisteria, who have been waiting in a small alcove just outside the Throne Room.

“Thank you,” the Duke of Wisteria replies. Rhys is too apprehensive to say a word, and too caught up in wondering what is wrong with him. Did the incident with the silver corrupt my magic? he wonders, not for the first time. If so, is there a way to fix it? He would hate to ask anything else of Saoirse, not that he expects she actually knows how to do anything about his problem. Magister Diarmaid, on the other hand, might be able to help, but how does one go about asking a favor of the High Mage of the Fae Realm?

These and other thoughts and questions continue to swirl through Rhys’s mind as he follows his father, who follows the page.

“Announcing His Excellency, the Duke of Wisteria, and his son and heir!” the page declares loudly upon opening the doors to the Throne Room, which both the Duke and Rhys take as their cue to proceed into the grand room where the Faerie Queen is waiting for them.

Today Her Majesty wears a gown that appears to have been made from an enormous, magnificent iris. This would seem quite fascinating to most who are new to the fae realm, but Rhys’s eyes remain on her only for a moment before moving to the blonde faerie in a simple white robe next to the throne. Saoirse?! Has she supplanted the High Mage already?!

“Welcome, Aonghus, Rhys,” the Faerie Queen greets them with a smile that does not quite reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for being willing to meet with us on such short notice, on a day when Court is not in session,” Duke Aonghus returns her greeting.

“It seems you have great cause to be concerned, and I am more than interested in your case. Please, say again why you have come. I have been briefed, but I think it would be good to hear it from you, in case some vital details got lost in transit.”

“Aye, of course, Your Majesty. Perhaps it would be better to just show you, if you will permit a demonstration?”

“So long as nothing is permanently changed or damaged, I see no reason why not. You are concerned about your power, Rhys?”

Rhys’s mouth suddenly goes dry, and he swallows hard before responding. “Yes, Your Majesty.” I didn’t know I’d have to do this in front of Saoirse. “I, um….” He flies towards some vines spilling through one of the many windows, touches them lightly with his fingertips, and whispers “zanzri.” Though he imagines the vines becoming snakes, they immediately shrivel and wither and blacken.

Without thinking, Saoirse flicks her fingers at the dying vines and whispers “avrin,” making the decay Rhys instigated abruptly halt.

“You have learned much today,” the Faerie Queen observes, her sharp gaze falling on Saoirse.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I acted without thought,” Saoirse replies humbly, expecting to be chastised.

“That, at the moment, is of minimal concern. You, Rhys, used the word ‘zanzri,’ but this—” the Queen waves her hand at the blackened vines “—is the result.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. This is how it always happens, and I do not understand. I was picturing them as snakes,” Rhys explains with no small amount of frustration.

“So this is its natural bent.”

“Unless the incident with the silver changed it somehow….” Rhys mutters. Where is the High Mage? I don’t think anyone here can answer my questions.

“I do not think that likely, but we can discuss the possibility with Magister Diarmaid when he returns. Can you restore those vines?”

“I will try, Your Majesty.” Rhys touches the withered vines again, this time repeating “emriohl” over and over again. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, life and greenness creeps back into the vines. An eternity seems to pass for everyone present, but at long last, the vines resume their original attitude and Rhys floats back to his place next to Duke Aonghus.

“Fascinating. And that takes a lot out of you,” the Queen observes.

“More than I would like to admit, Your Majesty,” Rhys responds, panting slightly.

“Tell me about yourself, Rhys. Are you a destructive person by nature?”

“Quite the opposite, Your Majesty. I’ve always liked to build things, and since the man I called Father walked out, I have spent all my time and energy trying to keep us alive, make a life for us….” His voice trails off. This is difficult for him. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable in public like this. Saoirse’s heart aches for Rhys and she wishes there was something she could do to help him, but she finds herself completely at a loss.

“I have found it, Your Majesty!” Magister Diarmaid exclaims as he bursts into the Throne Room, clutching a scroll triumphantly in his right hand.

“Found what, exactly, Magister Diarmaid? You’ve missed a fascinating demonstration,” the Queen reproaches him.

“Not at all, Your Majesty. I enchanted one of the gems in Saoirse’s necklace as a scrying device,” he replies as though this is the most natural thing in the world. I will have to be certain to never again wear this necklace, Saoirse resolves. “I know what you have witnessed here, and agree that it is quite odd. Until you look at it in the context of this ancient text.”

“Please, enlighten us.”

Magister Diarmaid takes a deep breath and begins to read from his scroll in a sort of rhythmic, chanting kind of way: 

“From the aether come two blooms: 

One of darkness, one of light.

Ancient evils then exhumed,

once more the realm of fae to blight.

Blossoms fair and foul alike, 

bound together in their fate

journey long in hope to strike

the evil, which grows more irate

and stronger with each passing hour,

bent to snuff the faeries bright;

when dark and light join their power,

music shall the evil smite.”

An awkward silence settles over the Throne Room as Magister Diarmaid’s words echo faintly off the walls and dissipate. Saoirse closes her eyes, trying to understand more deeply. The words tug at something deep within her; she feels she should know what they mean, but the meaning evades her.

“I am afraid, Magister Diarmaid, that I do not follow,” the Faerie Queen prompts after several moments of silence.

“What if Saoirse and Rhys are the two blooms referenced in this text?” Magister Diarmaid inquires, excitement palpable but restrained.

“Is this text prophetic in nature?”

“Aye, it is from the Arvai Fae Chronicles.”

“It would seem to fit,” Duke Aonghus ventures. “Her gifts seem to be restorative, creative, belonging to light, and Rhys’s seem rather the opposite. They both have great potential.”

“Yes, but they are both novices,” the Queen points out. “And I mean no offense by that, Rhys, Saoirse. But if we take it in the greater context, neither of you is in any way ready to fight any kind of evil, ancient or otherwise.”

“Still, they came to us seemingly from nowhere—”

“From the mortal realm, where they were abandoned as infants. Hardly ‘from the aether.’”

“It took my wife and I a long time to finally have a child,” Duke Aonghus interjects, “and the rumors say that the Duke and Duchess of Chrysanthemum were actively trying not to have a child. Perhaps ‘from the aether’ makes more sense in that context?”

“If this prophecy references Rhys and Saoirse, we have much to fear on account of their inexperience and youth. If the ‘ancient evil’ to which it refers is The Terror of Blackened Name from ages past, we stand little to no chance against it with two novices as our champions,” the Queen insists. She is growing more agitated with every word that is said.

Saoirse’s head is reeling. Magister Diarmaid’s hypothesis touched a chord in her when first he spoke it; it feels true, in some way, and that fills her with unspeakable dread, for she knows the Queen is absolutely right. She alights on the floor and crouches, letting her fingers touch the cool, shimmering stone as well. Perhaps the realm knows something I do not. If I can just listen, like I did in the forest….

Magister Diarmaid abruptly cuts short his debate with the Faerie Queen and Duke Aonghus—Rhys has had nothing to contribute to this discussion, feeling himself very much out of his depth—and mimics Saoirse’s pose and attitude.

“What are you doing?” the Faerie Queen demands.

“She senses things. We know this to be true. Perhaps she seeks some insight we have not found yet,” Magister Diarmaid responds softly, trying not to disturb or disrupt his ward’s concentration.

Not a moment later, he and Saoirse both seem to be violently jolted and thrown to the floor by an unseen force.